The live broadcast had every viewer's eyes glued to the screen — stunned, breathless, and unable to believe what they were witnessing.
Leon's maneuvers had already shattered the basic laws of physics. The framework of science itself seemed to crumble under his control.
"Newton's rolling in his grave right now…" someone muttered online.
The Diomas Nilo tore through hundred-meter bends at speeds of several hundred kilometers per hour — the kind of turns that should've sent any normal car flying into the canyon. But Leon's machine? It pivoted like liquid lightning. The car leaned, snapped back, and re-stabilized before the human eye could even process it.
Viewers were left speechless.
How could a car take turns like that — at that speed — without flipping over?
Was this really a live broadcast, or a special effect?
"No way that's real."
"This is too perfect."
"I need a science breakdown, like, right now."
The chat exploded, disbelief turning to awe. The West Coast God had done it again.
Someone started counting Leon's turns.
"He's taking at least ten bends per minute."
Ten bends per minute — a hundred bends in ten minutes.
No one else could handle that.
Even fans on the East Coast — once proud of their local racers — had to admit defeat.
"Guess the East Coast's found its Drift God now…" one of them sighed.
They compared Leon to Takumi Fujiwara from the legendary mountain passes of Japan, but even that seemed unfair — Leon's course wasn't just "hard." It was hell-tier difficulty.
If Takumi's runs were an elite-level challenge, Leon's was a demon-level trial.
And he wasn't just surviving — he was thriving.
With each turn, each drift, each perfect gear shift, Leon proved his mastery wasn't luck — it was precision beyond comprehension.
Even with a car like the Diomas Nilo — equipped with adaptive tires and unmatched aerodynamics — only a driver like Leon could unleash its true potential.
Anyone else would've spun out and crashed long ago.
The crowd that once mocked him had nothing left to say.
They'd wanted to hate — but he'd silenced them with skill.
When Leon entered the Million Dollar Highway, the cheers flipped completely.
Even East Coast supporters switched sides mid-broadcast.
This wasn't a race anymore.
It was a showcase.
A live exhibition of dominance.
He no longer needed a handbrake.
Every curve was an effortless dance — steering with micro-movements, each flick of his wrist sending the Diomas slicing through corners like a blade.
The car responded instantly, its tires gripping impossibly well.
Five hundred kilometers per hour — and still steady.
The road blurred into a streak of silver.
Leon's grin widened.
He slammed the accelerator.
The Diomas roared — releasing a wave of pressure that blasted fallen leaves off the road.
Speed climbed higher.
500 km/h.
550.
600.
The "guy who said he'd eat crap if Leon broke 300" was probably regretting his life choices now.
And still, Leon wasn't stopping.
"He's… he's still accelerating?!" someone screamed.
The highway was narrow — deadly at even 200 km/h — yet Leon refused to hit the brakes.
Every other racer in the world was being humiliated.
Journalists, fans, even rival teams — all stared at the screen, wide-eyed, waiting for something catastrophic to happen.
A speed radar stood ahead on the roadside — an automated sensor to display the velocity of passing cars. Reporters turned their cameras toward it.
The world held its breath.
WHOOOOOSH—!
The Diomas Nilo flashed past.
The display flickered.
Then stabilized.
672 km/h.
Silence.
Then chaos.
"WHAT— six hundred and seventy-two?!"
"No way! That can't be real!"
People felt a chill crawl up their spines.
Either the radar was broken — or the world had just witnessed a new chapter in physics.
Six hundred seventy-two kilometers per hour — on a twisting, narrow mountain road.
Tracy, the broadcast director, zoomed in to confirm the numbers.
No glitch. No blur.
It was real.
The headlines were already writing themselves:
"Leon Breaks Physics."
"West Coast Racer Sets Guinness Record."
It wasn't just speed — it was legend.
Even so, Leon wasn't done.
Once he cleared the speed trap, the Diomas roared again — the engine screaming past 20,000 RPM.
The sound alone made onlookers flinch. It felt like the car might explode any second.
East Coast viewers started shouting in frustration:
"Come on, blow up already!"
"That engine's gotta pop!"
"No car can handle that!"
But nothing happened.
No smoke, no flames.
The Diomas Nilo held firm — its AI systems optimizing, balancing, adapting.
They didn't understand.
Leon's car didn't run on conventional fuel anymore.
It was part machine, part living intelligence — and it was built for this.
The acceleration continued, smooth as ever.
By now, even his critics were silent.
Leon hadn't just conquered the Million Dollar Highway.
He'd conquered human limitation itself.
The East Coast fans could deny it no longer —
Leon, the God of the West Coast, stood unmatched.
Not even Tobey or Dino — two of the greatest racers alive — could match what they had just seen.
Leon had redefined speed.
And the Diomas Nilo had rewritten reality.
~~----------------------
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