While waiting for Clorinde's Lancia 037 to arrive, Feixiao stood with her arms crossed, her expression calm but distant, like she was calculating something far beyond what anyone could see. Her gaze swept over the tree-lined ridgeline, the distant lights of Inazuma flickering below, swallowed by the dark folds of the valley. There was no wind, not yet. Only the smell of cooling asphalt and dried pine needles lingering on the night air.
Yoimiya stood nearby, silent and still, her golden eyes locked down the mountain road. She didn't shift her weight. Didn't speak. Just waited.
Feixiao muttered to herself, her tone barely above the ambient hum of insects and far-off engines. "Yoimiya… this will be your toughest battle yet. That Lancia 037—Clorinde's car—it's the real deal. A Group B monster. She doesn't believe in holding back."
And then came the sound—unmistakable, high-pitched and screaming. A rotary's banshee wail rising and falling as it bounced off the guardrails and cliff faces. A moment later, headlights cut through the trees, and the unmistakable silhouettes of two RX-7s appeared—one clean white FC, and the other, an FD painted in deep, venomous midnight purple. They rolled to a smooth halt behind Feixiao's silver Lancer Evolution, their idle notes throbbing through the pavement.
From the FC stepped Ningguang, elegance incarnate even in casual wear, her posture regal, hair immaculate. Keqing exited the FD with quieter purpose, her violet gaze sweeping the scene like a scanner locking onto its targets.
Feixiao greeted them with a knowing smile and a slight nod. "Hey, Ningguang. Keqing. Glad you made it."
Ningguang's trademark smirk formed effortlessly. "Of course. Heard whispers of a special match-up tonight, and I couldn't resist coming to see it for myself. Hope we're not intruding."
Feixiao chuckled, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Not at all. It's going to be a damn good one."
Then, another sound. A different beast this time—guttural, rasping, low to the ground and ready to pounce. The Lancia's supercharged four-cylinder echoed through the pass like a beast with a cage too small. Clorinde's 037 led the second convoy around the bend, headlights sharp and bright as daggers. The wedge-shaped body of the car looked like it belonged in a museum or a warzone—pure motorsport brutality. No frills. No forgiveness.
Behind her came Beidou's deep black R32, burbling with menace, followed by the infamous Devil Z—its straight-piped L28 snarling like a caged animal. Seele sat behind the wheel, a glint in her eye, while Pela rode shotgun, ever-observant.
As the cars pulled into the rest area, Clorinde brought the Lancia to a deliberate stop a few feet from the others. The door creaked open, and Collei stepped out, unbuckling her harness with practiced speed. She didn't slam the door—just closed it with a firm click, turning toward the driver's side with a grin.
"Give her hell, Clorinde."
Clorinde gave a half-smile in return, calm and cold like tempered steel. "Will do, Collei."
With a touch of throttle, she eased the Lancia toward the starting line, its headlights illuminating the faint dust hanging in the air.
Collei approached the group at the summit, giving a cheerful wave. "Hey, guys! Didn't expect all of you to show up."
Feixiao returned the gesture with a warm smile, eyes flicking to the cars as they parked. "Wouldn't miss it."
Ningguang nodded with approval. "Looks like the whole scene came out tonight."
Then the wind changed. It came out of nowhere—a sharp, sudden draft that whipped down from the peak. The trees rustled above, and a few dry leaves spiraled down lazily onto the pavement. One brittle, curled leaf landed squarely in front of Feixiao's boots. She crouched, picked it up, and turned it over in her fingers.
"These things," she said, holding it up, "they look like nothing. But on a narrow pass? On cold tarmac? They're more dangerous than black ice. If the shoulders are full of them... someone's gonna learn the hard way tonight."
Ningguang narrowed her eyes, her tone edged with irritation. "Of all the things to overlook, it had to be something as basic as leaf buildup."
Down the road, the tension shifted like a pressure drop in the air. Clorinde and Yoimiya stood beside their machines—two racers, two philosophies, two weapons. Clorinde's 037 sat low and brutal, every rivet and vent screaming purpose. Beside it, Yoimiya's white Sierra Cosworth had a more grounded stance, its stance square and wide like a sprinter bracing to launch.
Neither spoke at first. Then Yoimiya broke the silence.
"Let me lay it out for you. We start together. First to the bottom wins. Doesn't matter how many passes we make—just who crosses that line first."
Clorinde gave a short nod, eyes focused and unreadable. "Fine by me. Let's get it done."
They each stepped into their cockpits. Harnesses clicked. Shifters were gripped tight. Pedals were flexed under practiced feet. The Lancia's starter whined once before the engine barked to life with a mechanical snarl. The Cosworth answered with a sharp, angry growl—more raw, more aggressive, like it had something to prove.
Collei moved between them, confidence in her step despite the growing tension. She raised her hand high, silhouetted in both sets of headlights. Her voice rang out, cutting across the silence like a blade.
"FIVE!"
"FOUR!"
"THREE!"
"TWO!"
"ONE!"
"GO!!!"
Her hand snapped down, and the stillness detonated into chaos.
Both cars launched off the line—rubber screamed, smoke rose, and the scent of burnt clutch and high-octane fuel filled the mountain air. The Lancia's rear wheels clawed at the tarmac with feral urgency, its rear-engine layout giving Clorinde the jump. She surged forward like she'd been fired from a gun.
Yoimiya dropped the clutch harder than usual, letting the Cosworth's suspension compress under the torque. She gritted her teeth as the car bucked slightly, tires spinning just enough to lose a fraction of a second. But she wasn't shaken. Her eyes narrowed, laser-locked on Clorinde's taillights.
"She's fast. That's no homologated 037 Stradale—that's the raw, unfiltered Group B machine," Yoimiya muttered, knuckles tightening on the wheel. "That engine… it eats mine for breakfast."
They dove into the first hairpin, both cars initiating the drift with precise timing. Clorinde braked with her left foot while keeping the throttle pinned, letting the car rotate cleanly through the bend. Her rear slid just wide enough to kiss the painted curb.
Yoimiya followed close behind, trail braking aggressively and letting her rear slide out in a tight arc. Her tires screeched in protest, but the Cosworth snapped into line just behind the Lancia.
Back at the summit, a voice crackled over Feixiao's radio. "Clorinde's in the lead. She held it through the first corner. No changes."
Seele leaned on the Devil Z, arms crossed, smirking. "That's our girl. She's gonna run this one clean."
But Feixiao didn't look convinced. She leaned against the railing, eyes narrowed toward the far slope. "Don't count Yoimiya out just yet."
Keqing turned toward her. "You sound like you know something."
Feixiao nodded slowly. "It's the lines on Jakotsu. If you know where to dive, you can cut corners most wouldn't dare touch. But that's not all—it's the footwork."
She gestured with her hands as if feeling the pedals beneath her own feet. "Left-foot braking while keeping pressure on the throttle. It's not something most street racers do, but Yoimiya learned it from rally. When you brake with your left foot, you shift the weight to the front, kill understeer, and sharpen your angle into the corner. Done right, you can hit hairpins without ever fully lifting."
Pela's eyes lit up. "She's going full rally style tonight…"
Feixiao nodded. "If she gets the timing right… she might just send that Lancia into her rearview."
The wind picked up again. And with it, a dry leaf fluttered across the pavement, twirling once before settling into the dark.
At the starting line, Collei's expression tightened into a grimace. Her eyes, usually calm and observant, darted between the two cars like a hawk watching the opening move of a duel.
"I wouldn't want to be in Clorinde's shoes right now," she muttered, voice low but audible over the idle growl of engines. "Racing the daughter of a rally legend on a technical course like this? I must've missed something when I went up against Feixiao… something big."
Beidou folded her arms, nodding solemnly. "Yoimiya's definitely hiding something. She's got that fire in her eyes tonight. This isn't just another race to her."
Down the mountain, the real war was already unfolding. The Lancia 037 and the Sierra RS Cosworth had cleared several hairpins and short straights, carving through the mountain like blades dancing on a razor's edge. Tension ratcheted tighter with every corner exit, every fleeting gain and instant of loss. Clorinde's 037, all carbon-fiber aggression and howling supercharged fury, stayed ahead—barely. The machine clawed at the tarmac with surgical precision, the rear-engine layout giving her just enough bite to fend off Yoimiya's relentless pressure.
Yoimiya, her gloved hands white-knuckled on the wheel, muttered through gritted teeth as another gust of wind swept a flurry of dried leaves across her line. "Damn it! This wind's fucking everything. If I clip a pile on the throttle, I'm gone… and if she does it, with that mid-engine setup, she's going into a snap spin."
The Sierra shuddered slightly as she adjusted her line, tires grazing the shoulder where leaves collected like landmines. She flicked her gaze to the Lancia just ahead. "That thing's fast, and it's no Stradale. That's the real deal—Group B. Lightweight shell, full cage, tuned suspension, raw power. It's a beast, and she knows how to drive it."
Up ahead, another tight hairpin approached fast. Clorinde's jaw clenched as she felt her rear tires lose a hair of traction. The Lancia's nose twitched—nothing fatal, but enough to raise alarms.
"Shit," she hissed. "This wind's kicking the leaves around like confetti. One wrong angle, one bad slide, and I'm spinning. I can't grip my way through this—I'll have to let the car float. Let the chassis do the work."
She shifted her hands lower on the wheel, calming her breathing. Just before the turn-in, she flicked the steering left, then hard right, unloading the rear—Scandinavian flick. The Lancia's tail stepped out in a fluid arc, and as her rear tires kissed a mound of brittle leaves, they kicked up into the air like shrapnel.
Yoimiya's field of view was suddenly flooded by airborne debris. She tensed, the wheel jerking in her hands. "What the fuck is she doing!?"
The answer came too fast to ponder. Clorinde was drifting—using the unstable surface as a controlled loss of traction. The flick was clean, surgical even, the car gliding through the apex like it had grown wings.
Yoimiya's lips twitched into a lopsided grin as she regained visual. "You're drifting through leaves… you're fucking crazy! But I like it."
Both cars powered out of the corner in unison, but the Lancia had opened a small gap. Nothing huge—but enough to tilt the scales.
"You're good, Clorinde," Yoimiya muttered, feathering her throttle through the straight. "But I've got my own card to play."
A voice echoed in her head—deep, calm, unmistakable. Her father, Feixiao.
"The lines you follow in the hairpins will lead you straight to the inside shoulder. That's where you make your move—when they least expect it."
Yoimiya's breath steadied. Her fingers flexed on the wheel. "This only works once. Timing's everything."
Ahead, Turn 33 loomed. A tight, brutal left-hander with a steep camber on the inside and a slight incline just before the apex. If you knew it was there, and had the guts, you could use it.
Up at the summit, Feixiao's radio crackled to life. "Turn 33! I hear them coming! I'll keep eyes on!"
The sound of engines—one snarling, the other screaming—echoed through the trees.
At full tilt, the Lancia and Sierra came barreling down the stretch. Yoimiya's foot slammed the gas to the floorboard, the Cosworth roaring in protest as she reached redline.
"This ends at Turn 33!"
She braked hard—too early by normal standards—slamming the transmission down a gear. The tires wailed. Clorinde matched her entry, but the Lancia's more rearward balance allowed a smoother trail brake into the apex.
But Yoimiya had no intention of following tradition.
She yanked the handbrake hard. The rear snapped loose. In one violent motion, she pitched the Sierra sideways and aligned it dead-on with the incline. Her timing was perfect.
"Here goes nothing!"
She floored the throttle. The turbo spooled. The rear tires bit. The car launched off the shoulder like a missile, momentarily airborne—sailing clean over the corner's inner radius. Sparks exploded as the undercarriage scraped asphalt on landing. The Sierra slammed down, suspension compressed to the limit—but she stuck the landing.
She had passed Clorinde mid-corner.
Clorinde's eyes blew wide. "What the fuck was that!?"
Up at the summit, chaos.
"She jumped through the hairpin!?" Feixiao shouted, pacing like a madwoman. "She passed the Lancia! She's fucking insane!"
Yoimiya stabilized the Cosworth, the steering wheel twitching in her grip. Her grin was wild, exhilarated. "I'm not doing that shit again. But I've got the lead. Now I hold it."
But behind her, Clorinde's pupils narrowed into razor slits. Her blood boiled—not with rage, but determination. That wasn't just guts. That was brilliance.
"You think I'll let you beat me with a crazy-ass stunt like that?" she snarled. "If you're that crazy—then so am I."
At the next hairpin, Yoimiya played it safe—a traditional drift, no theatrics, perfect control. But Clorinde braked late, yanked her handbrake, and pointed the nose of the Lancia toward the exact jump line Yoimiya had taken.
Throttle down. Boost engaged. The rear dug in. The Lancia launched.
The 037 flew like a spear thrown by a vengeful god. The rear-heavy layout balanced it beautifully in mid-air. Sparks tore from the steel belly as it landed hard—but true.
The landing was smoother than Yoimiya's.
The gap vanished in an instant.
In her mirror, Yoimiya caught sight of the Lancia's headlights reappearing like ghosts. Her jaw dropped.
"No way… she nailed it!? On the first fucking try!?"
Now it was on. Yoimiya pushed the Cosworth harder than ever, the turbo screaming for mercy. But the Lancia was reeling her in, inch by inch, foot by foot. The road twisted, writhed, coiled back on itself—but Clorinde's tires stayed glued to every angle.
As they approached the long straight before the first bridge, Clorinde's mind sharpened. A memory surfaced.
Arlecchino. Calm. Calculated.
"Right before the first bridge, there's a spot where the road's dirt meets a slight elevation change. If you hook your left wheels into that, you'll close the gap in a way she won't expect."
Clorinde's lips curved into a razor-thin smile.
"That's it."
She dropped a gear, the Lancia's revs flaring high. The road was about to open up—one chance, one move. And she was ready to make it.
Approaching the fast left-hand turn before the bridge, Clorinde's eyes narrowed, pupils darting to the road's edge. There—just as Arlecchino had described. The subtle lip in the asphalt where the road's inside shoulder dipped into a gutter-like elevation. She didn't hesitate. With a precise twitch of the wheel, she angled her Lancia's nose toward the inside and let her left-side tires drop into the groove.
The effect was instantaneous. The elevation change cradled the tires, letting her carry brutal cornering speed through the apex while the centrifugal load slung the Lancia forward like a shot out of a railgun. The suspension compressed and groaned under the torque, but the car held its line with near-mechanical precision. A burst of violent lateral grip kicked her out of the curve like a slingshot, the turbocharged engine howling at redline in third.
The Lancia surged forward, eating up the remaining gap between her and the Sierra's tail like a beast unchained.
Yoimiya's eyes widened as the Lancia appeared alongside her, ghosting up on her flank as if materializing from nowhere. Her fingers clenched white on the wheel.
"No way… That's impossible!"
The roar of dual exhausts harmonized into a singular battle cry as the two machines blasted onto the bridge side by side, the steel beams above echoing their fury. Yoimiya jammed the throttle deeper, pushing every ounce of torque the Cosworth's turbo-four could give her—but the difference in power-to-weight was no longer theoretical. The Lancia crept ahead, inch by ruthless inch.
Clorinde's gloved hands never shook. Her right foot stayed planted, her tach needle kissing the redline as they rocketed across the second bridge. The Cosworth's valiant resistance began to falter under the sustained pressure. Yoimiya could only watch as the pale blur of the Lancia slipped in front of her, crossing the third and final bridge with unwavering momentum.
Clorinde didn't cheer. She didn't pump her fist. Her expression stayed hard, focused, until the finish line swept beneath her front bumper like a ribbon cut in silence.
Only then did she lift her foot.
Yoimiya eased off the gas, letting her engine cool in the deceleration. The fight was over, and her exhale came long and slow—half defeat, half awe. Her lips curled into a tired grin.
"It's over… I was outperformed," she admitted to the wind. "But damn, Clorinde, you're one hell of a driver. I'm glad I got to race you."
Up at the summit, the static-ridden radio crackled like an old vinyl waking from sleep.
"Turn 39 reporting—Clorinde crosses first! She wins!"
Feixiao snapped upright, a grin breaking across her face as her headset caught the words.
"The last rear-wheel-drive rally champion prevails. Well done, Clorinde!"
Ningguang gave a faint nod, arms crossed, calm and calculated. "A well-fought race."
Keqing exhaled through her nose, smirking. "Let's go."
The crowd around them began to thin, whispers of admiration and disbelief following in their wake like the scent of burnt rubber and hot oil.
Down near the pull-over spot by the intersection, Yoimiya brought her Cosworth to a slow roll before parking behind the Lancia. Her steps were light as she approached, but the fatigue in her shoulders betrayed the strain she'd carried through the battle.
Clorinde was leaning against her car, arms folded, her silhouette backlit by the Lancia's amber parking lamps glowing in the chill of night.
"Looks like I was outpowered by your Lancia," Yoimiya said, offering her hand without hesitation. "Sorry about what I said yesterday. I know how much that car means to you."
Clorinde looked at the hand for a breath, then shook it firmly. Her voice was steady but not cold. "Don't worry about it. Sometimes we let our emotions get the better of us."
Yoimiya laughed softly, running a hand through her sweat-matted bangs. "Tell me about it. That was a hell of a race. I'll see you around!" She flashed a wink before turning back toward her Sierra.
Her engine fired up with a throaty bark, and in moments she was gone—taillights disappearing into the descending road like fireflies in the dark.
Clorinde turned back to her Lancia, the machine still ticking softly as it cooled, headlights spilling golden light over the autumn-washed roadside. She laid a gloved hand on the front clam, her expression unreadable for a long moment.
"You're one hell of a car," she murmured, voice low with earned respect.
Above, the stars blinked cold and indifferent, but the night felt electric—charged with victory, adrenaline, and something else. Something resolute.
The chill of autumn kissed her collar, but it wasn't the kind of cold that pierced. It was the kind that sharpened. That carried her forward.
Another win. Another test passed.
Next year, the expedition with Ningguang's team awaited—and tonight, she knew she was ready.