He remembered this race with nostalgia, years later. It had been his first victory in a spectacular streak of them. No one had stood a chance against him, and he had taken a five-second lead over second place.
The kart responded as he accelerated. He was somewhat excited to relive his best moments for a second time, but not as he had expected.
The engine maintained a constant hum, almost flat—a first thing a driver gets used to overcoming, as if it didn't vibrate and only existed. The hot air entered through the visor, not refreshing but accumulating across his face. Each breath allowed a thought.
He followed the circuit without trying to recall references. It had been years since he had raced on this track, and he only followed the kart ahead. Right, left, tight. He knew exactly what was coming next, yet his body seemed incapable of keeping pace with his brain.
The heartbeat in his chest began to set the rhythm, and anxiety took control of his mind.
He realized he was thinking about every movement—hands on the wheel, feet on the pedals, posture, even how to stay on the line.
Before, he had just done it.
Now, every action passed through his head first… and that made him late.
The instinct was still there. His hands knew what to do, his feet too. But he was something—a step behind himself.
On the first lap, he felt it in his arms. He wasn't yet tired, but there was a strange stiffness, as if every correction required more effort than he remembered. The wheel vibrated more intensely. His neck no longer absorbed the curves' irregularities the same way.
It's okay, he told himself. It's still early.
He tried to force the pace.
He entered a tight corner more aggressively, seeking to overtake on the inside. The kart slid just a little too much. Nothing serious, but enough to lose speed on the exit. The boy ahead closed the trajectory naturally and pulled away.
Nicolas gritted his teeth.
He looked ahead, remembering why he had won so easily last time. He searched for references, just as he had done in previous years. He sought the exact point where that ghost should guide him.
Nothing. No invisible guidance, only his own judgment failing him as it had so many times before.
He remained in third.
Behind him, he heard engines approaching.
On the long straight, one of the boys passed him on the outside with a clean, contact-free maneuver. Nicolas tried to respond at the next braking zone but arrived half a meter late. The kart didn't turn as he wanted. He lost another tenth—a pattern repeated every lap.
Focus.
He took a deep breath inside the helmet. Adjusted his posture. Relaxed his shoulders.
It worked… a little.
He managed to stay with them. He fought. Defended position with correct lines, closing gaps without making mistakes. It wasn't a disaster, and his defensive experience was helping him, but it didn't make him feel better.
Each lap was heavier than the last, and his body demanded rest.
His neck began to burn. His forearms stiffened. Vibrations ran up his wrists like needles. The boys ahead seemed not to feel it.
He watched them trace repeated precision for their age, lap after lap, without losing rhythm. They did nothing spectacular. They were simply consistent. Something that clearly surpassed him despite his knowledge.
That was what hurt the most.
He tried to overtake again, this time risking more. He braked late, forced the wheel, felt the kart protest. For a second, he thought he could make it.
It wasn't so.
He lost traction. Had to correct. And his moment slipped away like the previous ones.
—Shit… —he murmured inside the helmet.
Fourth place began to feel like a struggle, not a safe position. Every corner was defense. Every straight, resistance.
He wasn't losing because his body was different from what he was used to, but because this was the limit of his talent—a reality he had discovered after many years.
The last lap came without glory.
He crossed the finish line in fourth, breathing hard, body tense, mind strangely clear.
He removed his helmet slowly.
There was no rage. Only the understanding that his era of glory would no longer come as it had in the past.
The ghost hadn't appeared because it was never a tool. It was never something he could demand. It had been a crutch… and he had built an entire identity around it.
He looked at the track one last time.
If I want to win…
If I want to be a driver, I can't depend on luck or chance like I have in the past.
It will have to be because of me.
As he was about to step out of the kart, something began to shine beneath his chest, and he saw his coin illuminate under his suit.
Evaluation complete.
[Reading host information… please wait…]
[Successfully read!]
[Name: Nicolas Hale
Age: 14
Overall Rating: F
Endurance: 15
Mentality: 25
Agility: 13
Strength: 12
Reflexes: 15
Spatial Memory: 29
Race IQ: 17
Mechanical Intuition: 16]
Nicolas looked up, somewhat surprised by all the information appearing before his eyes and the data being constantly transmitted.
He had always liked gambling; in fact, he had become addicted, just as he had with alcohol. But now he knew that rewards don't fall from the sky, and even if they did, he didn't want to rely on them as he had before. He felt disoriented by this sudden system.
After a moment of shock, Nicolas felt a wild surge of joy in his heart, adrenaline spiking and dopamine flooding him like gasoline.
To the point that his hands, gripping the wheel tightly, began to tremble uncontrollably.
But Qin Miao also knew that even with the system, it wasn't guaranteed he could secure an F1 seat.
Jokingly, an official F1 driver seat is harder to obtain than the presidency of a country, since there are only twenty official F1 drivers worldwide, but over a hundred presidents.
Becoming an F1 driver not only requires high-level skills but also sufficient support. After all, his family could only afford to take him to F3 after a series of debts that caused them to lose the family business. Thinking of this quickly poured cold water on Nicolas's growing vanity and inner excitement, cooling him rapidly.
Nicolas thought for a moment and stepped out of the kart.
He didn't let the excitement of gaining the system make him floor the accelerator and go all out. After all, that was what had happened in the past—trusting things that weren't his and relying on them.
Perhaps Nicolas had been a complete idiot, and few insults would describe him perfectly, but he had solid knowledge of everything happening in the racing world.
He had seen boys three times as talented as him without the opportunity to drive in any major competition. It wasn't just talent and effort that got you ahead, but money and connections.
For now, he would take his time; there were more important things.
His family was waiting on the other side of the fence. His mother applauded as if she had witnessed a victory.
And, for the first time in a long time, Nicolas thought that maybe… losing in some things wasn't as bitter as he had believed, as tears of happiness filled his eyes while he ran toward his family.