Chapter 129: You Are Ultraman!
The air in the underground casino hung thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and anticipation. Wu Yifan leaned back in his chair, watching as Song Mingjie shoveled rice into his mouth, grains spilling onto his shirt. Around them, onlookers shifted uncomfortably—this wasn't the high-stakes showdown they'd imagined. It was more like a casual lunch, with a side of挑衅 (tiǎoxìn, provocation).
"Slow down," Wu Yifan chuckled, nudging Song's arm. "You'll choke."
Song swallowed, grinning. "Can't help it. This stir-fry's fire. Bet you've never had better at Infinite."
Wu Yifan thought of Ye Xiwen's home cooking and smiled. "Close. But not quite."
Their banter was deliberate—another layer of the game. Mei Kanzi, still fuming from the instant noodles fiasco, watched with a scowl, his patience wearing thin. This wasn't how a challenge was supposed to go. No glares, no tension—just two men eating like they hadn't seen food in days.
But Wu Yifan had his reasons. He'd skipped breakfast, too busy tangled up with Ye Xiwen in the sheets, and his stomach was staging a protest. Song, meanwhile, had been up all night celebrating Qian Baocui's misfortunes, surviving on red wine and adrenaline. Hunger, they both knew, clouded judgment—and they weren't about to let Mei catch them off guard.
"Done," Song announced, pushing his empty plate away. He wiped his mouth, then nodded at Wu Yifan. "Ready?"
Wu Yifan nodded, tapping the enhancer on his wrist—a subtle reminder of the tool at his disposal. "Let's see what this Jap's got."
Song turned to Mei, who was still slouching in his chair, arms crossed. "Hey, pants. You dead yet? Or you gonna man up and play?"
Mei's jaw tightened. "I'm here to gamble, not watch pigs eat. Let's start."
The room perked up. Dealers straightened, bodyguards leaned in, and the two hostesses stepped back, their eyes wide. This was it—the moment they'd been waiting for.
Wu Yifan stood, stretching. "Your call. What game?"
"Mahjong," Mei said, a sharp smile spreading across his face. "One hundred million per round. Winner stays, loser quits. Unless you're scared?"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. One hundred million per round? That was疯了 (fēngle, crazy)—more than most people made in a lifetime.
Wu Yifan lit a cigarette, Song scrambling to hold the lighter. He exhaled a smoke ring, calm as ever. "Works for me."
Song clapped, rubbing his hands. "Perfect. I'll grab two more players. And Xiao Lin—" he nodded at a waitress with curves that could stop traffic "—bring out the good mahjong. Brand new set. No tricks."
Xiao Lin scurried off, returning minutes later with a sleek wooden box. She opened it, revealing ivory-white tiles etched with elegant characters—dragons, winds, bamboo. Mei inspected them, then nodded. Wu Yifan did the same, his fingers brushing the cool surface. No marks, no weights—clean.
"Shall we?" Mei said.
The four players took their seats: Wu Yifan, Mei, and two of Song's men—old hands at mahjong, but told to "play nice" and let the real show begin. Xiao Lin stood by, ready to deal.
Wu Yifan closed his eyes, silently commanding the enhancer. *"Activate. Skill Precision, three units."*
*"Enhancement successful. Skill Precision x3. Consumes 2 units. Remaining: 1."*
A tingle spread through his fingers, sharp and clear. It was like putting on glasses after years of blurriness—suddenly, everything clicked. He could anticipate the shuffle, sense which tiles would cluster, even guess Mei's tells from the way he gripped his chair.
"Let's start," Xiao Lin said, and the game began.
The first round was over in five minutes.
Wu Yifan didn't just win—he *dominated*. A "Big Three Dragons" hand, rare as a blue moon, laid out in perfect order. Mei stared, his mouth hanging open. The onlookers gasped.
"Beginner's luck," Mei muttered.
The second round: Wu Yifan won again. This time, a "Pure Suit Self-Drawn"—every tile in his hand the same suit, drawn on his own turn.
Third round: "All Honors." Tiles of winds and dragons, no numbers.
By the fourth round, the room was silent. Even Song's men, who'd been told to play casually, were wide-eyed. Wu Yifan wasn't just lucky—he was *orchestrating* it. His fingers moved with precision, discarding tiles that would've helped Mei, drawing exactly what he needed. It was like watching a magician, but there were no tricks—just raw, unshakable skill.
Mei's face flushed. He'd been winning for days, but this? This was humiliation. He'd bragged about Beitian's lack of talent, and now a nobody was dismantling him, round after round.
"Five million," he snapped, pushing a stack of bills forward. "Double or nothing."
Wu Yifan smiled. "You're on."
Fifth round: "Thirteen Orphans." The rarest hand in mahjong—one of each dragon, one of each wind, and one tile from each suit. Impossible. Unheard of.
But there it was, laid out on the table.
Mei's hands shook. He stared at the tiles, then at Wu Yifan, as if seeing a ghost. "How…?"
Wu Yifan shrugged, tapping his temple. "Skill. Or maybe luck. Does it matter?"
Song whooped, slamming a fist on the table. "That's my brother! Ultraman, I'm telling you—you're *Ultraman*!" He turned to the crowd, shouting, "Did you see that? This is how we do it in Beitian!"
The room erupted in cheers. Dealers clapped, bodyguards laughed, and even the old man in the corner wiped a tear from his eye. This wasn't just a win—it was a *statement*.
Mei stood, knocking over his chair. He grabbed his remaining cash, his face red with rage. "This isn't over," he snarled. "I'll be back. And when I am—"
"Save it," Wu Yifan said, cutting him off. "You'll lose again. Better to go home. Tell your friends—Beitian's got talent. More than you can handle."
Mei spat on the floor, then stalked out, his shoulders hunched.
The room exploded. Song grabbed Wu Yifan, lifting him off the ground in a bear hug. "Five rounds! Five *perfect* rounds! Brother Wu, you're a legend!"
Wu Yifan laughed, prying himself free. "Calm down, fatty. It's just mahjong."
"Just mahjong?" Song gaped. "That's eight million! Enough to crush Qian Baocui ten times over!" He paused, grinning. "And you did it with style. Ultraman style."
Wu Yifan shook his head, but there was a pride.