Chapter 89: The Security Guard Unleashed**
The middle-aged host stared at the slip of paper in his hand, a strange unease gnawing at him. This was a live broadcast, for crying out loud—not some casual gathering. How could Infinity KTV send *someone like this* to compete?
The crowd leaned forward, confusion etched on their faces. Whispers rippled through the room as everyone waited for an explanation.
After a long pause, the host gritted his teeth, forcing a strained smile. "Representing Infinity KTV… is Wu Yifan. He was formerly a security guard here… with no prior bartending experience whatsoever."
The words landed like a bomb.
For a heartbeat, the room fell dead silent. Then, as if a dam had burst, the crowd erupted. Eyes widened in disbelief; mouths hung open; and soon, laughter—loud, mocking, uncontrollable—filled the air. It was as if they'd just heard the funniest joke in history.
The host shifted awkwardly, scrambling to salvage the moment. "Mr. Wu may lack experience, but talent comes in many forms! We all hope he'll surprise us with a victory!" His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. The truth was, the bio on the paper was so sparse—*"security guard, no experience"*—he couldn't even fabricate a decent compliment.
Wu Yifan stepped forward, calm as still water. He nodded politely at Ah Shuai, then gave a casual wave to the crowd. His composure only seemed to fuel the laughter.
Qian Baoqing let out a bark of laughter, loud enough to cut through the din. "A *security guard*? Challenging my bartender? Is he out of his mind?" His tone dripped with arrogance, as if the mere idea was an insult.
The jeers poured in:
"If a security guard can be a bartender, the profession's worthless!"
"Is Infinity trying to entertain us? This is a farce!"
"Might as well throw in the towel now!"
Even the onlookers who'd come for a good show shook their heads. A security guard competing in a bartending contest? It made the whole event feel cheap, unworthy of their time.
The host hurried to introduce the remaining four contestants—representatives from the other four clubs. They had local reputations, sure, but none held a candle to Ah Shuai. Their introductions were rushed, glossed over in seconds, as the crowd's attention remained fixated on the absurdity of Wu Yifan's presence.
By now, the energy in the room had soured. A contest without suspense is like a meal without flavor—no one sticks around. People checked their phones, yawned, or started edging toward the exits. Why bother watching when the winner was already a foregone conclusion?
The host, reading the boredom on their faces, clapped his hands to regain attention. "Let's go over the rules! Each contestant will craft one signature cocktail. Our six esteemed judges—veterans of Beitian's culinary and beverage scene—will taste and score each drink from 0 to 10. After each round, two contestants will be eliminated. The last standing wins!"
The six judges, all in their 60s or 70s with silver hair and庄重 expressions, nodded slowly. Their eyes lingered warmly on Ah Shuai, clearly expecting greatness, but slid right past the others—including Wu Yifan—as if they barely existed.
After a few more empty pleasantries, the host raised his hand. "Round one… begins!"
The moment the words left his mouth, Ah Shuai transformed.
He walked to the sink, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. He washed his hands slowly, meticulously—scrubbing between fingers, rinsing under running water, drying with a crisp towel—each step a testament to his reverence for the craft. His face held a quiet, almost sacred intensity, as if he were about to create a masterpiece rather than mix a drink.
The crowd fell silent, drawn in by the gravity of his focus. Even the skeptics leaned forward, captivated.
Wu Yifan and the other four contestants watched, their initial surprise giving way to respect. This wasn't just skill—it was devotion. You didn't tend to your tools with such care unless you believed bartending was an art, not just a job.
The other four contestants, by contrast, fumbled into action. They grabbed bottles and shakers, their movements rushed and clumsy, as if racing against a clock only they could hear. They were trying to *finish*; Ah Shuai was trying to *elevate*.
Wu Yifan tilted his head, studying Ah Shuai. He didn't look like an enemy—not really. Just a man who loved what he did. In that moment, a flicker of guilt crossed Wu Yifan's mind. If this weren't about Infinity's survival, if it were just a contest between craftsmen, he might've stepped aside. Let the better man win.
But then he thought of Ye Xiwen's worried eyes, of Qian Baoqing's smarmy grin, and that flicker died.
Ah Shuai, finished with his hands, moved to the bar. He picked up a crystal decanter in his right hand, a bottle of clear liquor in his left, and poured slowly. The liquid glinted like liquid gold as it filled the decanter, his posture flawless—back straight, elbows steady—as if he'd practiced this a million times.
Then, he stepped back, and magic happened.
His eyes lit up, sharp and focused, like stars igniting in the night. He tucked his left hand behind his back, lifted the decanter with his right, and flicked his wrist. The decanter spun in his palm, faster and faster, a blur of light that left the crowd gasping.
"Unbelievable…" someone breathed.
"He's like a magician!"
"Forget the drink—this performance alone makes him the winner!"
Cameras clicked wildly. This was why they'd come—for moments that felt less like a contest and more like a show.
Qian Baoqing sat back, a smug smile spreading across his face. *Perfect*, he thought. Let the whole city see. Infinity didn't stand a chance. This win was just the first step. After today, he'd flood Beitian with ads for Oriental Coast, poach Infinity's best customers, and watch Ye Xiwen's little club crumble. She thought she could outsmart him? Cute.
Inside the spinning decanter, the liquids swirled into layers—deep blue, vibrant red—twisting together like a living thing. It was mesmerizing, a dance of color and motion that seemed to defy physics.
Bartending is a brutal craft, after all. One wrong move, one shaky hand, and a drink is ruined. It takes years to master the precision, the patience, the intuition. Most quit before they ever get good. But Ah Shuai? He was born for this.
Then, in one fluid motion, he tossed the decanter into the air. It arced gracefully, spinning like a top, before he caught it with his left hand—the one he'd kept behind his back. The crowd erupted into applause.
He took a deep breath, reaching for a glass to pour—
*Cough.*
A soft, involuntary sound.
Ah Shuai froze. His face drained of color, his hand trembling violently. The decanter slipped from his grasp.
*Shatter!*
Glass shards and blue-red liquid sprayed across the bar.
The room went silent.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Ah Shuai stared at the mess, his shoulders slumping. When he finally looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed. "I… I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I've ruined it. I concede." He bowed deeply, then turned and walked off the stage, head hanging low.
Qian Baoqing's smile vanished. He shot to his feet, veins bulging in his neck. "What the hell was that?! He *dropped* it? That useless—!" He cut himself off, but the fury in his eyes was palpable. This wasn't just a mistake. This was a disaster. His plan, his *perfect* plan, was unraveling.
The crowd murmured, stunned. Some whispered about bad luck; others wondered if he'd been distracted.
Wu Yifan let out a quiet breath. Good. With Ah Shuai out, Infinity's odds just improved. The other contestants were skilled, but none seemed capable of overshadowing…
Wait.
A murmur rose from the crowd, growing louder. Wu Yifan followed their gaze—and froze.
One of the other contestants—a young man with a sharp jaw and steady hands—had been working quietly this whole time, overshadowed by Ah Shuai's theatrics. Now, as the crowd reeled, he stepped forward, placing his finished drink on the judging table.
Wu Yifan's brow furrowed.
The young man's cocktail was a masterpiece. Clear as amber, with a single floating flower petal, it glowed under the lights. But it wasn't just the drink—it was the way he'd made it. His movements, though less flashy than Ah Shuai's, were precise, fluid, *masterful*. The kind of skill that came from a lifetime of practice, not hobbying.
The crowd noticed, too. Gasps replaced the earlier jeers.
"Who is he?"
"I've never seen him before!"
"He's… incredible. Look at that technique!"
The judges leaned in, interest sparking in their eyes for the first time since Ah Shuai's fall.
Wu Yifan studied the young man. He didn't look familiar—certainly not like a regular bartender from one of the small clubs he claimed to represent. There was something calculated about him, something… off.
This wasn't just another contestant.
Qian Baoqing, still seething, suddenly went quiet. His eyes narrowed, locking onto the young man. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
Wu Yifan's gut twisted.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Ah Shuai's mistake hadn't been an accident. And this new "dark horse"? He was no coincidence.
The game had just gotten a lot more dangerous.
Wu Yifan squared his shoulders, his gaze hardening. Whatever was going on, he wasn't about to let Infinity fall. Not now. Not ever.
He reached for his shaker, ready to play.
Let the real competition begin.