Leon's wrist was sore from all the signing.
Fans surrounded him in waves, each one more enthusiastic than the last — begging for autographs, selfies, and even short videos together.
Some gorgeous young women, bold as ever, leaned close to plant kisses on his cheek.
Their perfume lingered in the air, making Leon grin from ear to ear.
He was in heaven.
An hour later, floodlights blazed to life.
Thunderous music exploded from portable speakers, and the open field instantly turned into a wild outdoor party.
The crowd roared with excitement — girls started dancing, their movements fiery and free; guys joined in, turning the scene into a spontaneous carnival.
The more time passed, the more people arrived.
Some had seen the live broadcast and rushed over by following the GPS coordinates.
Others came because friends called them — nobody wanted to miss out on the place where the new champion stood.
That night, Washington was anything but quiet.
Luckily, the field was huge.
Even with hundreds of cars packed around, there was still room to move.
And for those who couldn't squeeze in, the roadsides became makeshift parking lots — headlights lined up like glowing rivers.
"Leon! Please take a picture with me!"
"I love you, baby! You're my number one!"
"Please accept my flowers — and my heart!"
They were very direct.
This sudden outpouring of affection left Leon momentarily stunned, then delighted.
As the crowd grew denser, he found himself surrounded — three circles deep in every direction.
Almost everyone around him was a stunning beauty — tall, elegant, perfectly styled.
Model-tier faces, flawless curves.
Normally, it'd be impossible to see this many at once, yet now they were all crowding around him.
Left and right, he was hemmed in by laughter and perfume.
Leon chatted easily with them, telling thrilling bits of his racing stories, and every daring twist or near-miss made the girls gasp and squeal.
They hung on his every word.
Time flew by — three, four hours disappeared in what felt like minutes.
And then finally, the other racers began to arrive.
The first was Tobey, his SSC gliding out of the darkness like a sleek silver bullet.
Even from a distance, it looked breathtaking — futuristic, aerodynamic, aggressively stylish.
From the side, the sharp grooves along the body made the car look alive, brimming with motion even at rest.
The SSC — officially recognized as the fastest production car in the world — was an engineering marvel.
So when Tobey stepped out and walked toward Leon, there wasn't an ounce of resentment on his face.
He laughed heartily and extended a hand.
"Not bad, West Coast God. I'll admit defeat this time."
Leon clasped his hand with a smile.
"Good race."
Tobey had sensed it from the start — the moment Leon's car roared off the line, he knew.
That engine sound alone told the whole story: power overflowing, torque unending.
When you're up against a beast like that, there's no shame in losing.
"So… when did you finish?" Tobey asked curiously, glancing at Leon's relaxed posture.
Leon shrugged casually.
"Oh, about two or three hours ago."
Tobey froze mid-laugh.
"…What?"
Two or three hours earlier?
He blinked. He'd just spent nearly six hours finishing the same route.
Did that mean Leon was twice as fast?
Before he could process that, a lively fan nearby chimed in,
"Not just that! He ran Million Dollar Mountain Road first — that's like two hundred extra kilometers!"
Tobey's jaw dropped.
The buzzing in his head sounded like a swarm of bees.
He'd driven that mountain road himself — full of sharp, tight curves, not even three kilometers of straight pavement in total.
"How fast were you going on the mountain?" he asked hesitantly, his voice trembling despite himself.
Leon tilted his head.
"Not that fast. Around seven hundred kilometers an hour. Hit eight hundred on the straight bits."
Tobey nearly spat blood.
Seven or eight hundred? On a mountain road?!
He could barely reach one hundred there — maybe eighty through the tighter curves.
That meant Leon was ten times faster.
No matter how he thought about it, it was absurd.
Even if you gave him Leon's car, he couldn't reproduce that performance.
Hell, Leon could probably beat him driving a delivery van at this point.
And that one line from Leon echoed in his mind again:
"All it takes is knowing when to brake and when to steer."
Simple words, but coming from Leon, they carried the weight of legend.
Soon after, the third-place finisher arrived — the crimson Red Flag S9, driven by An Qiaoqiao.
The crowd erupted in surprise.
A girl from Huaxia?
She looked gentle, almost delicate — yet she had conquered the East Coast with raw speed and daring.
Beating out iconic cars like the AE86, the Dino, even Bond's Aston Martin, she'd seized a podium spot against all odds.
The Red Flag S9 itself was a showstopper.
Its body, crafted entirely from ultralight carbon fiber, fused Eastern artistry with Western aerodynamics — elegant curves paired with the power of a predator.
Its front grille was bold and aggressive, the LED headlights sweeping upward like an eagle spreading its wings.
A glowing red line ran from the nose all the way to the tail — symbolizing, as the designers said, "Spirit spanning mountains, red brilliance unending."
The interior echoed that motif — aerodynamic contours, fighter-jet vents, carbon fiber panels, a cockpit charged with energy.
Even the steering wheel felt like something from a jet.
"Now that's a car!" someone shouted.
The crowd roared in agreement.
Adrenaline surged once again.
They were fired up —
completely, utterly ignited.
~~----------------------
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