The camera cut back to the Sentul main straight, the grid shimmering under the tropical sun. The commentators' voices swelled with energy as the cars rolled into their slots, engines growling in anticipation. Mechanics stepped back, grid girls and photographers cleared the track, and the lights above the start gantry flickered to red one by one.
Inside the Hugo Speed pit, everyone from both crews had gathered around the screen. The weight of the moment pressed in on them. This wasn't just a support event or a local club race, they were watching the opening round of one of the world's most brutal and prestigious touring championships.
"Here we go…" Hugo muttered under his breath.
Five red lights glowed. The noise rose to a deafening crescendo. Then, in a blink, they went out.
The grid erupted. Engines screamed, tires squealed, and a river of cars surged forward into Turn 1. But even as the front-runners tucked in for the first sweeping bend, one machine lagged behind, shaking violently. Its launch was disastrous.
The broadcast cameras quickly caught it—the infamous experimental build that had attracted attention since practice. The twin-engine car, a curious contraption forced to run two powerplants because of regulations, had failed at the most critical moment.
Smoke plumed from the rear as one engine misfired and coughed violently. The second tried to compensate, jerking the car awkwardly, but the synchronization was off. The two powertrains fought each other rather than working together. Within seconds, both choked to silence. The machine rolled helplessly to the side of the track, mechanics rushing to push it behind the barriers.
"That was inevitable," Hugo said flatly, folding his arms. "Two hearts in one body… never a good idea. Not in this climate."
Simon nodded grimly. "One fails, the other pulls it apart. Synchronization's a nightmare. I'm surprised it even qualified."
The rest of the grid thundered onward, undeterred by the casualty. The race had only just begun, fifty laps stretched ahead, and already the attrition had claimed its first victim.
For the opening handful of laps, conditions held steady. The tropical sun blazed, shimmering on the asphalt. Cars jostled for position, the early laps full of aggressive overtakes as drivers tried to cement their place before the field strung itself out. The crowd in the stands roared with each daring move.
But the experienced eyes in the pits, and those watching the skies, knew better than to trust a sunny morning in Bogor.
By lap five, the first warning signs appeared. The broadcast cameras showed clouds creeping over the mountains that surrounded the valley. Dark, swollen masses rolled across the horizon, creeping toward Sentul like a silent tide.
Daichi leaned closer to the screen, his face hard. "It's coming."
Haruka glanced at him. "The rain?"
"Of course," Daichi said. "This is Sentul. The weather changes in minutes. I warned you, Rain City doesn't forgive."
True enough, by lap seven fat droplets began spattering the camera lenses. A light sprinkle at first, harmless on the straight, but deadly on the corners. Drivers began twitching, cars stepping sideways as the slick tires struggled to grip. The crowd's cheer shifted into gasps as two cars wobbled through Turn 3, narrowly avoiding contact.
Lap eight—the drizzle turned to rain. Sheets of water cascaded down, hitting the tarmac like a drumbeat. Within a lap, puddles formed in the braking zones, and spray plumed behind every car. Visibility plummeted.
The pit lane lit up with frantic activity. Crews scrambled with tire guns and wet compounds, radios buzzed with orders. The majority of the field darted in for wets, mechanics leaping to life in choreographed chaos. The screen split into multiple views, showing car after car diving into pit boxes, their teams working with the precision of surgeons under pressure.
But not everyone came in.
A handful of drivers stayed out, gambling that the rain would ease. They danced across the streaming track, steering with the faintest touches, tires screaming as the cars aquaplaned. It was a gamble, and on live broadcast, it looked both daring and foolish.
Simon shook his head. "Madness. You can't muscle through rain like this on slicks."
Hugo only smirked faintly. "Some think they can. Pride blinds them."
Izamuri leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen. He wasn't in the race, but his pulse quickened all the same. Every slide, every twitch of the cars reminded him of kart days in sudden downpours, of the way a single mistake could send him spinning. He knew firsthand the razor's edge these drivers were treading.
By lap ten, the gap between the strategies was clear. Those who switched to wets immediately began clawing through the field. They had grip, traction, and confidence in the corners. Meanwhile, the slick-shod gamblers skated helplessly. They tiptoed through braking zones, sliding wide at hairpins, ceding time at every turn.
The broadcast commentators grew animated. "This is exactly the Sentul curse!" one exclaimed. "You never underestimate the weather here! Those who stayed out are losing seconds per sector. seconds!"
And still, some refused to pit. Pride, desperation, or sheer stubbornness kept them out. One car nearly spun exiting Turn 6, water splashing high as it corrected with violent oversteer. Another clipped the curb at Turn 9 and slewed sideways, narrowly avoiding the gravel.
The audience in the Hugo Speed pit was transfixed. Nikolai clenched his fists, muttering in Russian under his breath every time a driver slid dangerously close to disaster. Rin leaned forward, his mouth half open, as though willing the cars to keep control.
By lap twelve, the rain had fully settled into a steady downpour. The pit lane was calmer now, the initial frenzy subsided, but the track itself had transformed. Rivers ran across the asphalt, spray hung thick in the air, and every braking zone became a test of faith.
Those who had pitted early now surged forward. They sliced past the slick-tire holdouts, one by one, as if overtaking parked traffic. The decision was clear—early wets had been the right call.
But the damage was already done for the gamblers. They had lost too much ground, their lap times shredded by seconds upon seconds. Even if they stopped now, the deficit might be impossible to recover.
Daichi gave a small, almost satisfied nod. "Sentul punishes arrogance."
Hugo didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the unfolding battle near the front. Cars darted, aquaplaning through Turn 1, rooster tails of spray rising high. The television microphones struggled to pick up anything but the roar of rain against carbon fiber shells.
For the next laps, survival became the priority. The broadcast shifted from overtakes to incidents—cars sliding wide, drivers correcting at impossible angles, marshals waving yellow flags for spinners stranded in run-off zones. The chaos of tropical rain had claimed more than one hopeful already, but the race thundered on.
By lap fifteen, the commentators announced that the rain radar predicted no relief. It would be a wet race to the end. The gamble on slicks had failed completely.
"Endurance now," Hugo murmured, almost to himself. "This is no longer about speed—it's about who can survive the storm."
The G-Force crew sat in silence, eyes glued to the broadcast. They weren't on the track, but they could feel the tension, the knife-edge pressure of a world-class battle under impossible conditions. For Izamuri especially, it was more than a broadcast—it was a glimpse into the arena he longed to step into, a vision of the chaos, danger, and glory that awaited him.
By the time the race ticked over into lap forty, the rain hadn't let up for a single moment. Sheets of water still pelted down from the thick Bogor clouds, turning the tarmac into a shimmering mirror of gray. Spray filled the air so heavily that cars vanished in and out of sight like ghosts, and visibility in the cockpit could not have been more than a few meters.
The broadcast commentators kept their voices high, straining to match the atmosphere. "Ten laps to go! This has been survival from the very start—one of the most grueling opening rounds we've seen in years!"
The pit crews shown on screen were on edge. Radio chatter buzzed across the graphics feed as team engineers reminded their drivers to manage tire temperatures, brake wear, and to keep calm through the rivers forming across the circuit. Aquaplaning was still happening, especially at the end of the straights where standing water collected.
By now, the field had stretched apart. Gaps of several seconds separated each car, and few dared to attempt risky overtakes unless they were absolutely certain. The championship points were precious—no one wanted to throw it all away this late in the game.
Daichi, leaning back in the Hugo Speed pit, muttered like he was reliving his own days at Sentul. "Forty laps in this weather? Their arms must feel like lead. You wrestle the wheel lap after lap and the car just keeps wanting to float. You don't fight it, you guide it—like sailing in a storm."
Everyone else—Haruka, Simon, Walter, even Izamuri—was too transfixed by the broadcast to reply. Their eyes stayed glued to the feed as the lap counter clicked down.
Lap 41.
Lap 42.
Lap 43.
The rain showed no sign of easing. Marshals in raincoats waved frantically at every small spin, while recovery crews stood by in trucks, ready to spring into action at the next stranded car. Despite the chaos earlier in the race, things seemed to have settled into a tense rhythm of endurance.
But Sentul, with its unpredictable character, wasn't done delivering surprises.
On lap 46, with only four laps left, the cameras abruptly cut to the back straight after the small S, leading into the big sweeping S-curves. At first it looked like another spin, but then the replay revealed the real culprit.
A massive monitor lizard. big, fat, and lumbering, had somehow wandered out from the marshland and onto the live track. Its long tail swished lazily as if it owned the place, its claws clicking against the slick asphalt.
The commentators erupted in disbelief. "What on earth—? That's a monitor lizard on track! That's huge! Easily six, seven feet long!"
Chaos followed instantly.
The first car to encounter the reptilian intruder swerved violently, clipping a puddle and spinning into the grass. The driver wrestled the wheel, but the car simply slid sideways, mud spraying as it stopped just shy of the barriers.
The second driver behind him reacted even more dramatically, jerking left in panic. His tires broke traction instantly on the wet surface, sending the car into a pirouette. A full 360-degree spin later, he somehow landed back on the tarmac facing the right direction. Without hesitation, he floored it and carried on, rooster tails of spray behind him. The crowd went wild at the sheer luck.
The third car braked too late, fishtailing across the wet grass before slamming against the wall in a shallow angle, almost like grinding a rail in skateboarding. Sparks flew as the side scraped against the concrete, before the driver managed to drag the car back onto the track, battered but still running.
And through all of this? The monitor lizard just stood there, unimpressed, tongue flicking lazily at the chaos it caused.
The broadcast cameras zoomed in, catching the surreal sight of the animal standing tall in the middle of one of the most important racing events of the year. The juxtaposition was absurd—million-dollar machines battling rain and fatigue, and now all of it disrupted by a stubborn reptile.
Then came the most astonishing moment.
A marshal, clad in a bright orange raincoat, sprinted into frame. His boots splashed through puddles as he ran down the live track, waving frantically at the oncoming cars. He made a beeline straight for the lizard, clearly deciding that the race could not go on safely with it in the middle of the straight.
The commentators were shouting over each other now. "He's going for it! The marshal's going to—oh my god, he's actually doing it!"
The man reached the lizard, grabbed it by the thick base of its tail, and with sheer desperation dragged it toward the grass. The reptile writhed furiously, twisting and clawing at the air. Its jaws snapped open in anger, tongue lashing, but the marshal held on, adrenaline carrying him through.
Incredibly, he succeeded. With one last heave, he flung the monitor lizard across the wet grass to the edge of the track, well clear of the racing line. The crowd erupted in cheers, the broadcast capturing every second of the daring rescue.
But the lizard wasn't done.
Landing hard on the soaked earth, it twisted upright and turned its fury toward the nearest object—the marshal post. Hissing angrily, it charged, claws digging deep into the mud. The marshals stationed there scrambled backward, some climbing onto the barrier, others grabbing brooms and sticks to defend themselves. The absurdity of the scene sent half the grandstands into laughter and the other half into gasps of disbelief.
Meanwhile, the race raged on. Yellow flags waved furiously through the sector, warning drivers of the incident. Cars slowed just enough to avoid further chaos but still kept their pace, the spray and roar drowning out the commotion at the marshal post.
Daichi pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering. "I told you. Sentul's wildlife never forgives. Lizards, snakes… it's their land, not ours."
Izamuri could only shake his head, half in disbelief, half in awe. "A marshal just dragged a monitor lizard by its tail. I… I don't even know what to say."
Haruka chuckled, though he kept his eyes on the screen. "That guy deserves a medal."
The commentators echoed the sentiment, calling the moment one of the most bizarre interruptions in modern touring racing. The broadcast replayed the incident multiple times, showing the lizard's unexpected appearance, the drivers' frantic reactions, and the marshal's heroic effort. Social media was already exploding—memes and clips being shared worldwide before the race had even finished.
As the field regrouped after the chaos, the final laps loomed. Lap 47. Then 48. The rain still poured, the track glistened under the gray sky, and the crowd buzzed with restless energy after what they had just witnessed.
The monitor lizard had been safely lured away by the marshals, who used long poles and sheer persistence to drive it toward the swampy edges beyond the barriers. But the story of the race had already shifted. It was no longer just about who would win—it was about surviving not just the rain and the rivals, but Sentul's untamed wilderness itself.
The closing stages promised more drama, but for now, the cameras lingered once more on the drenched, mud-stained marshal who had risked everything to clear the track. His raincoat was torn, his hands filthy, but he raised a thumb toward the grandstands, earning a deafening cheer from the Indonesian crowd.
Daichi smiled faintly for the first time in a long while. "That's Sentul. Brutal, unpredictable, and unforgettable."
Lap 49 ticked into view on the screen. Then the 50th and last ticked in a few minutes later, and every car that survived this far was on edge, engines straining, wipers thrashing, tires worn thin yet clinging desperately to the drenched asphalt.
Through the broadcast feed, the camera followed the leading pack thundering past the grandstand. Their headlights pierced through the fog, and the roar of the engines blended into a single, primal howl. The commentators' voices were nearly drowned out by the sound.
"Final lap! This is it — fifty laps of endurance, rain, and chaos, and it all comes down to this! The top two cars are side by side into Turn 1!"
The two lead cars — one of them a scarlet GT86, the other a blue Porsche 911 — splashed through the corner, each driver throwing everything into the final push. Behind them, the rest of the field followed in a staggering blur of motion, cars slipping, correcting, some still fighting for whatever position they could salvage.
Every corner was a gamble. Puddles deep enough to swallow a front bumper waited at every braking zone, and drivers had to rely on instinct more than sight. Even the commentary booth went quiet for a moment — just the sound of engines, rain, and screeching tires filled the screen.
"Unbelievable! Look at that GT86 — he's holding the inside! The Porsche's trying to cut back!"
The GT86 darted through the final chicane, spraying a wall of mist that blinded the car behind. The Porsche tried to swing wide to gain traction, but it was too late. The GT86 launched out of the corner, rear sliding slightly, front wheels countering the drift as it accelerated onto the main straight.
The checkered flag waved. The GT86 crossed the line — victorious.
The crowd erupted. The Toyota team crew members were already jumping, cheering, hugging, waving their flags proudly as the rain fell harder, as if to salute their triumph. The commentators' voices soared with excitement.
"The Toyota GT86 takes the win at Sentul! What a finish! Against all odds, in the pouring rain, a brilliant display of driving mastery!"
Daichi smirked faintly, crossing his arms. "Heh. Toyota still knows how to win in the rain, huh? Brings back memories."
Walter leaned on the wall near the screen. "That was brutal. I'm amazed any of them made it through without aquaplaning into orbit."
The others laughed lightly. The tension that had filled the room for the past hour and a half finally eased. Hugo leaned forward from his folding chair, grabbed the remote, and shut off the TV. The pit garage fell quiet, leaving only the faint hum of cooling fans and the soft patter of wind against the open pit shutters.
He stood up, stretching his arms. "Alright, everyone, that's that. Five in the evening already. Let's pack up and head out before the traffic gets bad. We've been sitting here for two hours — time to move."
His crew immediately went into action. The sounds of clattering tools, tire trolleys, and hydraulic jacks filled the air again as the Hugo Speed mechanics began clearing up their pit space. Hugo walked toward Daichi and his group, who were standing nearby. "You guys heading back to the hotel too?"
Daichi nodded. "Yeah. We've got to check out early. The plan was to leave around six, and the sun's already starting to dip."
The golden rays of the late afternoon sun slanted through the open pit shutters, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Outside, Fuji Speedway glowed orange, the mountains in the distance wrapped in mist. The weather here was calm, the complete opposite of the tempest they'd just witnessed on TV.
Hugo smiled, wiping his hands with a rag before tossing it over his shoulder. "It's been great watching with you guys. Never thought a casual RWC watch party would end up like a classroom lecture about international racing."
"Your explanations were worth more than half the rulebook," Haruka replied, smirking as he stacked folding chairs. "At least now I finally understand how the feeder and pre-season system works."
"Still doesn't make it sound less complicated," Walter added with a chuckle.
Hugo shrugged playfully. "Well, that's motorsport bureaucracy for you."
As the G-Force crew began to gather their belongings, Hugo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of cards. He handed one each to Izamuri, Haruka, and Daichi.
"My contact number," he said simply. "If you ever need help — parts, logistics, even transport advice — give me a call. I've got some good connections in Europe and Japan. Never know when that might come in handy."
Daichi accepted it with a faint smile, glancing at the card. "You sure about this? Helping a potential rival team?"
Hugo laughed softly. "Competition's good. But helping each other out makes the whole sport stronger. Besides…" — he looked at Izamuri with a grin — "I get the feeling you guys will make things interesting this season."
Izamuri gave a modest nod, pocketing the card. "I'll keep that in mind."
Hugo's blue eyes softened a bit, showing genuine respect. "You did great out there today. Fourth place in your debut? That's no small feat. Keep that fire. You'll go far."
The two shook hands, a gesture that carried both friendship and rivalry.
By now, the G-Force pit was completely cleared. Their EK9 sat neatly secured on the flatbed towing truck, strapped down tight with the team's white tarp covering the exposed body. The rest of their equipment was already packed inside the Toyota Hiace.
The twins were the last to finish, arguing quietly about who misplaced the torque wrench again. Rin leaned against the door of the van, half-listening, half-staring at the glowing horizon.
The circuit around them was emptying out fast. Teams that had stayed to watch the RWC broadcast were now wrapping up, while track marshals began their rounds, checking the paddock before closing access for the evening.
Hugo's crew waved goodbye as Daichi's team rolled their carts out to the loading area. The mutual respect between the two teams was clear — rivals on track, but friends off it.
The engines roared to life one by one.
Walter's Mercedes-Benz 190E started first, the deep burble of the tuned four-cylinder echoing softly through the empty paddock. Hana and Ayaka climbed in, with Izamuri taking the passenger seat beside Walter.
Behind them, the Toyota Hiace rumbled as Nikolai took the driver's seat, Rin beside him, and the twins plus Takamori crammed into the back.
Haruka's Corolla E101 started next, its smooth idle humming beside the others. Daichi sat in the passenger seat, glancing back toward the fading sunlight. Simon, as usual, sat quietly in the back seat with his cap low, arms crossed, watching the others prepare.
The last vehicle in the convoy — the flatbed tow truck — rolled out slowly, carrying the G-Force EK9 like a wounded warrior heading home after battle.
The convoy formed up neatly at the pit exit road. The golden light reflected off the wet asphalt from earlier washing, creating a picturesque glow across the Fuji Speedway paddock. The air was calm, still, and peaceful — a sharp contrast to the stormy chaos of the Sentul race they had just witnessed.
As they began rolling toward the exit, Daichi looked out the window from Haruka's car, the 190E and Hiace ahead of them, and the truck trailing behind. His expression hardened slightly, his thoughts distant.
The convoy was heading back to the Fuji Speedway Hotel, a short drive away from the circuit. The engines hummed softly, the atmosphere inside the cars relaxed, though tinged with quiet fatigue. Everyone was ready to rest after the long, eventful day.
But Daichi wasn't quite done. Something had been sitting in his mind ever since the race earlier — ever since the day's events had started. There was a question he needed to ask, something that had been bothering him ever since he saw the way Izamuri handled himself — the natural instinct, the talent, the focus, the intensity that didn't match his age or background.
As the convoy rolled down the narrow access road lined with pine trees, their headlights flickering on as dusk deepened, Daichi turned his gaze toward the car in front — Walter's 190E — and then back to Haruka.
The sky burned orange, fading slowly into deep blue as the sun touched the mountains. The Fuji Speedway Hotel glimmered faintly in the distance, lights already on.
Daichi exhaled slowly, watching the road ahead.
"Haruka," he said finally, his tone calm but serious.
Haruka glanced at him briefly, sensing the weight in his voice. "What is it?"
Daichi didn't answer right away. His eyes followed the 190E as it led the convoy up the gentle incline toward the hotel entrance. The question forming in his mind wasn't one of logistics, or racing strategy, or mechanical tuning. It was something deeper.
Something important.
As the sun vanished behind Mount Fuji, the last rays of light cut across the road like a dying flame.
And Daichi finally spoke.
"Have you ever wondered where Izamuri really came from?"