THE LAST RACE
London's streets were silent but not empty.
After 2 a.m., the city slowed just enough for the reckless to take over.
The M25 hummed like a dormant beast, waiting.
Tino gripped the steering wheel of his dark blue BMW E36 M3, eyes sharp beneath the flickering streetlights. The air smelled of burnt rubber and fuel. His heart beat in sync with the engine's growl.
Beside him, his younger brother Elias tightened his grip on the wheel of his silver E92 M3 — sleek, modern, and a point of pride in their constant argument about which M3 was better.
"Keep it tight on the corners, Elias," Tino warned, voice calm but commanding. "Your E92's quick, but it can bite if you're not careful."
Elias smirked, eyes burning with defiance.
"Speed's speed, bro. Old school or new school — I'll leave you in my dust."
Behind them, the pack snarled—three racers pushing their cars to the limit. A McLaren, two Evos, and a black Supra all hungry for the win.
The race wasn't just about speed. It was survival.
One slip, one mistake—and the M25 would swallow you whole.
The flag dropped, and the six cars exploded forward, engines roaring like thunder in the night.
Tino's E36 surged, nitrous igniting in bursts as he expertly maneuvered through tight curves and long straights.
Elias held position in the E92, matching his brother's pace, nerves tight but fire burning.
Coming out of the steel curve near the Dartford Crossing, disaster struck.
The black Supra clipped Elias's rear quarter panel.
Elias's E92 fishtailed violently, spinning toward the edge of the bridge.
"Elias!" Tino shouted.
Time slowed.
Without hesitation, Tino dropped gears and slammed the nitrous.
His E36 lunged sideways, smashing into Elias's car just enough to stop its deadly spin.
Elias's eyes met his for a split second—grateful, terrified.
Then Tino's own car hurtled off the edge.
He saw the Thames rushing up to meet him, heard the nitrous tank rupture, felt the fire before the water
The world tilted.
Flames licked the night sky, paint and metal twisted into a deadly sculpture as Tino's BMW tumbled through the air.
Time fractured. His last thoughts weren't of fear—they were of Elias.
"I saved you," Tino thought, pain like molten fire coursing through his body.
Then everything went black.
When he awoke, the silence was absolute.
No sirens. No crowds. No racing engines.
Just a cold stillness beneath his eyelids.
His body felt different—lighter, yet stronger.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
He was no longer on the bridge. No longer on Earth.
A vast network of glowing roots stretched around him, pulsing with ancient energy.
A voice echoed deep inside his mind—not spoken aloud, but felt like a tremor through his very soul.
"You survived the fire because you are not meant to perish."
Visions of gods, oceans, and wars flooded his thoughts.
"You carry the blood of Odin's line, the strength of Poseidon's sea, and the fury of Czarnian fire."
Tino's breath caught as he realized what the voice meant: He had been reborn.
Stronger than before. More than human.
He was the fusion of worlds—half god, one-third Kryptonian, one-third Czarnian.
No one knew this truth. Not Elias. Not the racers. Not the city.
Only he held the secret of his awakening.
And now, with his power rising, the real race was just beginning