A Rivalry Rekindled – The Battle Begins
The roar of two engines shatters the mountain's silence, a raw symphony of combustion and fury that echoes down every canyon and curve. The Yougou crowd goes quiet—not out of fear, but reverence. This isn't just a race. It's history dragging itself back onto the tarmac with teeth bared.
Pela stands like a statue between the two machines, one arm raised high under the floodlights, her silhouette caught between two titans. Her voice cuts through the tension like a wire snapping.
"Alright! Countdown starts now!"
The Eight Six and the Lancia idle no more—their RPMs rise in a wailing crescendo. The Lancia snarls, supercharger whining like a siren. The Eight Six screams back, its naturally aspirated 4A-GE spinning into the red.
THREE.
Clutches in. Tires twitch. Both cars tense like predators at the edge of violence.
TWO.
Gas pedals feathered. Tachs flirt with redlines. Engines vibrating like they're going to leap out of their mounts.
ONE.
The mountain itself holds its breath.
GO!!
Smoke erupts from all four rear tires. The air fills with the stink of burning rubber and high-octane fuel. Both cars rocket forward—no hesitation, no mercy. The Eight Six punches ahead by a nose, light and nimble, gaining ground before horsepower even has a say. Its differential snarls as Collei slams into second, chassis twitching but stable.
Turn 1 hits like a hammer. Both machines dive in together, shoulder-to-shoulder, tires howling in protest as weight shifts and suspension loads. Collei's eyes are locked onto the apex; her heel flicks onto the brake as her hand snatches third, steering input tight and clinical. The Eight Six tucks in, barely brushing the inside line. Clorinde's Lancia muscles through beside her, more power, more torque, but less forgiveness.
The scream of their engines merges into a harmonic chaos, the sound of rivalry forged in fire.
Straights vs. Corners – A Clash of Strengths
The course straightens for a moment, and the Lancia lunges forward like a beast unchained. Boost hits. The supercharged inline-four snarls as Clorinde slams the throttle to the floor—its acceleration is brutal, pushing her back in the seat as the 037 gains inches, then meters.
But Collei doesn't blink.
She's still there. Tucked in behind. Never letting go.
She's not driving the Eight Six—she's wielding it.
The road coils again, a snake of decreasing-radius corners. A series of hairpins, the kind that devours momentum and spits out only those with perfect balance. The Lancia hesitates—its longer wheelbase and mid-engine layout more suited to open sweepers and straight-line speed.
Collei doesn't hesitate.
Clutch in. Tap the brake. Downshift to second—rev-match perfect. The engine screams again as the Eight Six loads up on entry. Her hands move like muscle memory, and the steering wheel flicks left in a controlled burst.
The rear breaks loose. Not a loss of control—an offering. Tires kiss the pavement sideways, the chassis pivoting smoothly around the front axle. A perfect drift.
She rides the edge of grip, the white coupe skating through the corner like it was born there. The tires scream, the tach flirts with red, and the rear end dances out—only to be reeled back in at the last second.
Clorinde's eyes flick to the mirror. The Eight Six is there. No, closer—it's beside her.
"Damn… she's got bite," she mutters under her breath, her grip tightening on the wheel.
They exit the corner—Collei takes the inside. Minimal steering correction. No wasted motion. She slingshots past with mechanical grace.
Power vs. technique. Speed vs. soul.
Neck and Neck – The Hairpin Duel
Up top, Beidou watches with her arms crossed, jaw tight. Her voice is low, but sharp. "They've swapped lead a dozen times already… This isn't a race. It's a war."
Amber paces back and forth, fists clenched, eyes locked on the monitor feed. "Come on, Collei… come on…"
At the Five Consecutive Hairpins, the tension's boiling. Lyney leans over the guardrail, eyes scanning the darkness. Lynette yawns, unimpressed—until the mountain howls.
The sound arrives before the cars.
First, the distinct shriek of the 4A-GE screaming at 8,000 RPM.
Then, the guttural, mechanical snarl of the Lancia, supercharger wailing like a banshee as it tears up the incline.
Then headlights.
Then chaos.
The Eight Six and the 037 come barreling into view, side by side, full-throttle, four tires fighting for grip on the narrow ribbon of asphalt.
Lyney's eyes go wide. "They're still side by side?!"
"They're insane," Lynette breathes, leaning forward as the two cars dive into the first hairpin.
Inside the Eight Six, Collei's breathing slows. The world narrows to her steering wheel, the road, and the apex. She lifts off the gas for a blink, not to yield—but to bait.
Clorinde takes the bait. The Lancia edges ahead, boosted torque pulling her forward.
Collei dives inside.
Her front tires snap toward the guardrail. The right-side wheels hook into the drainage gutter—a calculated move, not a mistake. The jolt hits, but the chassis holds. The rear rotates perfectly as the car hugs the inner edge of the curve, riding the gutter with surgical precision.
She holds the throttle steady through the drift, letting the tire scrub stabilize the rear. The suspension absorbs the harsh gutter bite without a shudder. Clorinde can only watch as the white coupe slingshots forward out of the apex and overtakes her cleanly.
Clorinde's eyes go wide. "What the—?!"
Too late.
Collei's already past.
"Holy shit," Lyney whispers. "That was genius."
Lynette grabs the rail, mouth open. "She just made that gutter her bitch."
Behind them, Arlecchino leans against the railing, one brow raised, a ghost of a smirk on her lips. "Go get 'em, tiger…"
Lynette's gaze shifts. "Wait—that's your daughter?"
"Damn right," Arlecchino replies without missing a beat, voice rich with pride. "And she's got that Lancia dancing to her rhythm."
The last of the five hairpins looms—a monster of a corner, tight and unforgiving. One mistake, and it's over. But Collei doesn't blink. Her eyes flick to the apex, the ditch, the angle. She calculates.
Then commits.
She hooks the left-side wheels into the inner gutter—just like before.
Throttle control razor-sharp. Wheel input feathered.
The Eight Six takes the turn like it was etched into the mountain just for her. The tires scream, the chassis holds, the balance flawless. It's not just driving—it's domination.
The Lancia stays close, but not close enough.
Not this time.
But then—
Clorinde responds in kind.
Her Lancia bites into the gutter with a vicious, metallic snarl—front-left tire dipping hard into the groove, suspension compressing with a shuddering force. The shriek of tortured rubber cuts through the roar of her supercharged 037, which bellows like an unchained beast as she launches herself into the turn. The chassis quakes but holds, raw mechanical violence barely contained by Clorinde's precise, brutal input.
She's mirroring Collei's exact line.
Collei's eyes snap wide in the AE86's cabin. Her grip tightens instinctively on the steering wheel, knuckles white.
"Holy shit! She's doing the gutter run too?!"
The scream tears from her lips without thought, half awe, half disbelief. Her rearview mirror is filled with the Lancia's twin circular headlights—unblinking, merciless. The crowd stationed along the mountain flanks erupts into a collective gasp, voices rising above the wind and engine noise. Clorinde's maneuver isn't imitation—it's declaration. The message is clear:
I can do what you do. I can match you here, in your home.
The course narrows. The final hairpin arrives in a sudden, high-speed blur—a savage kink in the mountain's backbone. Both cars enter it side by side, the AE86 flicking into a feint while the Lancia dives with raw aggression. Tires shriek in unison, harmonizing like steel chords tearing across asphalt. Sparks fly from undercarriages as both cars flirt with disaster, steel lips kissing guardrails by millimeters.
They're locked together. A tandem drift.
One foot of separation.
Every second drags into eternity. The howl of engines and tires is the only sound—pure mechanical fury mixed with the trembling anticipation of a crowd holding its collective breath. Gas pedals hit the floor.
The final exit line is dead ahead.
Both drivers unleash everything their cars have.
Engines wail, transmissions slam into gear, tach needles bouncing off redlines. The AE86 surges forward, the 4A-GE screaming for its life, while the Lancia claws savagely for traction, its rear wheels spinning just shy of grip as boost floods the system.
The darkness of the mountains is split open by dual beams of light.
It's a drag race to the finish.
The Final Sprint
The finish line is etched into the pavement like the edge of a cliff.
Ningguang stands at the end, arms folded tight, a storm behind her eyes. Beside her, Keqing's hands twitch at her sides, muscles coiled, mind racing. Ganyu fidgets nervously, her breath shallow, drawn into the gravity of what's coming.
"So, Ningguang, who do you think is going to win?" Ganyu asks, barely above a whisper, as if afraid her voice might break the moment.
Ningguang doesn't move. Her gaze remains locked down the mountain, watching, calculating.
"Neither."
Keqing's head whips around. "What do you mean, 'neither'?! One of them has to be ahead!"
Still no glance, just that measured, unnerving calm.
"No. I think they'll cross at the same time."
Ganyu's breath catches. "You're saying... it's going to be a draw?"
Ningguang nods once. "Yes. The Lancia dominates the straights with its top-end power, but the Eight Six cuts the corners cleaner than any machine ever built. Their strengths cancel out—perfect symmetry. Just like their fathers before them."
Keqing's eyes widen in realization. Her voice falters.
"History repeats itself... The Eight Six's original driver and the Lancia's former ace... every time they clashed..."
"—They always tied." Ningguang finishes for her. The words aren't hopeful. They're inevitable.
Then—
The sound hits them.
First a vibration in the soles of their feet. Then the full scream of fury: twin engines at redline, tires screaming against the pavement like the sky is being torn apart. The roar is colossal, growing louder with every millisecond.
"They're coming!" Keqing yells.
Ningguang's gaze sharpens like a blade. "Keqing! Get a slow-mo shot. Now!"
Without a second wasted, Keqing sprints forward, phone in hand, eyes locked on the darkness ahead.
The Impossible Photo Finish
The Lancia and the Eight Six burst into view.
Side by side.
No separation. No dominance.
Two streaks of light, one black and red, one ghost-white and silver, tearing through the final stretch like twin comets. The scream of engines is indescribable now—no longer sound, but raw pressure and fury, pressing into everyone's chests.
Keqing's camera locks in, fingers trembling but focused. She's already filming, eyes wide behind the screen.
Time slows to a crawl.
Frames pass like breaths.
Both cars punch through the finish line at the exact same instant.
There is no daylight between them.
The engines begin to quiet, but the adrenaline does not.
They vanish past the finish into the cool dark of the parking lot beyond, tires crunching gravel as they roll to a slow, gasping halt.
A Historic Outcome
The AE86's door clicks open.
Collei climbs out, chest heaving, hands still shaking from the wheel's ghost. Her eyes dart, wild and wide, searching.
The Lancia's gullwing-style door cracks open. Clorinde steps out, sweat lining her brow, arms limp at her sides. Her usually reserved composure is cracked open, raw.
They lock eyes.
Everything else—the crowd, the cameras, the noise—fades into static.
It's just the two of them.
One second.
Two.
Then they break into matching, breathless grins.
Collei walks forward, extending her hand. "It was a pleasure racing with you, Clorinde."
Clorinde clasps it without hesitation. Her grip is strong, firm. "Likewise, Collei. That was… insane."
They laugh.
Not out of mockery, but in the way only two survivors of something extraordinary can.
Collei shakes her head, dazed. "That finish was way too close."
"I have no idea who won," Clorinde admits, half-laughing, half-stunned.
Their answer arrives in the form of pounding footsteps—Keqing, Ningguang, and Ganyu arriving fast.
Keqing lifts her phone. "I got it. Slow motion. Frame by frame." Her voice trembles with adrenaline.
They cluster around her. Onscreen, the finish line appears. The footage rolls. Then pauses.
There's no denying it.
Both cars passed at the exact same instant. Not a pixel's worth of gap.
"...No way," Collei whispers.
"It's a draw," Keqing confirms, a grin breaking over her face like dawn. "Perfectly even."
Ningguang doesn't blink. "Radio it in. Let the others know."
The Verdict
At the summit, silence reigns. No one dares move.
The radio on the hood of Beidou's car crackles with static, then a calm, clear voice comes through.
"This is the finish line… We have the results."
Everyone holds their breath.
"It's... It's a draw."
Silence.
Then pandemonium.
Shouts, gasps, cheers explode through the crowd. Hats fly into the air, people hugging, screaming. The shockwave of emotion is unstoppable. Even Beidou stares at the radio, mouth half-open. March 7th just yells, voice cracking. Seele exhales like she's just stepped out of a burning building.
History Repeats Itself
Down by the hairpins, Arlecchino stands statuesque, arms folded. The corners of her mouth twitch upward in a rare smirk.
Lynette looks over. "You're not surprised?"
Lyney, standing beside her, grins. "Because history just repeated itself."
Lynette blinks. "Huh?"
"The last driver of the Lancia… was the only one who ever tied with Arlecchino. They raced each other down this mountain—over and over. They never beat each other. Not once."
Arlecchino lets out a low, pleased exhale. "Like father, like daughter."
The Final Decision
The radio crackles once more.
Collei's voice comes through. Calm. Steady. Clear.
"We've discussed it. Both drivers are winners."
The mountain explodes.
The crowd becomes a wave of celebration—cheers, laughter, shouts echoing into the trees, into the stars. The whole mountain pulses with the sound of release, the tension finally breaking into pure triumph.
Tonight belongs to both of them.
And as the moonlight gleams off the battered hoods of the AE86 and the Lancia 037, one thing becomes undeniable.
Collei's undefeated streak lives on.
And the legend of the Eight Six...
refuses to die.