Like Sherlock Holmes' legendary Mind Palace, Roan had reconstructed the entirety of the Suzuka Circuit within his consciousness.
He had manually laid every curb, calibrated the velocity of every crosswind, and precisely calculated the track temperature fluctuations caused by passing clouds. Most obsessively, his mental world refused "fast-forwarding." To maintain absolute realism, his internal simulation ran in real-time. One second in the real world was exactly one second on his internal chronometer.
He had even modeled a comprehensive data panel for himself. When away from a rig, Roan liked to pull up his driver profile—a translucent, ice-blue interface of telemetry and stats that materialized with a faint, imagined chime.
One-Lap Pace: S-Rank
Validated by an iRating of 6000+ and a 70% Pole-to-Win ratio over the past year.
Tire Management: S-Rank
He possessed an uncanny ability to bleed life from a set of tires along a perfect linear decay curve throughout a stint.
Race Strategy: SS-Rank
The previous season at Spa was his masterpiece. Starting 17th after a disastrous qualifying, he navigated a drying track by exploiting yellow flags and pit windows. He executed three precise undercuts to slice through the field, ultimately taking the checkered flag from the lead.
Racecraft/Battling: A-Rank
His mind could calculate an opponent's trajectory and predict defensive movements with terrifying accuracy.
Physical Fitness: C-Rank
Roan knew professional racing demanded elite athleticism, but as a sim-racer, he lacked a benchmark. He could handle a four-hour Nürburgring endurance stint with a steady heart rate of 120, so he deemed "C" a fair, if generous, self-assessment.
Finally, there was his track familiarity. Suzuka: 99%. Nordschleife: 99%.
Roan was honest with himself. Data was data. To a driver, lying to oneself was the ultimate sin. But this level of constant mental computation came at a cost: it ravaged his blood sugar. He wasn't just a fan of sweets; he was a sugar addict by necessity. Without a constant supply of glucose, his magnificent virtual world would collapse into static.
He took another long pull of his lukewarm Coke.
At the front of the room, the English teacher felt a wave of profound helplessness. Her students were either wealthy heirs who viewed education as an optional accessory or freaks like Roan—prodigies who aced physics but couldn't be bothered to conjugate a verb. She sighed, praying for the final bell.
The school day ended with a quiet fade. Near the gate, the scent of grilled sausages from a street stall cut through the humid afternoon air. Zack slung a heavy arm over Roan's shoulder, rubbing the red welt on his forehead where the chalk had hit.
"Ignore Jax and those clowns," Zack muttered. "They don't know jack. Max did turn in late. I had to watch the replay five times to see it, and you caught it in a noisy classroom. That's pure talent."
As Roan's only true friend, Zack harbored a near-religious belief in Roan's racing genius. After all, Roan had boosted Zack's iRating into the stratosphere—though Zack usually managed to tank it back down to a miserable 800 within a week of flying solo.
"Tomorrow's Saturday, my birthday," Zack said, leaning in like a spy trading state secrets. "My family just took over a karting circuit out in Nanshan. A bunch of people from class are going. You in?"
Zack's eyes darted around. "My dad's out of the country, so I can actually go wild. Usually, they won't even let me touch a bumper car. But tomorrow? It's the only Grade-A national track in the province. You have to come."
Roan shook his head, his body swaying limply with Zack's movements. "No money. No energy. I have a league race tonight."
"Don't give me that," Zack urged. "It's on the house. Plus, my family is running a grand opening promotion. Fastest lap of the day gets a five-thousand-dollar cash prize."
Roan's pace slowed, but he didn't stop. Five thousand was a lot, but was it worth breaking his "energy-saving" routine?
"And," Zack dropped the hammer, "if you win, I'll give you that RTX 3090 I just swapped out."
Roan stopped chewing.
The world went silent. The shouting students, the honking cars, the sizzle of the sausage stand—it all vanished. Even the Suzuka simulation in his brain paused on the start-finish straight.
In its place was a mental image of his bedroom: a cheap Logitech G29 wheel that rattled like a tractor, and an aging GTX 1060 that struggled to maintain 60 frames at 1440p on the lowest settings. "Low settings" meant no shadows, no track detail, and—most importantly—micro-stutters that could make him miss a braking point by centimeters.
But a 3090...
That meant Ray Tracing. 4K at 144Hz. A triple-monitor setup. That was the ultimate solution. That was worth a dozen five-thousand-dollar prizes.
Roan's family wasn't poor, but his modest allowance was a black hole. He had chosen to spend every cent on iRacing's exorbitant ecosystem—laser-scanned tracks and high-fidelity cars—rather than hardware. He wasn't a gear snob; a true master didn't blame his blade. But he wouldn't say no to a sharper one.
Zack saw it then—the shift. Roan's "dead fish" eyes, usually half-lidded and glazed, suddenly ignited. It was the look he only got when the five red lights went out on his screen. Intense, greedy, and absolutely focused.
Roan's slouch vanished. He stood tall, his spine straightening to its full, rarely seen height. He grabbed Zack's arm with a grip that made the other boy wince.
"Saturday. What time?"
"Ten... ten AM," Zack stammered, startled by the sudden aura.
"Fine."
Roan released him, and the sharp intensity evaporated instantly. He slumped back into his lethargic, power-saving mode.
"I don't have a license, though. Closed circuit only."
Zack rubbed his sore arm, grinning like a madman. His birthday was shaping up to be perfect. "It's a karting track, man! You don't need a license for a competitive circuit! I'll see you tomorrow, Legend."
Zack hopped into a waiting Maybach, still waving as the car pulled away.
Roan watched him go, his mind already calculating the torque curve of a 125cc shifter kart.