At the seven hairpin turns, Fujiwara Ichiro downshifted, tapped the brake, feathered the throttle, and flicked the handbrake in one smooth chain of movements. Under his control, the God of War GTR pitched its nose and snapped into a deliberate rear swing, letting inertia carry the tail into a clean drift. To block the red Audi TT behind, he kept the GTR's front bumper glued to the inside line, then cut straight across to the next apex, sliding from one curve into the following like a brushstroke.
The car's brutal horsepower and torque made the whole mountain seem small. With that much shove, every straight vanished in a breath, and every bend felt like an invitation. Two corners left, Kato Ichiro in the passenger seat, clenched his fists and shouted, "Fujiwara-kun, go! Just the last two!" Victory felt close enough to touch. The record for the shortest run on this road would be theirs, he believed.
At the penultimate turn, still hugging the inside in an inertial drift, Fujiwara caught a flash in the mirror, a hard glint like sunlight off steel. An instant later came the knife-edge screech of tires. The red Audi TT knifed past on the outside at a wild angle, sliding by the GTR's tail as if space had opened for it alone, and seized the lead into the next corner.
"How is that possible?" Fujiwara's voice went dry as the Audi swept across his rear field of view. Seventy kilometers per hour through that bend was already the ragged edge of what he could hold in a drift. The Audi looked to be doing a hundred, maybe more, and it looked composed while doing it. Kato Ichiro's jaw fell open; you could have fit an egg in there. To slide a corner that fast and still look that stable was that even human?
Shock or not, the red TT was already straightening and keying into the last U-shaped curve. Fujiwara's hands hesitated for a fraction, and hesitation on a mountain road is defeat. He lifted, rolled the GTR to the shoulder, and let the engine drop to a simmer. He took a long breath. "I lost."
He wasn't bitter. His gaze stayed on the asphalt where the Audi had disappeared. "So there really are drivers like that. Next to her, I'm a frog at the bottom of a well." Kato Ichiro climbed out with him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go, Fujiwara-kun. Back to Japan. We train, we learn, and next time we win against the Black Widow." "Let's go, Kato-kun," Fujiwara said, and the decision steadied him.
The red TT crossed the finish line, and Lu Heifeng didn't linger. He rolled on without fanfare; no point risking attention to the fact that he had been the designated wheelman. Behind them, Fujiwara Ichiro skipped the post-race chatter entirely. He and Kato vanished back to Japan, leaving the onlookers at the starting line blinking at an empty road and dust.
Heifeng guided the TT into Yanjing as the night softened to city glow and followed the route the Black Widow sent to the gate of an upscale residential community. She stepped out, turned back, and dipped her head with a smile that had relief in it. "Thank you for today. You helped me fulfill a wish." Curiosity and gratitude sparked together when she looked at him; this man kept knocking her expectations sideways. His driving had rearranged her idea of what skill could be and stirred something else she didn't name.
"You're welcome," Heifeng said, light as air. "I'll head out. Goodbye." "Goodbye," she answered. He pulled away, and she watched the taillights thin to embers, a flush still warming her cheeks. "Lu Heifeng," she murmured, "we'll meet again soon."
Heifeng didn't drive back to the courtyard house. It was late, and he didn't want to wake the old man. He checked into the hotel where the marketing team was staying, took a room, and slept like a stone. Near noon, his phone hummed him awake. Huang Ming from marketing was on the line, the words coming fast. "President Lu, I have news. Three rival manufacturers are about to make big moves. The six top luxury marques under them are planning a joint facelift launch in the next few days. Looks like they're aiming straight at our Audi A8 release."
Huang Ming hadn't just been arranging the A8 launch program; he'd also had the team keep their ears to the ground. If the rivals wanted to stir trouble on the A8's big day, he meant to spot it early. That morning, the signals aligned. Three groups, six high-end brands, one orchestrated press wave.
Heifeng smiled into the phone. "I guessed they wouldn't let this pass." The Audi A4 and A6 had already punched holes in competitors' sales in the mid and lower tiers. Pride does not give up ground quietly. "They'll want to reclaim face in the D-segment." He hadn't exactly hidden the A8's timing when he came to Yanjing. A little sunlight draws out anyone looking to cast a shadow. Even so, he hadn't expected them to mobilize all six luxury nameplates at once.
Those badges were the royalty of the road, fully imported, each name carrying a century of story and a price tag that rarely dipped under two million yuan. To gang up six crowns against one flagship was brazen. In ordinary times, if one brand sets a launch date, the others shift theirs, if only to avoid splitting attention and to keep things civil. This time, the rivals had circled the date in red and chosen it on purpose. Even a fool could see the target: kneecap the Audi A8's momentum the moment it stepped onstage.
"Shameless," Heifeng said, though his tone held more assessment than anger. What could he complain about? Buyers in the D-class and above were not the same as the B and C crowd. These were people with real money and established success, and when they choose, they buy time and heritage as much as they purchase steel and leather. Against the century-thick patina some of those marques wore, Audi looked young, audacious, brilliant, and new. The A8 might be the ride of state leaders, but would that translate into private buyers' faith the way history does?
Heifeng stared at the window, mind ticking through variables. Launch day pressure wasn't a disaster. It was a test. The plan had always been to win on substance, not just ceremony: to let the A8's engineering speak, to let pricing speak, to let service speak, and to let the story they were telling about dignity without waste, about technology serving calm luxury speak. If the rivals wanted a chorus, fine. He would make sure the A8's solo carried to the back row.
"Thank you, Huang Ming," he said at last. "Tighten coordination with PR and dealerships. Make sure our materials are airtight, our demo fleet spotless, and our after-sales hotline overstaffed that week. If they want a spectacle, we'll be ready for the crowd it brings." He hung up, then leaned back on the hotel headboard, the night's drift still humming like a secret between his hands and the steering wheel. The game on the mountain had ended with a pass at the limit. The next game, the one that mattered, would be played under bright lights, and it would be won the same way: see the opening, commit without flinch, and come out ahead at the exit.