An hour had passed since Collei and Lumine's downhill clash—a teeth-gritting slugfest that ended with Lumine spinning out wide on the final left-hand sweeper, her taillights vanishing into the runoff like a comet burning out. Collei had crossed the finish line alone, victorious. But the night was far from over. That race was a prelude. The real war was about to begin—the final race for Team Speed Stars. A duel that would decide everything. Two legends. The Eight Six, reborn in Group A trim, and the snarling, flame-spitting monster that was Clorinde's Lancia Rally 037.
They stood parked on opposite ends of the lot like gunfighters before a duel. No eye contact. No small talk. Just tension—dense and suffocating. Even the smallest sounds felt razor-sharp in the silence. The crisp crack of gravel under boots. The hollow hiss of a soda can venting pressure. The night itself felt wound tight, ready to snap.
Collei tipped back the last of her drink, the soda going flat against her tongue, and crushed the can in one hand with a metallic pop. That was when she saw Albedo walking over, his boots crunching slowly, carefully, like a man carrying something heavier than just words.
"The Eight Six is ready to go anytime, Collei," he said, voice steady but with a current of excitement just beneath the surface.
She nodded, brushing her hands against the thighs of her clothes. "Perfect."
He didn't walk away. He lingered, glancing over his shoulder toward the Eight Six like it was hiding something.
"Collei?" he said, quieter this time.
She turned toward him fully now, reading the gravity in his posture. "What is it, Albedo?"
He took a second to think—always did, even when seconds were expensive. "I've got something else to tell you."
Her brow arched. "Go on."
He stepped in close, dropping his voice like he was handing her classified intel. "Remember those mods I did to your engine?"
"Yeah," she said, arms folding. "You said the numbers were solid. What about them?"
A faint smirk tugged at his lips, not smug—more like he'd been sitting on a secret for too long. "The horsepower figures I gave you… they weren't exactly wrong. But they weren't the full picture either."
Collei narrowed her eyes. "How far off are we talking?"
He looked around—checking for stray ears—then leaned in.
"I told you it was pushing 268 horses. That was true—at the time. But with the new ITBs, revised cams, your fueling tweaks, and the ECU remap I did last week? You're past 300 now. Way past."
Her voice sharpened. "Give me a number."
His gaze locked on hers. "Three-twenty. And it's stable. That's at eleven thousand RPM."
The number hit like a slap.
"Three-twenty?" she echoed, as if tasting the words.
Albedo nodded once. "Torque's still in the high two-hundreds, and the powerband's fat all the way to redline. This isn't the same car you drove last week."
She grinned, lips parting—but Albedo's raised hand cut the moment off.
"There's more," he said, his tone turning dead serious.
She blinked. "Seriously? What now?"
"I capped the revs with a soft limiter during test runs. Eleven thousand. It was a safety net. I didn't want you blowing the thing up while getting used to the new response."
She said nothing—just stared.
"But that limiter's gone now," he continued. "For this race, I took it off. You can push it to twelve. Hell, maybe even thirteen, if you're insane enough."
Her expression went still. Cold. Calculating.
He leaned in just a little more. "Don't ride it up there unless you absolutely have to. But if you hit the limit and you need more… it's there."
A quiet beat passed.
Then she nodded. "Got it."
No fear. No hesitation. Just understanding.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and cupped her hands around her mouth. "We're ready here!"
Across the lot, a crisp voice rang out.
"Ready here too!" Clorinde.
Keqing stepped forward between the two groups, hand raised like an orchestra conductor before the first note. "Drivers! To the starting line! Side-by-side formation, please!"
Albedo clapped a firm hand on Collei's shoulder. "Good luck, kid. Show her what the Eight Six really is."
Collei nodded back once, jaw tight. "Thanks, Albedo."
She made her way to the car, the movement fluid and focused. No wasted motion. She dropped into the bucket seat, letting the familiar embrace of the bolsters center her. Fingers reached for the six-point harness—shoulder belts over first, then lap, then sub-belt. Click. Click. Tightened down until the webbing bit into her collarbones.
She paused, hands resting on the wheel. Closed her eyes. Inhaled deep through her nose. Cicadas faded. Voices dulled to background noise.
Then her eyes opened—sharp and green as cut jade.
"Let's show her who the real Mountain Pass Specialist is."
She turned the key. Instantly, the 20-valve 4A-GE howled to life, barking a high-pitched growl that echoed off the trees. Throttle blipped. The revs snapped like a whip, needle climbing with terrifying eagerness. No delay. No fat. Pure mechanical violence.
The Eight Six rolled forward, tires crunching gravel as it eased out of the parking lot. Clorinde's Lancia followed close behind. That thing sounded like it wanted to eat the road whole—low, guttural, spitting bursts of exhaust like gunshots in the night.
They wound down the mountain toward the starting point. Air grew thinner, colder. The world narrowed to the black strip of road and the silver guardrails carving through the woods.
They came to a stop at the starting line. Side by side. The same exact place they had lined up a year ago.
Keqing stood between them like a referee at a heavyweight title bout. Her voice rang out, clear and sharp. "Let's start this race the old-fashioned way! Whoever crosses the line first wins it all!"
The crowd, the mountain, the night itself went still.
Keqing raised her hand, five fingers spread.
"FIVE!"
Engines surged. Revs climbed. The Lancia's note barked deeper. The Eight Six screamed higher.
"FOUR!"
Collei wrapped both hands tight around the Nardi wheel. Clorinde rested her palm on the tall shifter like it was a sword.
"THREE!"
The air vibrated with RPM and nerves. Heat waves shimmered off hoods.
"TWO!"
Collei's world collapsed into a tunnel—just the wheel, the tach, and the road ahead.
"ONE!"
Keqing's hand slashed downward.
"GO!!"
Both cars exploded off the line—rear tires clawing at the tarmac, engines wailing in disharmony. The Lancia lunged forward with brutal immediacy, its short-ratio dogbox letting it leap ahead like a caged animal finally unleashed.
Collei kept the throttle pinned, the Eight Six shrieking at 10,500 as she dumped the clutch with surgical timing. Rear tires broke loose just enough to squirm, then bit down hard as she banged second.
They tore through the opening left-hand kink, already near redline again.
First real challenge—90-degree right.
Clorinde's Lancia dove in hard, tail swinging out in a savage countersteer drift. The car held sideways, wide and aggressive.
Collei didn't drift. She braked late—heel-toed from fourth to third, rev-match perfect—and gripped through the corner with razor-edge precision. Weight transfer, throttle feathering, perfect steering angle—the Eight Six pivoted like it was stitched into the apex.
The short straight that followed let the Lancia stretch its legs. It rocketed forward again, clawing out a gap on raw power.
Collei didn't flinch. She knew better. The AE86 wasn't built for the straights. Her moment would come.
Next corner—tight left. Both drivers braked hard, tires howling. Dust blew from the shoulder as they trail-braked into the apex.
The mountain roared back at them—two titans screaming down a ribbon of blacktop, every second closer to the breaking point.
On the sidelines…
Watching from a high vantage point near a deceptively mild right-hand kink was Feixiao, standing silently beside her Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution IX. The Evo's matte black bodywork gleamed faintly in the moonlight, its intercooler glinting like a tooth behind the grille. Arms crossed, weight shifted slightly to one leg, she stood like a statue—unmoving, but far from detached.
Her crimson eyes tracked every line through the corners, analyzing angle, throttle application, and body roll as though inputting data into a mental simulation.
She exhaled through her nose, barely audible. "The Lancia's untouchable on straights—short gears, torque curve optimized for brutality. That thing's a missile. But the Eight Six... that thing whispers through corners. No wasted momentum. Collei's precision is like a goddamn laser scalpel."
Feixiao's voice dropped, murmured low enough for only herself. "The Lancia's MR layout gives it fast transitions and a low polar moment, yeah. But the Eight Six… that chassis is alive. 50/50 balance, featherweight, razor-keen turn-in. And with Ningguang's team dialing in that Group A motor, she's clawing back inches on every exit, even in a power war."
She paused as the cars disappeared behind a blind left. Her tone shifted, like acknowledging a truth she didn't want to say aloud. "Clorinde's style is all Group B—violent throttle steering, Scandinavian flicks, brutal weight shifts. It's fast, but it's a gamble every time. Collei… she doesn't force it. Her technique's too clean. It's mountain pass jazz—fluid, reactive, improvisational. That kind of smoothness… that's not trained. That's instinct."
Back in the race…
The road unfurled like a ribbon through the night, a weaving straightaway marked by gentle S-bends that seemed easy on paper but punished the overconfident with deceptive camber and inconsistent surface grip.
Inside the Eight Six, Collei's hands gripped the Nardi wheel at 9 and 3, her fingertips twitching minutely as she made micro-corrections. The tach was pinned at 9,800, needle surging toward 11,000 RPM with every foot-pound squeezed from the high-strung 4A-GE.
"She's got the launch and the mid-gear punch," Collei muttered through gritted teeth. "But I've got rhythm. Corner to corner… she can't shake me."
She heel-toed the downshift with surgical precision, the bark of the engine sharp and metallic as she slammed the gear lever into fourth, the drivetrain absorbing the load without complaint. The rear-end squirmed, then bit.
Ahead, Clorinde glanced at her rally-style rearview mirror, spotting the AE86 clinging to her bumper like a shadow that refused to be shaken.
"Tch," she hissed, lips curling into a half-smirk. "Still there, huh?"
She muttered under her breath, words lost under the harsh blare of the Lancia's inline-four. "Tonight, you're not my teammate. You're my unfinished business."
The first hairpin appeared—tight and steep, a perfect tarmac switchback with a fat strip of rubber already burned in by previous battles. Both cars committed.
The Lancia pitched sideways first, weight shifted hard to the outside as Clorinde used raw momentum to break traction. Her throttle opened violently mid-slide, the tail whipping wide in a perfect rally drift, gravel spitting as the tires skimmed the shoulder.
Right behind her, Collei initiated her drift later, smoother. She carried speed deeper, trusting the AE86's balance, loading the suspension just enough before a feathered clutch kick rotated the chassis in one clean motion. Her tires screamed, but her line was surgical—cleaner, tighter, cleaner exit.
They exited together.
The Lancia surged ahead again on the throttle, the shorter gears letting it claw back meters instantly. But the Eight Six? It never left Clorinde's mirrors.
Further down the mountain…
The course transitioned into a punishing S-curve segment, a test of flow and rhythm. Both cars entered in tandem, the AE86's suspension dancing through the weight shifts like it had nerves of its own. The Lancia was more violent—braking late, chucking its rear around and powering out with brute force—but it was fast, no question.
At a roadside pull-off, Feiyun Racing School's crew had gathered—Xingqiu, Thoma, Heizou, and Kuki Shinobu, leaning on fenders and sipping vending machine coffee as the glowing taillights streaked past in a blur.
"That's not just a race," Shinobu muttered. "That's a fucking send-off."
She turned to Thoma, brow raised. "So what's your read, genius?"
Thoma exhaled through his nose, gaze still following the receding lights. "Collei's brake modulation is textbook. She's not just slowing down; she's weight-transferring with intent. Gas-to-brake switch is near-instant. And her heel-toe? It's not just quick—it's timed. Like a double clutch with muscle memory carved in granite."
He paused, then nodded toward the Lancia. "Clorinde's using rally-style downshifts. Brutal, hard on synchros. If she's even a beat late, she'll lock a rear. It's high risk, high reward—but it's not forgiving."
Heizou laughed, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. "Yeah, but let's not pretend it's not thrilling as hell to watch."
They all went quiet again as the sound of engines faded into the trees, replaced by cicadas and rustling wind.
Back in the heat of the battle…
The pace had reached terminal velocity. Both machines were operating at the edge of mechanical grip and human control. Tire noise had become a constant scream, harmonizing with the metallic symphony of over-revved engines.
Collei's jaw clenched. She could feel the sweat dripping down her temple, ignored it, eyes wide open and wired. The next few corners would decide everything.
"I still have a shot," she muttered, voice hoarse with adrenaline. "The third sector's mine. The most technical part of the course. This is where I win."
The two cars ripped out of the last hairpin, tires spinning, revs climbing. The road straightened slightly—an optical illusion—before veering off into a staggered chicane sequence.
By the guardrail, a small crowd stood in tense silence, watching the battle unfold. Among them stood Eula, her arms folded, breath caught in her throat as the sound of screaming engines crescendoed again.
She watched Collei's AE86 whip past, its rear dancing but always under control.
A rare smile touched Eula's lips.
"She's come a long way," she whispered. "I still remember that night at Amakane…"
Flashback – Amakane Pass, Turn A105
Eula's GT86 was on the attack, taking clean, fast lines, but she knew—knew—the AE86 behind her wasn't just surviving. It was learning.
Through Turn A103, Eula's corner entry was a hair too shallow—and Collei pounced. The AE86 rotated perfectly mid-corner, tucking into the inside with unflinching speed, tires clawing at the edge of pavement like fangs. No understeer. No hesitation.
As they transitioned into Turn A104, Collei linked the drift—right foot dancing across the pedals, steering input minimal. It wasn't a slide. It was art.
Back then, Eula's eyes had gone wide behind the wheel.
Back to present…
Eula's voice was hushed, filled with awe. "She reads an opponent like a book. Adapts on the fly. Learns their rhythm—then rewrites it."
The roar of the AE86's engine echoed off the mountainside again, louder now, as the third and final sector loomed ahead—a maze of technical corners, irregular surfaces, and brutal elevation shifts.
The two racers hurtled through another right-hand turn, their engines howling at redline, the narrow mountain corridor amplifying every decibel into a roar that threatened to shake the trees loose. Rubber shrieked in protest as the cars bled speed just enough to make the corner, both machines dancing on the edge of adhesion.
Collei's eyes locked ahead, flicking rapidly between the road and her mirrors. Sweat beaded at her brow, but her hands were steady. Her lips moved without thought, her voice low, focused.
"We're approaching the right-hand hairpin," she muttered, almost to the car itself. "That's the halfway point. This is my chance."
Just ahead, Clorinde's brake lights flared blood red against the black canvas of night as she stomped the middle pedal. The Lancia's weight transferred violently forward, nose dipping, tires groaning as she trail-braked into position. Her driving style was precise chaos—brute force through balance, the ghost of Group B etched into every movement.
Collei didn't hesitate.
Her right hand flicked the switch beneath the cluster. The Eight Six's headlights vanished with a mechanical thunk, the road ahead swallowed in instant, oppressive darkness. Only Clorinde's red brake lamps illuminated anything.
Inside the Lancia, Clorinde's eyes darted to the rearview mirror—and widened.
"Where'd she go?!" Her voice was sharp, tense. She squinted at the pitch-black void behind her, heart skipping a beat. "Damn it, Collei, that trick won't work on me!"
Her grip on the Momo steering wheel tightened until her knuckles turned white. "Just stick to my line," she reminded herself. "Trust the rhythm. Ignore the tricks."
The hairpin was just ahead now, its curve sharp and technical. Clorinde braked hard again, front tires biting, suspension compressing as she rotated the car in. She went wide to preserve momentum.
But Collei had other plans.
She stayed on the gas longer, braking later—almost too late. The Eight Six shuddered under the violent weight transfer, front tires chirping in agony as she heel-and-toed down from fourth to second, revs spiking. Her eyes locked onto the apex. Her fingers barely nudged the wheel, but the car snapped inward like a scalpel on muscle.
With perfect timing, she flipped the light switch again. The pop-up headlights sprang open, blasting the curve in front of her with sudden halogen brilliance. The light cut through the darkness like a sword.
It was all Clorinde needed to lose her line.
The shock registered on her face a split-second too long. Her hands twitched on the wheel—imperceptible to most, but enough. Her exit carried wide, traction dipping, a single tire brushing the outer white line.
And Collei was there—low, tight, smooth as silk. The Eight Six carved under her like it was welded to the road, exiting the corner in a perfect line that slotted her right into the lead.
Clorinde's mouth twisted into a grimace as she recovered the line, shifting up to third. "Tch… damn it. She got me." But her foot didn't lift, and neither did her spirit. "This isn't over."
They hit a sweeping right, the tires dancing just shy of grip, followed by a vicious 90-degree left that demanded razor-sharp timing. Both drivers responded like machines—shifting, braking, rev-matching in sync. Flames burst from both exhausts as they rocketed into the next stretch.
Then came the center island section—a deceptively narrow bottleneck lined with low curbing and steep drop-offs. Absolute precision or absolute failure. No in-between.
Collei's Eight Six entered first, but something was off.
She felt it before she saw it—the rear end wasn't planted. The back tires twitched, hunting for grip that wasn't there. The car was light, skittish. Too much rotation, not enough bite.
"What the—" she gasped, feathering the throttle instinctively. The tail stepped wider.
Clorinde, barely a car length behind, saw it all in real time.
Shit. No time.
She swerved slightly to avoid collision, but the momentum of her line betrayed her. The Lancia's fender kissed the AE86's rear quarter panel—a brush, barely enough to matter, but at these speeds, it was enough.
Collei's car bucked sideways. The rear stepped out. Her steering wheel whipped through her hands before she caught it, stabilizing just enough to avoid spinning. But she was wide.
Clorinde slipped through, regaining the lead.
Her breath came fast as she corrected, muttering to herself, "Sorry, Collei… I didn't mean for that. But if it's going to come down to this, then so be it."
Inside the Eight Six…
Collei's knuckles flexed on the wheel, her teeth clenched hard enough to ache. "Damn it!" Her voice was raw, close to cracking. "I'm running out of options here!"
She could feel it—the balance of the race slipping away. The Lancia had the lead, and now the rhythm of the course was favoring Clorinde's aggressive power delivery and lightning shifts.
But then…
Albedo's voice echoed in her mind—calm, clinical, confident.
"With the new power band and output, the engine can rev higher than 11,000 RPMs. More like 12,000 or 13,000. But I don't recommend doing it… unless it's absolutely necessary."
Collei blinked, the memory snapping into clarity.
Her jaw tightened.
"This is it."
She glanced at the tach—needle pinned at 11,000 and trembling. Her voice dropped, gentle as a whisper. "Hold on for me, Eight Six… just a little longer."
She downshifted. Fourth to third. Engine RPM exploded. The tach needle soared off the scale, past 12,000, past 13,000—uncharted territory. The Silvertop screamed, the note high and desperate, mechanical death metal.
But the car held.
The Eight Six launched forward, surge abrupt, almost violent. The intake roar overtook the exhaust note, the carbureted howl slicing the night apart.
She hit the light switch again. Darkness.
One with the mountain.
They came to the final sequence. Clorinde hit the apex, unaware of what stalked her just out of view.
Collei saw the outside line.
"There's the gap!"
She didn't hesitate.
A flick of the wheel, and the AE86 dove into the barely-there space on the right—no room for error, less room for sanity. The two machines went side by side, their panels brushing, sparks igniting against metal. The mountain air sizzled with electricity.
Clorinde's jaw dropped.
"She's to my right?! At a place this narrow?!"
A left. A right. Another left. The sequence came fast, a whip chain of transitions. Collei's tail stepped out slightly, tapping Clorinde's Lancia again—pushing it toward the guardrail. Clorinde corrected with lightning-fast inputs, catching the slide before disaster.
Final left-hand turn.
Collei was half a car length ahead.
"This is it!" she screamed in her mind. Her whole body pulsed with adrenaline.
Inside the Lancia, Clorinde's voice was a murmur, heavy with gravity. "It's almost over."
Collei flicked the lights back on. The road ahead lit up.
She glanced down.
Her blood ran cold.
The tach needle had climbed beyond anything the gauge was ever meant to read. 14,000… no, 14,500 RPM.
Bang.
The engine detonated.
Oil sprayed like blood across the windshield. A metallic shriek pierced the night as the internals tore themselves apart. The rear tires locked. The Eight Six went into a high-speed spin, sliding violently across the road.
Clorinde's eyes snapped wide. "Collei!"
Her instincts took over—she yanked the wheel left, hard. But the shift was too sudden. The Lancia over-rotated, the rear swinging wide in a brutal snap oversteer. She fought it—but too late.
Both cars spun, the finish line only meters away.
Then…
Collei didn't quit.
Even backwards, she fought.
Clutch in. A desperate throttle blip. The rear wheels chirped, caught traction for a split second. She threw her weight left, steering from memory. The Eight Six—dead, bleeding, lifeless—slid tail-first across the finish line, smoke and oil in its wake.
A breath later, Clorinde's Lancia crossed the line—just behind.
Silence.
Then—
Chaos.
The crowd erupted, cheers and gasps rolling across the mountain like an avalanche. The duel had ended not with a clean pass or a bold drift—but with fire, grit, and pure fucking will.
Collei sat in the darkened Eight Six, panting, hands trembling. The engine was dead. But she'd done it.
She won.
And she knew… the Eight Six had given her everything it had.
Everything.
Minutes after the chaotic, spiraling finish, the entire Team Speed Stars poured onto the mountain pass, the silence of the forest shattered by the hum of idling engines, scattered cheers, and the sound of crunching gravel under countless feet. The crowd swelled from all corners of Mount Yougou—veteran racers, newcomers, Inazuma locals who had braved the cold mist just to witness history.
Collei stood beside her battered Eight Six. The familiar silhouette of the AE86, now scarred and leaking life, leaned slightly as if the car itself was slumped in exhaustion. Oil trickled in heavy drips from the destroyed engine bay, pooling beneath the cracked undercarriage, its scent thick and acrid in the damp mountain air. The pristine white fenders were no longer unblemished—long black streaks, heat-blistered patches, and flecks of carbon marked every inch. The windshield was glazed with oil spray and fine chipping, as if the engine had tried to claw its way through the glass in its final scream.
Albedo approached from the edge of the crowd, hands shoved deep into his lab coat pockets, his brow knit in quiet guilt.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. "I shouldn't have let you run the strategy all the way through. Not with that RPM ceiling. I should've stopped you."
Collei wiped a smear of oil off her temple with the back of her hand, then gave him a faint, tired smile. Her voice was hoarse from adrenaline and exhaust. "No… you warned me. I knew the risks. I'm the one who buried the pedal and held it there. I pushed the engine past its limit… past the redline, past the scale. It was my choice. I just didn't think it would actually climb off the fucking dial."
Albedo looked down at the engine bay, nodding slowly.
Ningguang stepped up beside them, her white blazer immaculate despite the dust in the air. Her sharp gaze flicked between Collei and the mangled Eight Six. "You clutched in right after the blowout," she observed. "There was no hesitation. That wasn't reflex, it was pure instinct. Years of experience etched into muscle memory."
Collei looked at her hands—grease-streaked, trembling slightly from the aftermath—and then back at Ningguang. "It wasn't just experience," she murmured. "It was… more than that. It was like the car knew what I needed. Like it gave everything for me in those last few seconds. I didn't save it—it saved me."
She exhaled deeply and turned away from the car, her gaze settling on Clorinde.
The blonde stood near her Lancia, arms crossed, the front quarter-panel still scraped from the earlier contact. Her violet eyes locked with Collei's, unreadable, waiting.
Collei took a step forward, then another. Her voice was firm but calm. "Clorinde. I know I crossed the line first… but there's something I need to say."
Clorinde tilted her head, one eyebrow raised. "What's that?"
Collei glanced over her shoulder at Ningguang, who met her eyes and nodded once—silent approval, not from a team leader, but from a former rival who understood what this moment meant. Collei turned back, voice steady.
"I call this race a draw."
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like a gust of wind. Clorinde's eyes widened.
"A… a draw?" she repeated, voice almost disbelieving. "You won, Collei. You crossed the finish line first. That's not something you give up lightly."
Collei shook her head slowly. "This isn't about numbers. We pushed each other to the edge, and in the end, neither of us crossed that line intact. I didn't say this for your record, or pity. I said it because… this fight wasn't really ours. It started with our fathers. It consumed them, and for too long, we carried that fire like it was ours to bear. But we're not them. And tonight proved something bigger than just who's faster on a downhill."
She looked out at the watching racers, at the fresh generation, the ones who had only heard stories of the feud between Arlecchino and Clorinde's father. "We proved there are two true Touge Specialists in Inazuma. This doesn't need to be about revenge or legacy anymore. Let it end here."
Clorinde's eyes wavered. The edges of her mouth tightened. Somewhere behind her eyes, a voice echoed—her father's, rasped with age and regret.
"This rivalry should have ended years ago. It's time, my daughter. End it."
She took a sharp breath, blinking hard, then lifted a hand and pressed her fingers briefly to the bridge of her nose. When she lowered it, she was smiling—just a little, just enough.
"Then let's end it," she said, stepping forward. "With this handshake, we call it a draw—and close the chapter on our fathers' feud."
Their hands met, fingers gripping tight—not just in sportsmanship, but in shared understanding. A peace offering between warriors who had bled for more than just victory.
The crowd erupted. Cheers roared through the mountaintop, louder than any engine that night. It wasn't about who won or lost anymore. It was about respect.
From the fringe of the crowd, Arlecchino stood alone, arms folded, smoke curling from a fresh cigarette between her lips. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the handshake… and for once, a smile ghosted across her face.
"You've made me proud, Collei," she muttered, just loud enough for the wind to hear. "You've done what I couldn't. You ended the war… and proved you're not just fast—you're fucking exceptional."
Collei and Clorinde turned to face the roaring crowd together, fingers still locked. With their free hands, they raised their arms high—two silhouettes against the starlit sky, unified in a single, defiant gesture:
Number One.
For Team Speed Stars, this wasn't just a win.
It was the victory.