A week had passed since Collei's electrifying battle with Ningguang on Mount Yougou. Word of the race had spread like a brushfire in dry grass—hot, fast, and impossible to ignore. Rumors flew across forums and pit stop hangouts, from tuning shops to late-night ramen stalls. Collei's underdog victory wasn't just talked about—it was dissected, admired, envied. Her name had weight now, but the rush of victory hadn't gone to her head. She knew how unforgiving the road could be.
She also knew one thing: this world never stopped moving forward. The fastest racer today could be tomorrow's memory.
But tonight wasn't about proving anything. Tonight was about something far simpler—good food, better company, and maybe just a little peace.
The moment she stepped into the Yougou Lakefront Restaurant, the scent of grilled meats and garlic oil smacked her in the face like a warm welcome. Stir-fried veggies hissed in open woks behind the counter, rice steamed in great bubbling pots, and the air was alive with chatter, laughter, and the rhythmic clatter of chopsticks on porcelain.
Collei didn't have time to scan the room before a blur of motion tackled her.
"Collei!" Amber's voice hit her like sunshine in stereo. She practically launched herself into Collei's arms, wrapping her up in a hug that could've cracked ribs. "It's been too long!"
Collei stumbled back half a step, the force of the embrace catching her off guard, but she was laughing anyway. "Amber, it's only been a week," she said, voice softening into warmth as she hugged her back, breathing her in—peppermint shampoo, racing fuel, and comfort.
"Yeah, but that felt like forever," Amber said, pulling back with a beaming smile that could melt frost off a windshield.
A few feet away, March leaned over to Seele and smirked. "They look cute together, don't they?"
Seele didn't even pretend to be cynical for once. She crossed her arms, smiled faintly, and nodded. "They really do."
They all made their way to the corner table—a large, low wooden slab with cushions instead of chairs. Pela was already there, tucking her phone away as she poured tea into rough ceramic cups. Beidou gave Collei a one-armed shoulder slap in greeting, grinning beneath her red captain's jacket. Seele, stoic as ever, gave a nod that passed for warmth. March was all sparkle and mischief.
Soon enough, the table came alive. Dishes stacked high with sizzling meats, bowls brimming with hot miso soup and daikon, drinks passed around like it was a victory banquet. Conversation flowed like sake. For a brief, golden moment, they weren't racers or rivals.
They were just friends.
The sound of laughter and clinking glass echoed through the wooden rafters. The lake shimmered in the window beside them, moonlight dancing on its surface like liquid silver.
But the mood shifted when Pela set her chopsticks down with a quiet click. She pulled out her phone again, her expression tightening as the screen cast a pale glow over her glasses.
"Guys," she said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the chatter. "I heard something interesting last night from a friend of mine—works nights near Yougou Pass. Said there's a new car ripping up the mountain roads. Fast as hell. Uphill, downhill, doesn't matter."
The chatter around the table stilled.
"A new racer?" Beidou asked, her brow lifting.
Pela nodded once. "And not just fast—scary fast. My friend got a picture. It's not great, but you might recognize it."
She passed her phone to Beidou first. The image on the screen was blurry, caught mid-corner with motion blur stretching across the headlights. But certain details stood out—the wide ducktail spoiler, the exposed steel wheels, the raw and aggressive lack of a rear bumper. And running down the center of the car, from nose to tail, were three unmistakable stripes: sky blue, deep navy, and blood red.
Beidou leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Wait a goddamn minute…" Her voice dropped to a growl. "I know that livery. Sky blue, dark blue, red? That's Martini Racing. No question."
Collei tilted her head, curious. "Martini? Like the drink?"
March perked up and grinned. "Exactly! Martini Racing was a legendary motorsport team, sponsored by the booze company. That livery? It's iconic. Endurance, Group B rally, F1—you name it, they were in it. That paint job's like a signature. You don't wear those stripes unless your car can back it up."
Collei's eyes returned to the image with new understanding. Whoever this was, they weren't just flashy—they were making a statement.
Before anyone could say more, Pela's phone buzzed again. A fresh notification blinked across her screen.
She smirked. "Speak of the devil… my contact just sent videos."
Everyone huddled closer around her side of the table. Pela tapped the screen.
The video lit up: a grainy dashcam-style shot of a pitch-dark mountain road. Headlights cut through the gloom like twin blades, and then—there—the car came screaming into frame.
The sound hit first.
An ungodly roar, metallic and savage, punctuated by a banshee-like supercharger whine that clawed through the night like a vengeful spirit. The car tore past the camera with a gut-punching whoosh, and just as it did—WHAM—a geyser of fire exploded from the exhaust as the driver lifted off for a corner.
"Holy shit," Beidou muttered, stunned.
March had both hands over her mouth. "That thing's fucking flying!"
Amber blinked, wide-eyed, visibly trembling. "It sounds like war. I've never heard anything like it…"
Pela swiped to the next video—this one showing the same car diving into a hairpin at high speed. As it reached the apex, the driver snapped the wheel, kicked the rear loose, and threw the whole machine into a perfect drift. The tires howled, smoke fanned out like wings, and then—bang—a savage downshift yanked the engine up into a blood-curdling scream. The car shot out of the corner like a bullet on fire.
Seele let out a low whistle. "That's not just talent. That's experience."
Pela nodded grimly. "And confidence. Whoever's behind the wheel… they're not just fast. They're fearless."
Collei leaned forward, brows furrowed. "But how do we figure out what car it is? The video doesn't show any badges."
March suddenly snapped her fingers. "Lyney! He's a total geek for vintage racing history—he'll know that livery and sound combo in, like, five seconds."
Pela smiled, impressed. "Nice call. If anyone can ID this beast, it's him."
The mood lifted slightly. The mystery had a hook now. A lead.
They clinked glasses again—no grand declarations, no dramatic music. Just a quiet understanding that something big was coming. Collei could feel it in her bones.
She stared down at her bowl of rice, chopsticks frozen halfway to her mouth, and whispered to herself:
"Who are you?"
Because whoever this newcomer was… they weren't just fast.
They were a fucking storm.
The next day, the group gathered at the usual gas station in Yougou, nestled at the base of the mountain pass like a shrine to horsepower and adrenaline. The air was thick with the familiar cocktail of gasoline, hot asphalt, and the ghost of burnt rubber from last night's runs. Pumps hissed quietly in the background. An oil-streaked breeze rustled the tattered race flyers stapled to the corkboard on the station wall.
This wasn't a casual hangout.
Everyone stood in a loose semi-circle around Lyney, eyes locked on him as if he were about to recite a prophecy. Pela's phone was in his hand, the screen aglow with grainy footage of that enigmatic car—frame after frame of blazing headlights, flashing flames, and impossibly clean drifts through mountain curves.
At first, Lyney was silent. His expression didn't give anything away. He watched the screen like a surgeon studying an X-ray—intensely focused, almost clinical. But as the video rolled on, something subtle changed. His brow creased. His jaw tensed. One hand curled slightly around the device, knuckles whitening.
March, sensing the shift, tilted her head with a half-smirk. "Lyney? You good?"
He didn't answer immediately. He exhaled—sharply, audibly—like someone punched him in the gut with a memory. Then he brought a hand to his temple, rubbing it like he could massage out the ghost of a name.
"I haven't heard about this car…" he murmured, voice barely above the growl of a distant engine. "Or its driver… in years."
Pela's gaze sharpened. "Wait—are you saying you know them?"
Lyney nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know that car. And I used to know the driver. Can't remember his name anymore—it's been too damn long—but I remember him."
The air around the group grew still, heavy with anticipation. Even Seele, leaning against her Devil Z with that usual too-cool expression, had gone silent.
Lyney crossed his arms, fingers tapping against his sleeve as the past clawed its way to the surface. "He was a rally driver. One of the best to ever do it. Started in the early '80s, ran with Lancia Martini Racing during the Group B era. Back when race cars were barely controlled explosions on wheels, and the WRC was closer to bloodsport than motorsport."
March's face lit up like a kid hearing a ghost story. "Group B? You mean the batshit crazy era? 600-horsepower monsters flying sideways through forests? That kind of Group B?"
Lyney cracked a grin. "Yeah. Those machines were death traps on wheels. Audi had the Quattro—the first big all-wheel drive car in rallying. Everyone said rear-wheel drive was obsolete."
He paused for emphasis, then tapped the phone screen, freezing the Lancia mid-drift.
"But in 1983, Lancia proved everyone wrong. With the 037. Rear-wheel drive. No ABS, no traction control, no computers—just balls and mechanical grip. And somehow, they won the championship. The last RWD car to ever pull it off. That guy—this driver from Inazuma—he was part of that story. First Inazuman to win a WRC title. A fucking legend."
No one spoke for a few moments. The only sounds were the soft hum of a neon sign above the station and the faint whirr of a car idling near the pumps.
"He didn't stop after rallying," Lyney went on, voice softening. "In the '90s, he went to closed-circuit touring cars. That's when I met him. I was just a kid then. Arlecchino had just started carving her name into the mountain with that AE86. We saw him race once… and it was like watching a ghost behind the wheel. Fluid. Untouchable. Then he vanished from the professional scene. Just… disappeared. Retired. But he didn't stop driving."
Collei, silent until now, suddenly spoke, her voice low and deliberate. "So if my father was the fastest downhill…"
Beidou picked up the thread with a slow, knowing smirk. "Then this guy was the fastest uphill."
Lyney snapped his fingers and pointed. "Bingo. Exactly that. Nobody could touch Arlecchino on the descent. And nobody—not even her—could take this guy on an uphill run. They raced twice. Tied both times. That's how close it was. Everyone else? They weren't even in the same fucking zip code."
He glanced around the group, expression darkening.
"Then I heard whispers—years ago. That he had a daughter. That he was training her. Grooming her to take over his legacy the same way Arlecchino raised Collei for the descent. After that? Nothing. Radio silence."
Seele finally spoke, her voice like gravel and smoke. "So what's the deal with the car, then? What the hell are we looking at?"
Lyney turned the phone toward her one last time, and for a moment his tone dropped into reverence, like he was unveiling a holy relic.
"That…" he said, "is the 1983 Lancia 037 Rally. The exact same model that took the WRC crown. Tuned. Modified. Reborn for tarmac."
The gravity of it settled like an anvil.
March blinked, pink brows furrowing. "But wait… aren't rally cars like that illegal on normal roads?"
Lyney let out a dry chuckle. "You'd think. But nope. Group B cars were always street legal. They had to be. After every stage, they'd drive to service areas on public roads. All you needed was plates and lights. This one's probably been grandfathered in."
Pela leaned forward slightly, her brain already shifting into combat analysis mode. "Okay. Specs. What exactly are we dealing with?"
Lyney's grin returned—wider now. This was his domain.
"The 037's got a mid-mounted, longitudinal 2.1-liter Abarth inline-four. Twin-cam, belt-driven. Supercharged—not turbo. Puts out about 325 horsepower. Doesn't sound like much until you realize the car weighs only 925 kilograms. Made from Kevlar, fiberglass, and hand-welded tube-frame steel."
Amber blinked. "That's almost half the weight of my Civic."
"Exactly," Lyney nodded. "That gives it a near-perfect 50/50 weight balance. Rear-wheel drive. No power steering. Manual rack. And that supercharger? No lag. Immediate torque the second you breathe on the throttle."
Amber's brow furrowed. "But why a supercharger over a turbo?"
"Because it hits," Lyney said with a snap of his fingers. "Group B was about instant violence. The 037 didn't wait for boost—it delivered it. That's what makes it so savage coming out of corners. On a tight uphill where traction's everything? That instant response is lethal."
Beidou's voice cut through the haze. "So if this new driver challenges Collei…"
The grin vanished from Lyney's face.
He shook his head slowly, like someone mourning a war that hadn't started yet. "I don't know, Beidou. If it's him… only Arlecchino could keep up. And even she didn't beat him. They tied. That should tell you everything you need to know."
Collei, who had been chewing over every word, suddenly raised her head.
"But what if it's not him?"
All eyes turned to her.
She met Lyney's gaze. "You said he was training his daughter. I replaced my father. What if… she did the same?"
There was a moment of silence—just wind, distant cicadas, and the creak of the station's rusted sign.
Lyney stared at her for a long moment, then gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
"It's possible," he said at last. "He'd be in his sixties by now. Could be she's the one behind the wheel."
Collei didn't flinch.
For her, this wasn't just some new rival.
This was a specter from the past, with the weight of a championship pedigree and an untouchable bloodline.
This was legacy versus legacy.
And somewhere high above, on those dark Yougou switchbacks, destiny was already revving its engine.
The night air was razor-sharp, biting at their exposed skin like fangs. The group huddled near a tight hairpin just below the summit of Mount Yougou, each of them wrapped in layers that barely held back the creeping cold. The pass was dead silent, a suffocating hush that pressed against their eardrums—broken only by the rustling of dead leaves and the high, mournful whistle of wind weaving through the trees.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
This wasn't just anticipation. It was reverence. They were waiting for something—or someone—that didn't belong to the world of the living.
March stamped her boots against the pavement and pulled her oversized jacket tighter around her, the zipper jammed halfway up. Her breath steamed in the cold as she groaned through chattering teeth.
"Ugh! When the hell is this Lancia getting here!? It's freezing out here! I'm gonna die of hypothermia before this damn legend shows up!"
Seele didn't flinch. She was leaned back against the front fender of her Devil Z, arms crossed, one boot hooked over the other. The light from a distant streetlamp barely kissed the edge of her sharp profile, highlighting the subtle curl of her lip.
"Patience, March," she said, voice steady and cold as black ice. "It'll show. You'll know when it does."
And then it did.
No headlights. No engine rumble to announce it from afar.
Just a shriek—an unholy, high-pitched whine that tore through the night like a banshee scream, bouncing off the cliffside and slamming into their chests like a war cry. It didn't sound like anything modern. No smooth turbo spool, no throaty V8 growl. This was raw, mechanical violence—straight out of motorsport hell.
Then came the glare. Twin rally fog lamps punched through the dark like twin suns, flooding the mist with white light. The car exploded into view—sky-blue, low-slung, boxy and twitching like a live wire, its nose tucked in tight as it blasted into the corner.
The Lancia 037 came in fast. Too fast.
Its tires hissed like they were being flayed alive. The driver didn't brake—not until the very last second, a brief flicker of red taillights that vanished as quickly as they came. Then, the car snapped sideways into a brutal four-wheel drift, the weight transfer surgical. The rear rotated out, tires shrieking, but the car never lost composure. It carved the inside line like a scalpel, missing the guardrail by inches. Sparks flew from the undercarriage as the chassis kissed the pavement.
The howl of the engine rose, mechanical and savage—supercharged, not turbocharged, with no lag, no mercy. Flames spat from the exhaust as the Lancia exited the corner like it had been launched from a cannon. Its supercharger keened, a constant banshee wail overlaid with the guttural bark of an angry rally-bred inline-four revving to oblivion.
Beidou, normally the loudest one among them, was dead silent. Her jaw was tight, her arms crossed over her chest, but it wasn't from the cold anymore.
"I don't know what it is," she muttered, voice low and unsteady, "but something about that car... gives me chills."
Lyney stood motionless beside her, eyes following the glowing red taillights as they vanished around the bend like a ghost returning to its grave.
"I don't know what that feeling is either," he murmured, half to himself. "But I do know one thing—if this Lancia challenges Collei to a race, it's gonna be the closest fucking finish Mount Yougou's ever seen."
Lake Yougou – The Meeting of Rivals
The Lancia's arrival here couldn't have been more different.
No screaming tires. No banshee shrieks.
It rolled to a stop with eerie calm beside a crimson Honda NSX NA1, the two cars facing the still waters like beasts cooling down after the hunt. Moonlight glinted off the wet tarmac, and the lake reflected the soft gold of the Lancia's rally lamps like a mirror stretched across another world.
A tall blonde woman leaned against the NSX, arms folded, posture casual, but her eyes were already locked on the newcomer. Her golden hair fluttered in the night breeze, picking up the faint glow of the stars.
She smirked.
"Hey there, Clorinde," she called, her voice carrying just enough teasing edge to cut through the quiet. "How's the suspension setup treating you?"
The Lancia's door opened with a mechanical clunk, a sound stripped of any modern polish. Clorinde stepped out, pulling off her gloves one finger at a time before stretching her arms overhead with a content sigh. Her build was lean and athletic, and her expression was pure steel—relaxed, but never unguarded.
Her sapphire eyes met Navia's.
"It's perfect," she said simply, voice level and cool, like a well-tuned carb at idle. "Flawless through those corners. Like butter on a hot knife."
She turned her gaze to the NSX, walking a slow circle as her eyes tracked the new body kit and lowered ride height. A corner of her mouth twitched upward.
"Gotta say, Navia... that new aero finally makes your ride look like it wants to kill someone. Good choice."
Navia chuckled, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "You know me. I like a little bite with my beauty. But let's talk about you. What's your plan with that setup? Just tuning for grip, or...?"
Clorinde's smirk faded. Her posture straightened, the air around her shifting from casual to sharp. She leaned back against the Lancia, arms folding tight.
"Simple," she said, tone cold as steel. "Do what my father couldn't."
Navia raised an eyebrow. "And that would be...?"
Clorinde's lips curled again, but this time it wasn't playful—it was hungry. A predator's smile.
"Beat the Eight-Six."
Navia froze. The lake's stillness seemed to echo her disbelief.
"Wait—what? Beat the Eight-Six? You mean the Eight-Six? The one that's been dismantling every local and outsider dumb enough to go head-to-head with it? You wanna pick a fight with that one?"
Clorinde shrugged, as if she'd just said she was going for groceries. She turned, dragging a hand along the iconic Martini livery stretching across the Lancia's flanks.
"Yeah, I know the stories," she said. "But back when my father was racing these mountains, he was the only one who could stay on the Eight-Six's tail. And in every single race they had... it ended in a tie."
Navia blinked, stunned. "You're telling me... your father tied the Eight-Six? Repeatedly?"
Clorinde nodded once. "That's what he said. Every time. But I knew the guy. Knew him too well."
Her gaze darkened for a beat. "He was a shit liar. Couldn't bluff his way out of a wet paper bag. His friends always joked about it. So if he claimed it was a tie... I think he lost."
Navia exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Then your old man must've been a lunatic to even try that battle."
Clorinde grinned. "That's what they all said."
Navia was quiet for a moment, then asked, "So... how are you gonna start this? You gonna scout her? Set something up online? Or...?"
Clorinde leaned off the car and stared straight at her.
"Nope. I'm gonna walk right up to her—at the gas station she works at—and challenge her to her face."
Navia's jaw dropped. "You're not serious. That's suicide. No buildup? No recon? You're gonna just cold drop a challenge in the middle of a work shift?"
Clorinde tossed her head, flicking her hair over one shoulder like a boxer. "Why not? The current driver's probably his daughter. This generation's Eight-Six. And if she's anything like her old man, she won't say no."
Navia stared at her for a long beat, then shook her head with a short laugh. "You really are your father's daughter, huh?"
"Damn right I am."
Clorinde looked skyward. The stars overhead were cold and distant, but they shimmered like the lights of a racetrack long abandoned. She spoke again, her voice quieter, edged with something deeper.
"And when I beat her... I'll prove he didn't lie. I'll prove he was the only one who ever came close."
Navia stepped off the NSX, her demeanor shifting to something familiar—friendly, but tinged with the weight of shared history.
"Feels like old times again," she said.
Clorinde smiled faintly. "Yeah... it does."
They climbed into their machines. The NSX fired up with a refined bark, its VTEC breathing through polished headers. The Lancia took longer—its old carb-fed heart coughing, then roaring to life with a savage growl. The supercharger whine cut through the silence once more, winding up with every twitch of the throttle.
Two taillights and two rivalries vanished into the dark.
This wasn't nostalgia.
It was war.
And this time, someone would cross the line first.