At this stage, Tobey had no chance at all.
His expression turned bitter.
Deep down, he didn't want to admit it, but the truth was undeniable:
Against Leon, he simply had no hope of winning.
"With the SSC's current setup, there's no way it can be surpassed," he muttered grimly.
But suddenly, Tobey's fighting spirit reignited.
"No. We'll rebuild the SSC factory car—make it stronger, faster, more terrifying!"
Ideas for upgrades flooded his mind:
Swap in 3SDM black concave wheels.
Rebuild the body with CFRP (carbon-fiber reinforced polymer).
Fit carbon-fiber aero wings.
Redesign the front end with P1-style intakes, extended aero flaps, and new side skirts.
Optimize the ECU and engine management system, add a special exhaust system for more power.
Install a new splitter, hood vents, mudguards, and aero skirts.
Mount a two-piece roof spoiler and a massive rear diffuser.
Cap it off with a giant carbon wing and reworked rear panel, channeling airflow for maximum downforce.
This wouldn't just be a tune-up.
This would be a rebirth.
The SSC would come out faster, steadier, and with crushing grip.
"When Leon comes back, I'll be ready. I'll give him the fight of his life!"
Tobey's blood boiled with determination.
Leon's immense pressure hadn't broken him—
It had only made his will burn hotter.
He was sure of it: Leon would come back to New York.
Staring at motorcycles tearing down the street, Tobey clenched his fists.
Those men couldn't stop Leon. Nobody could.
If word spread that Leon had put the East Coast's Racing God under this much pressure, people would be shocked.
For years, the East Coast had looked down on the West.
They claimed the West had no true champion, that their racers were weak.
But now, when the West finally crowned its car god, he was an unstoppable force—
rampaging, merciless, giving no one else even a sliver of hope.
And the most crushing part? Even Tobey, the East Coast's greatest hope, admitted defeat.
If he lost, then the East Coast had no one left to field.
Could this really be how the war of speed ended?
Benny, watching nervously, had no answer. For the first time, even he doubted.
Meanwhile, Leon was tearing through the streets in the Diomas Nilo.
At traffic lights, he sliced through gaps like a scalpel.
When there was no space, he stormed sidewalks or shot through alleys, looping back into traffic without hesitation.
"Car!!" Andrek roared in panic, eyes wide.
Ahead, three black superbikes suddenly blocked the road.
Eteon's men.
Leon didn't hesitate. Mercy wasn't in his vocabulary when it came to them.
"Hold on tight!" he warned Andrek, then slammed the throttle.
ROOOOAR!
The Nilo's engine howled like a jet fighter taking off.
Every vehicle around shook at the sound.
The bikers' eyes went wide with terror—
and regret. They'd chosen the wrong man to block.
Too late.
The Diomas Nilo shot forward like a cannonball.
The impact was apocalyptic.
The first superbike crumpled like paper, rider and machine flung into the air.
The man smashed into a second-story wall, bones shattering, blood spraying before he went limp.
Another rider was hurled ten meters skyward—only to be blindsided midair by a double-decker bus. His skull burst like a watermelon on impact.
The bus itself dented inward.
The last biker survived but was left paralyzed in fear, collapsed under his toppled machine, body trembling, lips quivering pale as death.
He had seen death face-to-face.
And it broke him completely.
The Diomas Nilo thundered on, leaving destruction and fear in its wake.
Behind, the comm chatter crackled with panic.
"This is impossible—he's tearing through our blockade!"
"Multiple sectors collapsing—we can't contain him!"
"Unit down! Oh god, they're dead! Requesting backup—aaaahhh—"
The line ended in screams and an explosion. Silence followed.
Another squad erased.
Above the city, Colonel Carvill watched grimly from a helicopter.
A burly man with a beard and cold eyes, his face resembled August Walker, the CIA assassin from Mission Impossible: Fallout.
Carvill was no ordinary soldier—
he was Eteon's next-generation cybernetic operative, a second-generation upgrade.
Where Brixton had been enhanced for raw muscle, Carvill's body and brain had been equally reinforced.
He considered himself superior in every way—muscle, reflexes, and intellect.
And Eteon had entrusted him with this mission:
Kill Leon.
Kill the doctor traveling with him.
Retrieve the virus from Hattie Shaw's possession.
Simple. Clean. Effective.
Carvill sneered. "A mechanic is just a mechanic. All he knows is how to drive."
His plan was simple but brutal:
"Squad 353, prepare the C4 units. Stick them directly onto the target's car body. No matter how fast he runs, the charge will cling like glue. Then we detonate. End of story."
The riders nodded, pulling out matte-black C4 packs, already armed and synced.
All they had to do was tag the Nilo.
Like zealots, they gunned their bikes and charged the street, determined to die if it meant killing Leon.
But just as they thought they had him cornered—
WHRRRRR—
The Diomas Nilo's rear hatch opened.
A machine gun rose up, gleaming under the sun, its steel teeth hungry for blood.
The bikers froze in horror.
"WHAT THE HELL—?! It has a gun?!"
"Why the hell didn't Jilong report this intel before he died?!"
RATATATATAT!!!
The street lit up with fire.
The Diomas Nilo had just become a war machine.
~~----------------------
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