The middle-aged man's fear-filled gaze locked onto Lumian, uncertain about what had triggered this sudden confrontation.
He wasn't the one being deceived, nor was he one of the mobsters who held sway over this neighborhood. He wasn't a relative or a friend of theirs. So, why was Lumian rushing up to assault him like this?
Adding to the confusion, Lumian didn't even give him a chance to defend himself. He unleashed a blow after each sentence!
His eyes fell upon the revolver, and he discreetly glanced at his aides concealed in the shadows. Their hesitance to intervene weighed heavily on his heart.
He couldn't afford to threaten Lumian or resist him. Trembling, he stammered, "I-I can't produce that much money. I didn't bring that kind of cash."
Lumian responded with a regretful smile, "How disappointing. I'm short of 100,000 verl d'or. Who taught you the magic of counting money? Who introduced you to the Malady God?"
