Roan watched Zack's intentionally mercenary act, and the tension in his jaw finally began to thaw. If this were a handout, he would rather starve. But a business arrangement? That was a logic he could respect.
"Fine. Talk to him," Roan said, his voice flat and concise. He pushed the black-gold card across the table toward Zack.
Justin beamed, looking as delighted as a child who had just won a prize.
"But I have one condition," Marcus interrupted, stepping into the conversation like a player jumping back into a poker game. He arrived holding two professional full-carbon fiber helmets, tossing one directly into Roan's chest.
"The four-stroke was a toy," Marcus said, pointing toward a red beast partially covered by a tarp in the back of the garage. "Want to try something real? Rotax DD2. Two-stroke. 34 horsepower."
The awkwardness of the money talk vanished instantly from Roan's mind. Two-stroke. This was the M9-grade Wagyu he had been craving.
"A four-stroke has the acceleration of a delivery scooter," Marcus teased. "But this Rotax DD2... it has 34 horsepower, a two-speed gearbox, and extreme weight reduction. The chassis weighs only 30 kilograms. Its power-to-weight ratio beats a Bugatti."
Marcus's mouth curled into a provocative smirk. "Beat me, and I'll be your coach for free. If you lose, you listen to everything I say from now on. Deal?"
Roan ran his hand over the smooth, impossibly light surface of the carbon helmet. So no matter who wins, you're sticking your nose in, he thought. He stood up, a dormant intensity waking up in his slender frame.
"I don't need a coach," Roan said, a ghost of a smile appearing. "But I do need a sparring partner."
Ten minutes later. The track was cleared.
Two red machines sat side-by-side on the starting grid. The rules were simple: five laps. First one across the line wins.
Roan chose the inside line—the "dirty" side of the track. The grip would be lower, but it gave him the tactical advantage for the first corner. To an outsider, these karts looked similar to the rentals, but to a connoisseur, the idling sound was worlds apart. The four-stroke had been a dull chug-chug-chug like a tractor. This two-stroke was a sharp, high-frequency whine, a scream like a high-end racing bike.
If the rental kart felt like sitting in a massage chair, the Rotax DD2 felt like sitting on a washing machine during a high-speed spin cycle. Everything vibrated. Roan's vision even blurred slightly from the tremors.
Before the race had even begun, his stamina bar was already ticking down.
My fitness isn't D-Rank, Roan realized, taking a steadying breath. It's D-Minus. He couldn't afford a long battle. He had to end this quickly.
Justin stood in the center of the track, the starting flag raised high. It dropped.
VROOOOM—!
Twin plumes of blue smoke erupted from the exhausts. The pungent scent of racing oil filled the air. The sudden surge of acceleration was so violent it momentarily clouded Roan's vision. It wasn't a gradual buildup; it felt like someone had delivered a brutal kick to his spine.
The front end was hyper-responsive. The moment he flicked the wheel, the tires snapped toward the apex.
So this is professional power, Roan thought, a grim, jagged smile forming under his visor. Fast. Too fast.
Within seconds, both drivers instinctively performed the "Human DRS" maneuver—tucking their heads, hunching their chests, and leaning forward to minimize drag. The landscape became a smear of gray and green. Turn 1 rushed toward them as if the track itself was being pulled toward the kart.
A normal person would have slammed the brakes out of pure terror. Roan didn't.
Every inch of the 1.2-kilometer circuit was already modeled in his Mind Palace. He could find the braking point with his eyes closed.
20 meters to T1. This was where the daggers came out. Late braking.
10 meters. 9. 8. Brake!
Roan and Marcus stomped the pedals simultaneously. The karts dived into the corner side-by-side. Roan sucked in a lungful of air and held it, bracing for the impact of physics.
Downshift. Turn.
A massive lateral G-force slammed his body toward the left side of the seat. He braced his hips and used the steering rim for leverage, barely maintaining his posture. The entire corner was an anaerobic struggle.
His hands and feet, however, didn't hesitate. He adjusted the nose, straightened the wheels, and floored it.
Because Roan held the inside line, Marcus was pinned to the outside. By the classic rules of wheel-to-wheel combat, Roan "owned" the apex. Unless Marcus wanted a terminal collision, his only choice was to lift and yield the racing line.
Roan squeezed out a half-car-length lead. It wasn't an easy win, but he had leveraged the rules and his mental model to perfection.
Out of the corner, they hit a short straight. In his peripheral vision, Roan saw Marcus doing something strange—his body was rhythmic, rocking back and forth in the seat. Humping. The karting trick to manually assist the engine's pickup.
Roan didn't copy it. He was too busy trying to breathe. He gasped for oxygen, trying to refill his lungs before the next corner hit. Every apex was now a high-G, zero-oxygen battle.
Marcus was hounding him, but the professional found himself in an embarrassing position. Even with the "humping" and his years of experience, he was being slowly pulled apart. Roan's inputs—the surgical braking and the infinitesimal steering corrections—were easy to see on a screen, but nearly impossible to replicate in the heat of a 3-G turn.
They reached T14—the final right-hand hairpin.
This was a strategic corner. The apex was barely 15 meters from the finish line, followed by the 250-meter main straight. It was a classic "exit-priority" turn. You had to sacrifice entry speed, take a wide line, and clip a late apex to get the car straight as early as possible.
Both drivers executed it perfectly, maximizing their exit velocity for the next lap.
Second lap. Roan was still in the lead.
But internally, the alarms were screaming. Every heavy braking zone felt like his neck was about to snap. Every turn sent his ribs crashing against the unyielding fiberglass seat. His stamina bar was plummeting at 1% per second in the corners. His pace was beginning to sag.
Third lap. The crisis arrived.