Chapter 92: Stunning the Crowd**
Though Wu Yifan had delayed the final round, the competition finally kicked off.
"12 enhancement points available. Four attributes to choose from. Activate 'Technical Precision'?"
"Yes."
"Enhancing Technical Precision ×3. Durability: 1/1."
"Enhancement successful. Technical Precision ×3. Durability: 1/1. 2 points consumed. 10 points remaining."
In that instant, Wu Yifan seemed to transform. A profound, almost intimidating aura radiated from him—like a master bartender in his prime, confident and unyielding. It wasn't intentional; the surge from the enhancement points was too strong to contain, making the air feel heavier, as if the room itself held its breath.
Lin Feng's brow furrowed. He'd sensed that quiet intensity, and it stoked a fire in him. This wasn't just a competition anymore—it was a clash of skill.
In bartending, every craftsman had a signature style, a drink they'd honed to perfection. But true masters dared to push boundaries, to showcase their best without hesitation.
Wu Yifan moved with calm purpose, placing eight ordinary tall glasses on the bar, each lined up behind a shaker. Lin Feng's eyes widened. *Eight shakers? At once?* He'd heard of such feats in legends—bartenders who could manipulate multiple tools simultaneously—but he'd never witnessed it. If Wu Yifan pulled this off, Lin Feng knew he'd lose. No question.
He wasn't alone in his shock. Every spectator with even a passing knowledge of mixology leaned forward, jaws slack. Tending eight shakers at once was a Herculean task. Cocktails demanded precision: steady hands, perfect timing, a feel for how ingredients melded. Control one shaker, and you might master a drink. Control eight? It bordered on magic.
Wu Yifan ignored the murmurs. He flipped a bottle of 10-year-old vodka—clear as spring water, with a faint, crisp aroma—and poured, slow and steady, into each shaker. Not a drop spilled. Each shaker held exactly the same amount, down to the last milliliter.
He added three more ingredients—common spirits, nothing exotic—and sealed each shaker. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just him and those eight shakers. His mind, body, and soul aligned, honing in on the task. This wasn't just mixing drinks. It was a performance, a ritual.
The crowd fell silent, drawn into his focus.
After a dozen seconds, Wu Yifan moved.
One shaker, two, three…
All eight spun across the bar, faster and faster, a blur of motion that left onlookers dizzy. They whirled like comets, skimming the wood with a low hum, as if propelled by some invisible force.
Wu Yifan stepped back half a pace, then slammed his palm down on the bar. The shakers launched into the air, forming a straight line, orbiting him like planets around a star. His arms stretched wide, guiding each shaker with pinpoint accuracy—too fast to track, yet somehow controlled, as if the tools were extensions of his own hands.
His feet stayed planted, steady as a tree's roots, but his upper body twisted and turned, a blur of motion that sent wind whistling through the air. Arms, waist, back, palms, fingers—every part of him worked in harmony, turning the shakers into a dance. They coiled like dragons, darted like silver snakes, dipped and rose like waves.
This wasn't bartending. It was art. A symphony of movement that left the crowd breathless. No one could parse the individual steps; they only saw beauty—fluid, perfect, awe-inspiring.
Gasps erupted. For everyone present, this was a miracle. Eight shakers, balanced on the edge of chaos, yet never faltering. A single mistake would shatter the illusion, but there were no mistakes. Only grace.
Ah Shuai, watching from the back, couldn't tear his eyes away. He'd prided himself on his skill, thought himself a master in the making. But this? It made him feel like a beginner. He silently thanked his lucky stars he'd bowed out. Facing Wu Yifan now would've been humiliation.
Lin Feng, too, stood transfixed. He finally understood Wu Yifan's words: *True masters stay humble. Fame and wealth distract.* Lin Feng had chased acclaim, let it fuel his ambition. But Wu Yifan? He'd hidden in plain sight, a security guard, honing his craft in silence. That was the difference. Regret washed over Lin Feng—sharp, bitter, but laced with respect.
Wu Yifan let out a low shout. His movements accelerated, faster than the eye could follow. His torso blurred, a haze of motion, while the eight shakers arched above him, forming a perfect curve—like a bow drawn to shoot the sun.
*BOOM!*
The crowd erupted. Even Ah Shuai and Lin Feng cheered, caught up in the moment. No one cared about clubs or rivalries now. This was history—a display of skill that belonged on a national stage, not in a small Beitian KTV.
But one man seethed.
Qian Baoqing watched, his hands trembling. If Wu Yifan succeeded, Infinity would explode in fame. His own investment, his plans, his pride—all would crumble. Worse, he'd handed them customers on a silver platter.
*No.*
He slipped a small stone between his thumb and forefinger, flicking it toward Wu Yifan's right foot. They were mere meters apart, close enough for a sure hit. A stumble, a fall—anything to end this.
But Wu Yifan shifted left, half a step, effortless. The stone clattered harmlessly to the floor.
*Clink! Clink! Clink!*
Eight shakers landed on the bar, exactly where they'd started. Not a hair's breadth off.
Wu Yifan shuddered, sweat dripping down his face, but his eyes blazed with a mix of exhaustion and contempt. He locked gazes with Qian Baoqing, holding up the stone. "If you want to beat me, Mr. Qian, use skill. Not tricks."
Qian Baoqing sputtered, "Y-you're lying! You—" He fell silent, feeling the weight of a hundred angry stares. No one believed him now. Not after what they'd just seen.
Wu Yifan smiled, weary but triumphant. "Gentlemen, please. Taste."
The six judges leaned in, hands shaking. "What… what do you call this?" one asked, voice tight with excitement.
"'Eight Heavenly Dragons,'" Wu Yifan said, his voice rough from exertion.
"Eight Heavenly Dragons!" The crowd repeated, awe-struck. It was a name that commanded respect—grand, proud, a testament to skill that transcended borders.
The judges sipped. Their eyes closed, savoring the flavor. When they opened them, there was no doubt.
"We've deliberated," one announced, voice booming, "and the champion of Beitian's first bartending competition is… Wu Yifan! His 'Eight Heavenly Dragons' is not just the best drink of this contest—it's the finest we've ever tasted. A masterpiece of Chinese mixology!"
The room erupted. People stood, cheering, chanting, "Eight Heavenly Dragons! Eight Heavenly Dragons!"
Ye Xiwen and Fu Junyao stared, speechless. This wasn't luck. It was genius.
Lin Feng stepped forward, extending a hand. "Congratulations. You deserve this. I never thought I'd meet someone so young, so skilled. It's a humbling lesson."
Wu Yifan shook his hand. "You're talented. Keep going."
News of the victory spread like wildfire through Beitian. Infinity KTV became a household name. And Wu Yifan? He was no longer just a security guard. He was a legend.