Over in the parking area, Ningguang stood beneath the pale light of a sodium lamp, her gloved hands carefully turning the final spec sheets for the Lancia Rally 037. Navia stood beside her, arms crossed, nodding quietly as her eyes followed the details. Neither of them spoke—the numbers did all the talking. Reinforced lower control arms, adjusted spring preload, increased ride height, rally-tuned Bilstein dampers, revised transmission cooling ducts. The Lancia was ready.
A few spaces over, Keqing leaned against a support van, mid-conversation with Collei, her eyes occasionally flicking toward the parked RX-7 FD across the lot.
"It's pretty cool, what Clorinde did," Keqing said, a hint of reluctant admiration threading through her voice. "Helping someone out—even when they're technically our opponent."
Collei chuckled softly, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "That's just who Clorinde is. She works on her own machines when Navia's not around. Grease under her nails, zip ties on standby. She gets it. She'd help anyone, even if they were dead-set on beating her down the mountain."
Keqing raised an eyebrow, still watching the Lancia. "So she's like... the noble knight of the streets?"
Collei shrugged, but her eyes twinkled. "Maybe. Depends on the night."
Keqing pushed off the van and called out toward the spec sheet table. "Hey, Ningguang? You said this course was tailored for Clorinde, right? Why? Training?"
Ningguang closed her folder with a soft snap—not rushed, but final. She turned, walking over to join them, boots clicking against the asphalt with deliberate precision. Her voice was composed, businesslike. "That's correct."
Keqing tilted her head. "But why? What's so special about this layout?"
Ningguang gestured subtly toward the course—a serpentine ribbon of rough mountain asphalt, light posts few and far between, its worn surface darkened by decades of tire rubber and moss-stained corners. "Clorinde's natural talent is aggression. Full throttle, no compromise. She attacks the road like it insulted her. That's fine on a clean course. But here?" She swept a hand toward the start line. "This place punishes impatience. It rewards the ones who think while they drive."
She tapped her folder. "I'm having her try something new—something she's never done before. A technique based on throttle control used by an old-school Formula One driver. Low grip, high consequence. It's not about how fast she wants to go—it's about how well she can feel her way through chaos."
Back across the lot, Kazuha stood beside his Altezza, arms folded, brows pinched in concern as he checked his watch for the third time.
"Where the hell is Firefly? She's late. We're seconds from the green flag," he muttered.
Kokomi stood nearby, biting her lower lip, anxiety sharpening her features. "I hope she didn't lose it on one of the tight off-camber corners. She's our only real chance."
And then it came—a piercing, unmistakable scream that split the quiet tension in half.
The banshee wail of a single-turbo 13B rotary echoed from the treeline, followed by the deep warble of low RPM compression braking. Heads turned as the black FD3S glided into view, its pop-ups glowing like angry eyes in the dark. The car rolled in low and fast, each movement smooth as oil over glass. It pulled up to the line and settled with a low idle growl, the exhaust pulsing like a war drum.
The team stared. Kazuha exhaled.
Firefly stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her. She walked forward with quiet purpose, her boots tapping the pavement. Her expression was unreadable—but her eyes burned.
"I want to lead," she said simply, meeting Kazuha's gaze dead-on.
He blinked, caught off guard. "You sure? Wouldn't it make more sense to sit behind her first, learn the lines, wait for a mistake?"
She shook her head. "No. I'm going to run her down from the front. That Lancia's built for terrain like this, yeah—but this car?" She patted the fender of the FD. "This car is war-bred. I'm gonna show her that lightness and grip mean jack shit if you've got torque and guts."
The silence was broken by the mechanical growl of the Lancia's supercharged inline-four as it coasted up behind the RX-7. Firefly and Kazuha turned to look.
Clorinde stepped out of her car, her hoodie partially zipped to the collar, every motion tight and clean. She walked with her arms at her sides—not stiff, not casual—just controlled. Surgical.
Firefly nodded once. "Name's Firefly. Proper introduction this time. Been waiting for this."
Clorinde's eyes met hers, calm and unwavering. "Clorinde. Team Speed Stars. You probably figured that out by now."
Without wasting another breath, she turned and walked back to her Lancia. She climbed in, one smooth motion, pulling the harness tight and flipping her ignition system live. The lights on her digital cluster flicked to life, red and green diodes blinking in sequence. Ready.
Ningguang stepped in, tapping on the Lexan side window. It rolled down an inch.
"Clorinde," she said, her voice like still water, "one thing. If something feels off during the run—remember, that FD runs a single turbo. Lag spikes hard out of corners."
Clorinde's mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile. "I know. That's where my supercharger gives me the edge. Boost from zero."
Ningguang tapped the carbon roof twice and stepped back, her mission complete.
Keqing raised one arm. "Alright! Fire it up—let's go!"
Engines roared to life in unison.
Firefly's FD snarled with a heavy, thumping idle. The turbo whined, fluttering under light throttle—wastegate snapping like gunfire. The entire car vibrated in place, impatient. Clorinde's Lancia revved with a high-pitched mechanical scream, the straight-cut gears whining like a circular saw. Its supercharger began to howl the moment her right foot touched the gas.
The flag dropped.
Firefly launched hard—not dumping the clutch, but rolling in with brutal efficiency. The rear tires bit, squat deep, and she slammed second as the turbo spooled. The RX-7 tore into the night, taillights shrinking into the darkness. Clorinde's Lancia surged after her, gear ratios short and brutal, downforce pushing the nose flat to the tarmac.
Both cars disappeared into the first downhill sector, the night swallowing their engines.
The mountain was alive now.
And the race had begun.
Back at the starting line, Kokomi sidled up next to Kazuha, her expression tight with worry. "So," she asked, her voice low, "do you think Firefly actually has a shot?"
Kazuha exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes pinned to the twin taillights now disappearing into the shadows of the mountain. "She should. But that's not the question, is it?" he muttered, arms crossed. "Firefly's good—damn good. But she's still young. Sometimes, she lets her emotions take the wheel. Clorinde helped her out earlier... and I think that's clouding her judgment. She might forget the plan and try to win on raw will alone."
On the track, the wail of high-strung machinery bounced off the mountain walls. The black RX-7 FD surged ahead through a sweeping right-hand bend, its rotary engine shrieking toward redline. The exhaust fluttered with wastegate chatter between shifts, the body rolling subtly as Firefly kept her inputs clean. She was dancing that fine line between grip and chaos—right where a driver like her thrived.
Just behind, Clorinde's Lancia 037 stuck to the FD like glue, her eyes flicking between the taillights and the apexes ahead. She stayed composed, smooth, and deadly quiet inside the cockpit. Her gloved hands rested firm on the wheel, eyes narrowed behind her tinted visor.
"I've got to admit, Ms. Firefly…" Clorinde murmured under her breath, adjusting her line as she matched Firefly's pace through a downhill transition, "…you've got some serious skill. But let's see how you handle this."
A tight left-hand hairpin loomed. Clorinde let the rear step out just a few degrees—rear tires losing adhesion in a carefully controlled slide—and countersteered with surgical input. The Lancia rotated fluidly, catching the slip angle without upsetting her momentum. Her brake foot stabbed hard into the pedal, heel rolling onto the throttle in one seamless motion. The engine snarled, revs blipping cleanly as she downshifted from third to second, matching speeds perfectly. The tail wiggled but never broke. A burst of flame erupted from the side-exit exhaust as she stomped on it coming out of the corner.
Ahead, Firefly rocketed through a fast-paced S-turn, turbo howling as the boost surged back in. Her RX-7 fluttered with each partial lift, the chassis dancing over the uneven tarmac as she kept the car feathered just below the edge. Her steering was minimal, her throttle modulation precise—just enough to let the rear rotate and stay in the flow of the mountain.
The straightaway appeared like a black ribbon stretching downhill into the void. And the war was just beginning.
Inside the FD, Firefly's grip on the steering wheel tightened, fingers trembling from the adrenaline, knuckles stark white. Her eyes were wide, alive, and shimmering with the thrill of combat. Her voice barely escaped her lips, a whisper intended only for the machine beneath her.
"This is... different," she breathed, her pulse racing. "I've never felt this kind of fulfillment—not even on my best nights. Every corner's like a conversation. Every reaction matters. I have to push harder… I have to drive as fast and as cleanly as I can. I want you to see this, Clorinde. I want you to feel what I'm capable of."
Just behind, Clorinde's lips curled faintly. Her right foot remained disciplined, oscillating through degrees of throttle with mechanical grace. Her eyes tracked every movement of the RX-7 ahead—the entry angles, brake points, weight shifts.
"Not bad... not bad at all," she murmured. "But I see it now. Your rhythm. Your breathing. Your car's heartbeat. By the halfway mark, I'll have your number."
—
Back at the base of the course, Keqing clicked off a call and briskly approached Ningguang. Her brow was furrowed, her voice almost incredulous.
"You're not going to believe this," she said. "The spotter at Sector 4 says Firefly's actually holding Clorinde back. The FD's leading."
Ningguang's expression didn't waver. She nodded, calm and certain. "It's not entirely unexpected. The FD's a monster in straight-line sections, but it's not invincible. That single-turbo setup is her Achilles' heel."
Keqing blinked. "How so?"
"Turbos like hers, especially single units from that era, rely on exhaust gases to spool up," Ningguang explained. "When she lifts off throttle mid-corner, the boost dies. When she gets back on the gas, there's a moment—a lag—where the engine hesitates before power returns. In a race like this, that delay can kill exit speed. Modern turbo setups use things like VNT—variable nozzle turbines—or even anti-lag systems to mask that."
She nodded to herself. "Feixiao's Evo has ALS. Instant throttle response, even mid-slide. But Firefly? She doesn't have that luxury."
Keqing crossed her arms, intrigued. "Then why's Clorinde still trailing?"
Ningguang tilted her head. "Navia?"
Navia stepped forward with a half-smile, folding her arms. "Glad you asked. The Lancia's not using a turbo—it's supercharged. And not just any supercharger—it's the Volumex. Unique engineering from Lancia's Group B days. You wanna know why it matters?"
Keqing and Collei both leaned in, eyes locked on her.
"The Volumex is a roots-type supercharger with a specialized setup," Navia began, drawing an imaginary schematic in the air. "First, air comes through the intake box, just like any engine. But then? Right before compression, a timed water injection kicks in at high RPMs. The water vaporizes on contact, cooling the air before it gets compressed. That means denser air, better combustion, and less detonation risk."
She mimed a flow path with her fingers. "Now, the supercharger has two outlets. The bottom one goes to the intake manifold, feeding the engine. The top one routes to an aluminum pipe that ends in a blow-off valve—precision-controlled to manage boost pressure. Even at redline, it regulates flow cleanly. And because the supercharger is belt-driven, it doesn't depend on exhaust gases. It delivers boost the instant Clorinde touches the gas."
Ningguang nodded. "Which means, on corner exits—where Firefly's waiting for the turbo to spool—Clorinde's already putting power down. The Lancia's short gear ratios and lightweight chassis do the rest."
Keqing let out a low whistle. "Under 1,000 kilos, right?"
"Yup," Navia replied. "Feels like a damn Formula One car on these roads."
Collei blinked, stunned. "So it's not just about power—it's when you can use it."
"Exactly," Ningguang said, gaze turning sharp. "And we're not just racing tonight. We're training. This course was selected to push Clorinde's acceleration control. Tatarsuna's roads are treacherous—bumpy, uneven, no room for mistakes. On this course, finesse rules. Her footwork right now is calibrated in five distinct throttle levels. That's good."
She paused. "But not good enough."
Keqing arched a brow. "What's the target?"
"Ten levels," Ningguang said flatly.
Collei gawked. "Ten? Is that even possible?"
A glint of pride passed through Ningguang's eyes. "It is. I've done it."
Collei stared, slack-jawed. Keqing folded her arms, still skeptical. "You mastered ten levels?"
Ningguang's smirk was faint, but unmistakable. "There's a reason I chose Clorinde. She's the only one I've met who might not just reach where I stood… but go beyond it."
For a moment, the pit area went silent—until the sharp echo of revving engines from deep in the mountain reminded them that the storm was still raging. And the decisive moments had yet to arrive.
Back in the race, the two cars had already devoured a gauntlet of corners, fast bends, and brutal hairpins. Firefly's FD RX-7 still led the charge, its sleek silhouette hugging the asphalt with uncanny precision, every inch of its chassis straining toward the apex like it belonged there. Behind her, Clorinde's boxy, snarling Lancia 037 clung to her bumper like a predator shadowing prey—never overtaking, never falling back.
Inside the cramped cockpit of the Lancia, Clorinde's gloved hands were vice grips around the Momo steering wheel. Her forearms trembled from the tension. The digital tach blinked red near 7,500 RPM as she shifted her weight into the seat, eyes darting between Firefly's tail lights and the upcoming bend.
Her teeth clenched as the frustration boiled over. "I'm starting to lose patience. I know you're holding me back, Firefly. Your car's eating up the entire damn road. Come on! Pick up the pace!"
The Lancia's rear tires kissed the edge of the tarmac as they approached a particularly tight right-hand hairpin. Clorinde dabbed the brakes hard, heel-and-toe downshifting into second, the gated shifter clacking with mechanical violence. She eased onto the throttle—too soon. The supercharger whined eagerly, but the car skated wide, rear tires scrabbling against the rough, uneven surface.
"Damn it!" she spat, wrestling with the wheel to keep the car from drifting into the dirt. "I'm still having trouble with this throttle control! How the fuck am I supposed to balance it without spinning out?"
The course offered no mercy. More hairpins followed in rapid succession—sharp, blind, relentless. Firefly's FD carved through them with balletic grace, the rear sliding in perfect arcs before snapping back in line. Clorinde, by contrast, was fighting the Lancia through every turn, the stiff rally suspension transmitting every bump and imperfection in the tarmac into her spine. Her tires wailed with protest, leaving black streaks in their wake.
Her thoughts were a screaming blur: I know the difference between a single turbo and a supercharger. I've memorized the specs. So why can't I get this right?
And then it came back to her—Ningguang's voice, clipped and confident. "Think of a certain Formula One driver's throttle technique."
"What the hell does that even mean?" Clorinde hissed under her breath as she pitched the Lancia into another left-hand hairpin. Firefly's FD floated through it, again—composed, predictable, fucking poetic. But the Lancia? It drifted wide, sliding like a drunk dancer, the edge of the rear tire nicking the gutter and jolting the chassis.
Clorinde gritted her teeth hard enough to ache. "This doesn't make sense. I have to be more delicate. I can't just stomp it like a rally stage. If I'm pressing the accelerator two centimeters, I need to cut that to one—or less. Wait. Breathe. Ease it in like threading a needle."
She tested the theory at the next corner. Her right foot hovered, then pressed—too much. The Lancia's rear snapped loose again, fishtailing slightly as she yanked the steering wheel into a quick counter. "I'm still pushing too hard!" she yelled, slamming her palm against the wheel. "Damn it!"
Up ahead, the road briefly straightened. Firefly's FD pulled ahead by half a car length, and in her mirror, she caught the tail of the Lancia still twitching.
Inside the RX-7, Firefly's smile spread across her face like wildfire. Her pupils were wide, and her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. "I can feel you back there, Clorinde," she whispered, voice crackling with adrenaline. "This is electrifying!"
But back in the Lancia, something clicked.
Ningguang said something about a Formula One driver. What was she implying?
A memory crashed through her thoughts like a flash of lightning—last night, in the garage. Navia tweaking the alignment with a wrench between her teeth, while Clorinde sat in the car with sweat on her neck and doubts in her head. Ningguang had sent a video—low-res, jittery footage from the stands of the 1992 Italian Grand Prix. A white-and-red McLaren MP4/6 tearing through Parabolica. But the sound had stuck with her more than the visuals—the rapid, almost manic throttle blips echoing as the car danced through the turn, engine note fluttering like a heartbeat.
That's what she meant.
Clorinde's eyes widened. That's it. Senna.
Back at the base, Keqing glanced sideways at Ningguang. "You mentioned a Formula One driver's technique yesterday. Who was it?"
Ningguang's lips curled into a foxlike smirk. "Ayrton Senna."
Keqing straightened. "Senna? The Senna?"
"Precisely," Ningguang said smoothly. "Back when F1 cars were turbocharged, drivers used throttle blips to keep boost pressure alive mid-corner. But even when the sport moved to naturally aspirated engines, Senna didn't stop. He kept blipping the throttle—not for power, but for balance. He found that it helped him induce just the right blend of oversteer and understeer. He could dance the car through corners at the edge of adhesion."
Keqing's eyes flicked toward the monitors. "But why teach Clorinde that? Isn't that dangerous? Especially on Tatarsuna?"
Ningguang raised an eyebrow. "Tatarsuna is dangerous regardless. But on this surface—uneven, cracked, unpredictable—there's no better skill. Blipping helps the tires re-engage between slips. You hear it in rally too—watch old 037 footage from Monte Carlo, you'll hear that same rhythm."
Keqing's jaw set. "So, she's learning to thread the line—between grip and slip—by controlling throttle pulses?"
Ningguang's eyes gleamed. "Exactly."
Back on the mountain, Clorinde muttered, "I have to do it. I won't get another shot at this."
Another hairpin—sharp right, downhill camber. She braked hard, shifted down, and this time, instead of steady pressure on the accelerator, she tapped it. Once. Twice. Three times. Fast. Controlled. The Lancia shuddered, then stabilized.
Her jaw slackened in awe. "That's it… That's what Ningguang was talking about—Senna's throttle technique."
The next corner came faster—left-hand sweeper, slightly banked. She blipped again, feathering the throttle as her steering corrected mid-corner. The Lancia flowed through it like liquid metal. No slide. No tire squeal.
Clorinde grinned. "Let's go!"
The Lancia surged forward, closing the gap between her and Firefly's FD. Up ahead, the RX-7 hit a bump—one of the worst on the pass. Its rear end bounced, momentarily unloading the suspension. The boost dropped, lag yawning wide for just a heartbeat.
Clorinde's eyes locked in. "This is my chance!"
She buried the throttle. The Volumex howled. The belt-drive screamed in harmony as torque exploded through the drivetrain. The 037 lunged forward, pulling even with the FD. For a moment, the mountain echoed with the symphony of rotary scream and supercharged bellow.
Inside the RX-7, Firefly's eyes went wide. "No! Please! I need to keep driving—don't pass me!"
They hit a right-hand hairpin. Firefly turned in, but her line was shallow—boost still recovering. Clorinde braked late, turned sharp, and blipped the throttle through the corner. The rear tucked in, the Lancia biting the inside line like a jackal.
She emerged ahead.
The final straight lay before them. The Lancia's low weight and instant throttle response rocketed it ahead. Firefly mashed the gas, boost spiking, engine wailing, but she was too late.
Clorinde crossed the finish line with a clenched jaw and a fire in her eyes.
The uphill battle was over.
Victory was hers.