As night bled over the mountain pass like ink spilled across the sky, the Sky Lounge parking lot pulsed with raw energy. Flooded by the uneven scatter of high beams and aftermarket fog lamps, the area was jammed wall-to-wall with cars—hoods popped, exhaust tips glinting in the dim light. The low murmur of idle engines mixed with the chatter of dozens of voices, rising and falling in a chaotic, living rhythm. This was no ordinary crowd—these were racers, former rivals, and diehard fans from across the region. They hadn't come for a show. They'd come for a reckoning. It was the final night—Team Speed Stars' last stand.
Perched on the edge of the viewing deck above, Lumine, Aether, Stelle, and Caelus surveyed the sea of humanity below. The tension in the air was thick enough to chew. It clung to their skin like mist rolling off the peaks.
Aether leaned over the cold metal railing, the wind tugging at his hoodie. "Damn. I didn't think this many people even knew about the Speed Stars."
Caelus followed his line of sight, nodding slowly. "Some of these faces? Recognize 'em from reels and race clips. These folks flew in from different prefectures just for tonight."
Stelle rubbed her palms together for warmth, but her voice had an edge to it—lower than usual. "I've never seen this kind of turnout. Not even for the finals at Hakone."
Lumine exhaled sharply through her nose and turned toward Stelle, arms folded across her chest, a faint scowl pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Isn't it obvious, Stelle?"
Stelle blinked, brow furrowed. "What is?"
Lumine threw a hand to her forehead with theatrical exasperation. "You're supposed to be the fastest uphill racer on this mountain, and you still can't read the room?"
Stelle's tone flattened. "You trying to piss me off before the race starts?"
"It means," Lumine said through gritted teeth, "that this isn't just another race. Everyone's here because tonight marks the end of an era. Speed Stars are legends now, and people know it."
Before Stelle could bite back, the still night cracked open with a deep mechanical snarl—an unmistakable wail bouncing between the canyon walls. The sharp staccato rhythm of individual throttle bodies rang out beneath the gruff bellow of a forced-induction inline-four—raw, angry, and utterly distinct.
Down near the crowd, March 7th whipped her head toward the sound. "They're here!" she shouted, voice cutting through the din like a blade.
Heads turned en masse toward the uphill approach. The road flickered with the arrival of twin beams, slicing through the dark like lances. A heartbeat later, the car came into view—low, wide, brutal. Clorinde's Lancia Rally 037 crested the rise, its iconic Martini livery glowing ghostlike under the spotlights. The car's Lexan side window slid open just enough for her to wave her hand. The crowd erupted.
Right behind the Lancia, nestled in its exhaust shadow, came the ghost everyone had waited for. The AE86. Pop-up headlights cutting a steady path, engine revving with a metallic rasp. Collei sat behind the wheel, one hand dangling casually out of her rolled-down window, her face lit up with a wide grin.
The crowd lost it. Fans pushed forward, camera flashes blinking like stars. Shouts and cheers rang out, drowning in the roar of engines. Old rivals stepped out of the shadows, disbelief painted on their faces. Tonight wasn't just a race—it was a fucking resurrection.
Inside the lead support van, Keqing leaned forward in the passenger seat, eyes darting over the sea of bodies. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Holy shit…"
Ningguang, her posture as calm and unreadable as ever, gave a slow nod, lips curling into a knowing smile. "They came for a funeral. But they might just witness a coronation."
The convoy pushed through the crowd like a slow-moving warship, carving out space with sheer presence. Clorinde pulled her Lancia into the lot's center with surgical precision, its turbocharged whine cutting sharply as she killed the ignition. Collei followed suit, parking the AE86 just inches away, their front ends angled toward each other like dueling champions stepping into the ring.
The support vans fanned out behind them in formation, completing the image—a miniature pit lane dropped in the middle of sacred asphalt.
Clorinde stepped out of her car and stretched, letting the night air cool her fire-warmed skin. The floodlights cast long shadows beneath her, but her face was steady, composed. Her eyes scanned the throng, catching familiar smirks and battle-scarred machines.
She turned toward Collei, who had just closed her driver's side door with a gentle thunk. "Feels like half the damn country showed up."
Collei gave a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah. And I know like... ninety percent of 'em. This is insane."
Clorinde's gaze wandered, narrowing as she scanned the crowd's edge. Her mouth tightened. "Good thing Blade didn't show his face."
Collei's grin faltered for a beat. "If he did, you'd beat him with a tire iron before the race even started."
Clorinde exhaled through her nose—no smile, just focus now. "He's not here. Let's keep it that way."
As the crowd began to break into smaller groups, climbing the embankments and hiking up the trail to find the best viewing angles, the inner circle convened near the support vans. Lumine, Stelle, Caelus, and Aether moved quickly, their expressions sharpened by the pressure of what was to come.
Keqing greeted them with a brisk nod, stepping out of the van. "We'll begin with the uphill battle. Since you're the locals, you decide the order."
Stelle didn't hesitate. "I'll lead."
Lumine shot her a look, but said nothing. The decision had already landed.
Keqing turned and raised her voice. "Clorinde! You're chasing! Get staged and ready!"
Clorinde raised a hand in acknowledgment. "On it!"
Before heading off, she turned to Collei. Their eyes locked—no words for a second, just the weight of everything between them. Then a handshake. Firm. Grounded. Real.
"Give 'em hell, Walter Röhrl," Collei said with a crooked grin.
Clorinde laughed, the tension bleeding out for a heartbeat. "You know I will."
She slid back into the Lancia like she was slipping into armor. Hands on the Sparco harness, one click at a time. Helmet waiting on the passenger seat. She fired up the engine. The Lampredi unit flared to life, its supercharged bark shaking the gravel beneath the tires. It didn't idle so much as growl.
Stelle's Supra backed out first, taillights burning red against the darkness as she vanished down Autake Pass. Clorinde followed seconds later, the Lancia gliding into motion, second gear engaging with a precise mechanical snick. Support Van #1 trailed them, headlights dimmed, keeping a respectful distance.
Back at the lot, Collei leaned against the hood of her AE86, arms crossed. The warmth of the engine seeped into her back. Her gaze followed the last glimpses of the retreating Lancia.
Her breath left her in a quiet murmur. "Burn that road down, Clorinde."
At the bottom of Autake Pass, the atmosphere was electric—alive with the mechanical roar of tuned engines, the scent of high-octane fuel mixing with the mountain air. The distant hum of crickets was drowned out by the raw violence of horsepower being summoned and caged in steel. Headlights lined the dark roadside like a runway, flanked by murmuring clusters of spectators who pressed against the guardrails and rock outcroppings. They weren't just here for a race—they were here for a war.
Clorinde's Lancia Rally 037 sat on the line with its iconic Martini livery gleaming under scattered floodlights, the Lexan windows reflecting the buzz of energy in the air. The narrow cockpit around her felt like a cocoon of discipline and steel nerves. Next to her, Stelle's GR Supra idled with a deep, bassy rumble, its aggressive stance low and wide, the front splitter kissing the tarmac like it belonged to the road.
Stelle stepped out briefly, crossing the space between them, her boots crunching gravel underfoot. She extended her hand, her voice calm but confident. "Name's Stelle."
Clorinde reached out without hesitation, gripping her hand with no less strength. Her tone was neutral, voice steady. "Clorinde of Team Speed Stars."
Their hands parted, and with a silent nod, both returned to their machines.
Clorinde slid into the snug confines of the Lancia's racing bucket seat and pulled the harness straps tight across her chest with practiced efficiency. The cockpit smelled of oil, leather, and ozone—a scent she knew like blood. She shut her eyes for just a moment, centering herself. Her heartbeat slowed into something methodical.
"Bring it home, Clorinde. Show her who owns this uphill sector," she whispered, the words forming a prayer, a command, and a vow all at once.
Her eyes opened—clear, hard, locked in.
Her right hand slid to the dogleg shifter, gripping it with intent. Her left flicked the ignition switch. The Lampredi Twin Cam engine snarled to life, supercharged breath slicing the air with a feral whine. The throttle blipped once, twice—angry, sharp, immediate. Every piston in the engine sounded like a gunshot.
"Let's do this... the Group B way. Flat out."
Stelle sat in the Supra, both hands gripping the wheel at ten and two. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the narrow, low-slung wedge of Italian fury behind her. A flash of doubt cut through her confidence.
"No way a Group B rally car can keep up with my Supra," she muttered, tightening her jaw. "Not stock, anyway."
Keqing stepped onto the road like a conductor about to unleash a symphony of madness. Her arm rose, silhouetted against the headlights behind her.
"FIVE!"
"FOUR!"
"THREE!"
"TWO!"
"ONE!"
"GO!"
Her hand dropped like a guillotine blade.
The road came alive.
Both machines launched—rear tires screaming, biting at the tarmac like dogs off their leashes. Stelle's Supra surged ahead with the guttural force of turbocharged muscle, traction control light blinking furiously. But the Lancia wasn't docile. It snapped forward like a thrown spear, its supercharger screaming with manic glee. Clorinde's right foot pinned to the floor, her left feathering the clutch until the tires hooked, slamming her into second gear with a violent jolt.
Down the first straight, their taillights seared through the dark, streaking toward the opening bend. They plunged into the initial right-hand corner nearly side by side. Stelle took the outside line clean, playing the weight of the Supra through the suspension, the tires shrieking as she apexed late. Clorinde trailed half a car-length behind, her own line precise, calm, surgical. No drama, just brutal efficiency.
They blasted through a sweeping right curve. Ahead, the first hairpin loomed—a tight, technical kink that would separate instinct from control.
On the ridge above the turn, March, Beidou, Amber, Seele, and Pela stood at the edge, eyes wide as the sounds echoed off the rock walls—turbo whoosh, supercharger scream, gear whine and tire squeal all converging into one deafening crescendo.
Amber leaned over the guardrail, shouting into the wind. "Here they come!"
Stelle braked hard, ABS clicking, her heel-toe downshift a fluid stomp. The Supra dove into the turn with traction and torque. But then the Lancia arrived—Clorinde pitched it sideways, tires shrieking in a high-pitched banshee wail as the entire car rotated under throttle. No steering correction. No hesitation.
A no-countersteer four-wheel drift.
In a mid-engine car.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The Lancia clawed through the apex sideways, all four tires blazing against the asphalt, inches from the inside guardrail. The body leaned just enough to show its teeth—balanced, angry, and absurdly fast. She exited the corner only a breath behind the Supra.
March's jaw was slack. "Holy shit! That Lancia is flying!"
Seele's violet eyes were locked on the road, unblinking. "A no-countersteer four-wheel drift... in an MR car? That's insane!"
Beidou just grinned, arms folded. "She's come a long way. Makes you wonder what Collei's got in store for her run."
Amber bounced on her heels, fists clenched tight. "I can't wait to see her race!"
The Lancia stuck to the Supra like glue through the next series of bends. Clorinde worked the wheel like an extension of her own nervous system—left foot braking, throttle feathered, every heel-toe downshift so smooth it sounded like a song written in engine RPMs. Her eyes were hard and sharp, every apex burned into memory.
Inside the cockpit, her voice was low. "Something's off. She's losing focus…"
In the Supra, Stelle's hands were death-gripped around the wheel. Her breathing came uneven, fingers white-knuckled. "Maintain focus, Stelle. The team's reputation is on the line," she muttered, voice shaking just a touch.
Her tach shot past 6000 RPM—she downshifted hard from fourth to third, clutch bite catching high. The Supra jumped forward, turbo spooling again with urgency.
Clorinde felt the tempo rise. "Now you're talking," she muttered, foot burying into the firewall. The Lancia surged with raw rage, pulling up even tighter.
They roared toward a tricky right-hander flanked by a center island, visibility cut by foliage and rock. Stelle took the outside—safe, wide, conservative.
Clorinde didn't even hesitate.
She dove into the inside, her Lancia slicing across the apex like a scalpel. The tires screamed bloody murder, her inside wheels brushing gravel. The car twitched—once, twice—but Clorinde held it steady with raw grip and brute confidence.
The crowd at that turn went wild.
The Lancia shot out ahead, neatly overtaking in one clean, ruthless move.
Inside the Supra, Stelle let out a frustrated growl and slapped the steering wheel hard. "Damn it!"
But her glare sharpened, lips tightening into a grim line.
"Catch her and take back the lead!"
Back in the Lancia, Clorinde gave a quick glance to her rearview mirror. Her lips curled into a cold, self-assured smirk as the glowing headlights of the GR Supra shrank ever so slightly.
"Nice. That was simple enough," she muttered, tightening her grip on the suede-wrapped steering wheel. "Now I just have to outrun her."
But Clorinde wasn't foolish. This wasn't over—not even close. The 037 barked and snarled with each downshift, the transmission screaming in protest, the drivetrain feeling taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping. Just up ahead, a sharp left-hand turn materialized in the glow of her headlights, a blind curve flanked by dense forest and the black abyss of the drop-off beyond. There would be no room for error. One slip, one second late on the brakes, and it could all come apart.
At the summit.
The chill mountain air swept across the overlook like a silent spectator, the world below illuminated only by thin streaks of taillights dancing through the bends of Autake Pass.
Collei stood beside Ningguang, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were locked on the road, unblinking.
Ningguang turned her head slightly, her voice calm and knowing.
"Collei. I'm pretty sure you're aware of who you're racing against, right?"
Collei nodded once, sharp and deliberate.
"No need to tell me. I know I'm racing the NSX."
A subtle smile played at the corner of Ningguang's lips.
"And you know about its weaknesses, right?"
"Yeah." Collei's tone was level but confident. Then she elaborated, her voice gaining depth, like she'd been preparing for this moment for weeks.
"Unlike an FR or an RR, an MR has its engine mid-mounted. It's perfect for acceleration and balance—weight is split evenly front to rear. That's what makes them so dangerous in the right hands. It's similar to Clorinde's Lancia 037. But there's a catch."
She paused for effect, green eyes glinting under the summit lights.
"Snap oversteer. If you're too aggressive, the rear breaks loose without warning. It'll spin on you before your brain even registers what's happening."
Ningguang raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Damn. Didn't know you had that in you."
Collei gave a small, crooked smirk.
"Been self-teaching. Reading manuals, analyzing race footage… driving every night."
Ningguang nodded slowly, folding her arms. "So tell me—what do you think about the uphill match?"
Collei's eyes remained fixed on the twisting road below, watching the duel unfold in real time. Her voice carried weight now—authority.
"Clorinde's got the edge. The GR Supra's a solid machine, especially with the 6-speed manual. But people forget—it's basically a BMW Z4 underneath. And that means weight. The Lancia 037 weighs barely over 900 kilos. That Supra's almost double that."
She turned toward Ningguang with absolute clarity in her expression.
"The Lancia's acceleration out of tight corners? It's unreal. Combine that with the rear-drive layout, the Group B suspension tuning, and that razor-sharp throttle response—and it's like what Walter Röhrl said. A rally formula car. That thing doesn't belong on a mountain road… it belongs on a battlefield."
Ningguang looked away briefly, her smile softening with a quiet nostalgia.
"She's changed. She knows the mechanics now. The physics. The mindset." Her voice trailed off, barely audible over the echo of distant engines.
"Never in a million years would I have imagined her saying those words."
Then, almost to herself:
"She's one special kid. So much life... so much future in her."
Back in the race.
The halfway point of Autake Pass. Both machines had scorched their way through dozens of corners, but the intensity refused to let up. The Lancia thundered into a wide left-hand hairpin, tail slipping just slightly before Clorinde caught it with surgical precision. Behind her, Stelle's Supra pushed hard, tires screaming as she tried to hold the apex tight.
Inside the Lancia, Clorinde's eyes flicked once more to the mirror.
"I know you're trying to pass me," she muttered, voice low and collected. "But after the right-hand hairpin… I won't hold you back anymore."
Inside the Supra, Stelle's hands tensed around the wheel. Her knuckles were white.
"I need to pass. I'm not backing down!" she growled.
The road narrowed into the right-hand hairpin, its entrance shaded by trees that swallowed light. Without warning, Clorinde slammed her foot on the brakes—hard. The tail of the Lancia compressed violently, brake lights flaring bright as hellfire. Stelle's eyes widened in raw surprise.
"Shit!" she gasped.
She stomped on the brake pedal, the shift from throttle to deceleration throwing off her car's balance. The front tires screamed as they understeered wide—too fast, too shallow. Her line was all wrong. She cranked the wheel harder, the front struggling for grip, and somehow, miraculously, she caught it. But the momentary stall had cost her. By the time she realigned out of the corner, Clorinde's 037 had exploded forward, the scream of its supercharged engine echoing like a banshee in the woods.
Stelle slammed the gas again, but the gap was already growing.
"She's picking up the pace!" she hissed.
Clorinde didn't hesitate. The Lancia surged through a slight left and a medium right, its balance flawless, the acceleration instant. Her machine didn't hesitate, didn't falter. It simply obeyed. With every passing second, the gap widened—one car length… two… three…
Stelle's breathing turned ragged as she mashed the accelerator again.
"I'm not out of this yet!"
But her words were starting to feel hollow. The Supra's extra weight made every corner feel like dragging an anchor. She braked late into the turns, exited early, but the Lancia simply had less mass, more grip, and a deeper bond with the road.
Then came the moment—the blur of color.
Clorinde's Lancia shimmered in the dark, the hues of the Martini Racing livery flashing under the street lamps. A vivid aura surrounded the car now—sky blue, dark blue, red—like the spirit of Group B had possessed it completely.
She threw the 037 into the sharp left-hand hairpin, and it disappeared.
By the time Stelle reached the same corner, it was over. The gap had gone from two car lengths going in… to four car lengths coming out.
Inside the Supra, Stelle's heart sank.
"The race… it's over."
Clorinde had pulled ahead for good. Her Lancia, all precision and fury, had outmatched the Supra in every metric that counted—braking, acceleration, and corner exit speed.
The finish line crested into view. Clorinde crossed it like a bullet, her car stable, unshaken, victorious.
Stelle followed seconds later, eyes wide with disbelief. The realization hit like a stone—she'd been outrun. Flat out.
The Final Uphill Battle for Team Speed Stars… belonged to Clorinde.
The roar of the crowd echoed across the ridge as the realization settled in.
The uphill races were done. But the road was far from silent.
Because the final downhill was still waiting.