As the night deepens, the mountain breathes tension with every gust of wind. Cold air presses down, dense and heavy, carrying the scent of oil, hot rubber, and the looming violence of speed. At the summit's start line, two machines idle in the darkness—waiting. On one side, the Subaru WRX STI growls with the clipped aggression of a coiled animal, turbo whining under its breath. On the other, the Lancia Rally 037, raw and angry, snarls like something half-wild and barely contained.
Clorinde steps out of the Lancia, boots thudding against the worn asphalt. The gravel crunches beneath her heels as she walks with silent confidence, like she owns the road beneath her feet. No pretense. No fanfare. Just purpose. She stops a few paces from the front bumper of the Subaru.
Heizou steps out just as the wind cuts through the trees again. His expression is unreadable, calm to the point of irritating, like the storm hasn't even touched him yet. But his eyes—his eyes are sharp, calculating. He strolls forward, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, body language easy, but there's tension in the way he moves—like a boxer waiting for the bell.
They meet in the middle. Clorinde extends her hand.
"I'm Clorinde. Nice to meet you," she says, voice flat and clipped, no room for bullshit.
Heizou shakes it without hesitation, his grip firm, steady. "Shikanoin Heizou. The pleasure's mine."
The handshake is short, professional—but charged, like a low-voltage current humming between two apex predators sizing each other up before the kill. No words follow. They turn and head back without a glance behind.
Clorinde's smirk flickers under the moonlight as she reaches for the Lancia's door. She mutters to herself, low and deliberate, "I'm not going easy on you. I'm ending this in the first round..."
She slides into the seat, slamming the door shut with a metallic crack that echoes down the mountain like the crack of a rifle. The cabin is stripped and bare—no carpet, no sound insulation, just raw metal and exposed wiring. She reaches up and yanks the harness over her shoulders, cinching the belts tight across her hoodie and jeans. No helmet. No gloves. Just her and the machine.
Her eyes lock onto the road ahead—dark, winding, unpredictable. The kind of road where only fools or gods dared to test their limits.
Knock knock.
A sudden rap on the polycarbonate window cuts through the silence. She turns her head, sees Ningguang leaning in. Clorinde slides open the small window.
"Remember, Clorinde," Ningguang says, voice soft but sharp like a blade in velvet. Her golden eyes gleam under the fluorescent glow from the summit lights. "Don't do anything reckless."
Clorinde's gaze hardens. "I know. I'll finish this battle in the first round."
Ningguang rests her palm on the roof of the Lancia. Her voice lowers. "Then do it. Good luck."
Clorinde slides the hatch shut and inhales, deep and slow. Her fingers find the ignition toggle. Click.
The Lancia's engine roars to life, high-strung and feral, vibrating through the frame like a living thing. She stabs the throttle once—BWAHHH!—the supercharged four-cylinder snarling with venom, exhaust barking through straight-cut pipes that spit heat and sound like gunfire.
Across the line, Heizou answers with a flick of his wrist. The Subaru's flat-four growls back, its anti-lag spitting sharp pops as he blips the throttle—rapid, clean, aggressive.
In the Subaru's cockpit, Heizou wraps his fingers around the leather wheel, white-knuckling the grip as he exhales through his nose. His eyes narrow to slits, fixed on the descending black ribbon of pavement ahead.
"Let's go," he whispers.
BANG.
The flag drops, and they're off.
Heizou dumps the clutch with precision, AWD grip launching the WRX like a slingshot. The car claws at the pavement, tires shrieking as boost hits hard and fast. The tail squirms for half a second, then stabilizes. It's violent, clean, and efficient.
Clorinde reacts instantly, feeding throttle with ruthless finesse. The 037 kicks sideways off the line, the rear tires spinning up before finally biting. She feather-clutches through the shift into second, then third, the rally gearbox whining like a banshee. The Lancia screams through the gears, her supercharged mill singing right to the redline. She doesn't chase—she hunts. The gap closes fast.
First corner. Hairpin left.
Heizou brakes late, pitching the Subaru in with a four-wheel drift—fluid and balanced. The WRX glides sideways through the apex, tail dancing wide, throttle feathered just enough to hold the slide without scrubbing too much speed.
Right behind him, Clorinde chucks the Lancia in harder. Her hands work the wheel in rapid, practiced snaps, countersteering with brutal precision. The rear tires break loose just enough—controlled chaos. The 037 hugs the same line but tighter, closer to the guardrail, closing the distance by inches.
For now, positions hold. But the pressure builds.
Farther down the course, at a tight downhill chokepoint, Feixiao and Yukong lean against the guardrail, the chill biting at their jackets. The sound of fury grows louder in the distance—two monsters screaming down the mountain.
Yukong raises an eyebrow. "You seem… distracted tonight."
Feixiao flinches. "What? Since when!?"
Yukong laughs, dry and amused. "Just a feeling. Or maybe it's Ningguang, getting under your skin again?"
Feixiao looks away, arms crossing tight over her chest. "It's not that. Something's different tonight. That Eight-Six that wrecked Feiyun's ace? I've been thinking about it. Ningguang's team is relentless."
Yukong hums, thoughtful. "You think this is part of something bigger?"
Feixiao hesitates, then nods. "That Celica that ran earlier? It belonged to one of Feiyun's top three. They're not just picking off amateurs anymore. And that Eight-Six… Collei's driving has changed. She's not just fast. She's sharp now. Deadly. Like someone trained her."
Yukong whistles. "Looks like shit's heating up."
Back on the road, the chase intensifies.
Another hairpin—tighter, nastier. Both cars throw themselves into it at the limit. Heizou keeps the WRX composed with delicate left-foot braking and precise throttle modulation, the tail stepping out, then reeling back in under his command. Clorinde, on the other hand, dives in with raw aggression, tossing the Lancia sideways with all the violence of her rally heritage. Her rear bumper kisses the guardrail—sparks fly—but she doesn't flinch.
The next turn—a sweeping left-hander. Fast, blind, with a dip mid-apex.
Heizou carries speed in, but Clorinde's already committed. She drops a gear, lets the supercharger howl, and powers through, inching closer. The Lancia's narrower profile and lighter weight give her a tighter arc. She's on his bumper now. Practically breathing down his neck.
Inside the Subaru, Heizou's jaw tightens. His mind flashes back—two nights ago, standing beside the WRX, hood propped open, tools scattered on the pavement under a streetlamp.
"You sure about this?" Xingqiu asked, gesturing to the turbo housing. "Anti-lag would keep your boost on point through the corners. Could make or break it."
Heizou had shrugged, half-smiling. "I know. But that shit kills turbos and gasses the exhaust like crazy. This car gets me to work in the morning too. I can't afford to rebuild it every month."
Xingqiu chuckled. "Daily by day, racer by night. You're pushing your luck, man."
"Maybe," Heizou said, leaning on the fender. "But that's the line I walk."
The memory fades. Reality crashes back.
Heizou tightens his grip on the wheel. The WRX shudders under full throttle. Every gearshift is clean, brutal. But behind him, the Lancia grows larger in his mirror—sharp, hungry.
Clorinde's eyes lock onto his taillights. Cold and ruthless.
"He's fast," she murmurs. "But that Subaru's got weight. It pulls on the straights, but I've got him on corner exit. He's already starting to sweat."
She shifts down, engine snarling. Her right foot hovers over the throttle like a predator poised to strike.
Up ahead, Heizou wore a wicked smirk etched across his face, knuckles whitening around the Momo steering wheel. His whole body leaned into the drive—eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, every nerve electrified. The boxer-four engine snarled beneath the hood like a beast barely caged, turbo spooling with a high-pitched whine. His heart hammered in sync with the engine's rhythm.
"This is it," he muttered through clenched teeth. "The perfect machine. A goddamn rally legend. The Impreza WRX STI… the car that conquered the world with Colin McRae at the wheel. Raw torque, razor-sharp balance, full-time AWD grip—everything I fucking need!"
His foot slammed onto the brake pedal as the next hairpin came flying toward him like a guillotine. Heel-and-toe downshift—fourth to third—engine blipped and barked. The nose dove, suspension compressing, and the rear rotated as he turned the wheel sharply into the apex. Tires screamed like tortured animals, the whole car trembling on the edge of adhesion. He modulated the throttle, feathering it with surgical precision to keep the Subaru's AWD drivetrain balanced between understeer and over-rotation.
Behind him, Clorinde's Lancia wasn't just following—she was shadowing him. Perfect mirror. Perfect form. The 037's low-slung frame practically suctioned itself to his rear bumper, supercharger howling like a banshee in heat.
They weren't racing anymore—they were waging war.
Heizou's jaw clenched as sweat rolled down his temple. "I'm not letting you past. Not tonight."
But something deeper stirred beneath his bravado. A burning, aching core that clenched around a memory.
"I'll do this for you, Thoma… For the Feiyun name."
His right foot punched the accelerator. The turbo shrieked. Boost spiked. The Subaru launched forward with a feral roar, pistons thundering as the rev needle kissed the limiter in third gear. Tires clawed at the tarmac, fighting to keep up with the monstrous torque.
But the Lancia stayed with him.
He heard it before he saw it—the guttural growl of that Italian inline-four, the spine-chilling snarl of its gear-driven supercharger. Clorinde upshifted, then again, and the gap closed. The 037 reeled him in like prey, the Group B legend baring its teeth.
A chorus of gasps erupted from the spectators lining the guardrail, the mountain trembling under the fury of twin mechanical titans.
"Holy shit! That Lancia's corner entry speed is fucked up!"
"Heizou can't drop her! It's like she's surgically latched onto him!"
Clorinde's eyes narrowed, pupils sharp as spearpoints. Her breathing slowed. Her hands stopped fighting the car—they moved with it, became part of it. And in that moment, it clicked.
"I understand your rhythm now."
The next corner loomed—a downhill left hairpin with uneven camber and shitty runoff. Heizou flicked the brake pedal—just a tap, just enough to bait a reaction. His tail swung slightly, feigning a slip.
Clorinde's eyes went wide. "You sneaky bastard."
She stabbed her brakes harder than she wanted. The Lancia's front-left locked momentarily, tires howling, the nose twitching wide—just for a heartbeat—but her hands moved like lightning, catching the car mid-skid and snapping it back into line.
Her grip tightened, forearms flexing. Her voice came through clenched teeth. "You fucker! I see your game. You're not pulling that shit again!"
She smashed the throttle. The 037 roared, surging forward like a missile. The supercharger keened at full pitch, redline flashing. Gears slammed up, one after another. Her spine sank into the bucket seat as G-forces slammed her backward.
Inside the Subaru, Heizou let out a maniacal giggle. "Hope you liked that little parting gift… I call it the braking feint!"
But then he checked the mirror.
"…What the—?!"
Twin headlights blazed behind him. The Lancia was closer than before. Way too close.
"What the hell?!"
The 037 wasn't backing down. It wasn't even giving him a car-length. It was climbing up his ass, a predator hunting its mark.
Just ahead, Feixiao stood at the outer edge of the next corner, arms folded, eyes razor-sharp. Yukong stood beside her, hands fidgeting, scanning the shadows below.
Then came the unmistakable sound—first the low snarl of Heizou's flat-four… then the primal scream of the supercharged Lancia.
Feixiao smirked. "They're here. And they're trying to kill each other."
The two machines burst into view in a blaze of headlights and fury. Heizou hit the brakes hard, nose dipping, ABS fluttering. But Clorinde didn't hesitate.
"What the hell is she doing?!" Heizou screamed, eyes widening as the Lancia overtook him on the outside.
She dove to the edge of the road, the 037's front-left corner skimming the guardrail. Sparks erupted. The crowd gasped. Her steering input was flawless—precise, calculated, psychotic. At the moment the barrier kissed metal, she flicked the wheel inward. The rear snapped out—controlled, intentional.
The Lancia danced.
Sideways through the apex. Tires shrieked in fury. Blue smoke billowed. Her trajectory was perfect—a perfect arc through the corner, carried on raw momentum and unshakable grip.
Feixiao ducked instinctively, mouth open. "She's fucking insane!"
Yukong pointed like a kid spotting a shooting star. "Did you see that?! She brushed the rail and still cleared the inside line! That's not normal!"
Feixiao didn't take her eyes off the road. "Something's changed in her. Something broke loose."
The Lancia stormed down the next straight, its taillights shimmering with a faint red-and-blue glow, as if the car were burning with a supernatural fire. There was something unnatural about it now—its movements too clean, too fast, too fluid. The aura of a possessed machine.
Heizou's grip was a deathlock. His breath came in ragged gulps.
"What… what the hell is that?!"
Still, he refused to quit. "Tight hairpins. I can claw back time on the tight ones."
But at the next corner, his last shred of hope turned to ash.
The Lancia approached like a comet, flicked left, then right—Scandinavian flick. Her entry angle was impossibly deep. She yanked the e-brake for a split-second—just enough to break traction—then countersteered, throttled, and powered through the drift.
Speed unbroken. Line perfect. Taillights streaking like tracer rounds.
"She's—! She's fucking defying physics!" Heizou howled, eyes wide with disbelief.
By the time he exited the corner, the Lancia was gone. Gone.
No tire squeal. No engine note. Just darkness.
And silence.
The race was over.
Clorinde had detonated past him like a missile and vanished into the mountain. Her victory wasn't just decisive—it was a goddamn statement. She hadn't won because of the car. She'd become the car.
Another win for the Speed Stars. Another road burned into legend.
Clorinde—Team Speed Stars' blade—had cut down the night.
And as the last echoes of warbled engines faded into the cold air, the mountain stood silent once more. But everyone who had seen it knew: something monstrous had awakened tonight.
And it drove a Lancia.