As the night deepens and the moon ascends high into the velvet-black sky, the summit of Musouji Pass thrums with latent energy. A chill rides the mountain breeze, sharp and invigorating, carrying with it the scent of pine resin, cold rock, and the faint tang of gasoline and scorched rubber.
Heizou leans with deliberate ease against the gleaming flank of his Subaru Impreza WRX STI, its World Rally Blue paint shimmering faintly under the scattered overhead lights. The hood radiates residual warmth, ticking faintly as the engine cools. Not far off, Thoma stands beside his white ST205 Celica GT-Four, arms folded, shoulders stiff beneath his jacket. The Toyota's bodywork gleams like ivory in the dim light, its rally-spec fog lamps catching every glint of dew in the air.
Heizou pushes off the Subaru, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket before sauntering toward Thoma. There's a casual air about him, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—betray the constant mental calibration happening behind them. His gaze glides along the Celica's chassis, lingering on the widened fenders, the gleam of drilled rotors behind OZ Racing wheels, the telltale bulge of the hood scoop.
"So," Heizou begins, hands slipping into his pockets, voice steady and nonchalant. "You finish your checks for the downhill against the Eight-Six?"
Thoma exhales through his nose, lips curling with dry amusement. "You know I don't put much stock in that stuff." He shrugs lightly, though his stance doesn't relax. His eyes drift toward the treeline as if searching for something just out of reach. "Truth is, I'm not as hyped as I thought I'd be. There's this weird weight in my chest—like something's off."
Heizou tilts his head, smirking knowingly. "Because of your opponent?"
Thoma pauses. "…Yeah. Maybe. I mean, out of all the cars they could've sent, why an Eight-Six? It just feels… unbalanced. I'm in a GT-Four with all-wheel-drive, rally-tuned suspension, and turbo power. That old Toyota is from another era. Honestly? Feels like squaring up to a middle schooler in a bar fight."
Heizou chuckles, but there's a flicker of steel behind the humor. "Then you're in better shape than me."
Thoma blinks. "What?"
Heizou gestures with his chin toward the lineup of parked cars. "Because I'm racing a fucking Group B monster."
Thoma's brows shoot up. "Wait—what?!"
Heizou's expression darkens as he says it again, slower this time. "A Lancia Rally 037. Legit. I saw it earlier, parked next to the Eight-Six. It's not a replica. It's the real deal. A race-spec 1983 World Rally Championship winner."
Thoma exhales, low and sharp. "Shit. That's a goddamn death machine. You've got it worse than I do."
Before Heizou can reply, the low rumble of engines in the distance pulls their attention eastward. Headlights emerge, carving twin blades through the darkness as the unmistakable silhouette of a white-and-black Toyota AE86 Trueno leads a modest HiAce van up the incline. The boxy coupe glides to a stop directly in front of the Celica, engine idling smoothly, exhaust pulsing with rhythmic intent.
The driver's door swings open. Collei steps out—calm, composed, wearing a plain zip-up and fingerless gloves, her green eyes sharp under the halogen glow. The hush that falls over the lot is instinctive.
"I'm Collei," she says, voice level.
Thoma nods, sizing her up—but his composure cracks for a split second. She's… young. Way younger than he expected. And yet, there's something in her posture—shoulders relaxed, stance balanced, eyes unshaking—that unsettles him more than her age.
"Thoma," he replies, slower this time.
Keqing approaches from the side, tablet in one hand, voice clipped and professional. "We'd like to run this battle leader-chaser. As the locals, you can choose whether to lead or chase."
Thoma thinks for a moment. "I'll chase."
Keqing taps her screen, nodding once. "Noted. Let's get this started."
The teams scatter to their respective roles. Collei walks back to her car with Keqing. Thoma's gaze lingers on her as she chats quietly with her team, his stomach twisting. There's a strange aura around her—a soft greenish glow not quite visible, but felt in the bones. Like she was born on a winding road in the rain.
He leans toward Heizou. "She's not going to be easy," he mutters.
Over near the vans, Ningguang holds her phone to her ear. "So, he's chasing?" she murmurs. "Pass the phone to Collei. I need a word."
Keqing hands it over.
"Collei."
"Yeah."
"Two instructions," Ningguang says, voice cold and clear. "One: do not look at your rearview mirror. Not even once. Focus forward. Completely. Got it?"
"…Got it."
She hands the phone back and climbs into her AE86, strapping in with practiced precision. Belts tight. Gloves snug. Tach needle bouncing at idle. The moment she slots the gearbox into first with a satisfying click, her mind blanks out the world—no thoughts, no doubts, just road.
Thoma watches her from his own cockpit, tightening his belts. His hands curl around the Momo steering wheel of the GT-Four. His heart isn't hammering—it's waiting. Listening. Reading. Anticipating.
Why an Eight-Six?
He watches as Collei flashes her hazards once. The signal. They roll forward, building pace slowly as they approach the start point. The road stretches ahead—part uphill, part downhill, broken up by tight corners, off-camber turns, treacherous S-bends.
The moment the starter waves them off, both cars erupt.
Collei's foot mashes the throttle. The 4A-GE 20V engine snarls with a high-pitched fury, revs screaming to 9,000 RPM as the AE86 launches, tires gripping hard. She snatches second, then third, her left hand precise on the shifter, right foot dancing between throttle and brake. As they dive into the first tight right-hander, she slams the brakes, heel-toes a downshift to second, and the rear end swings wide—perfect, balanced, controlled.
Four-wheel drift.
Behind her, Thoma grips through the same corner, trail braking in, ABS chirping once as he modulates the pressure manually—just like Xingqiu taught him. No electronics. No cheating. Just mechanical grip and instinct.
Back in the lot, Clorinde walks over to Ningguang. "You told her something."
"I gave her instructions," Ningguang replies, her eyes on the horizon. "She's not to check her mirror. Not even once. One look back, and the race is lost. Focus is everything."
Down on the pass, the AE86 flows through a series of tight esses like a current down a stream, each transition crisp. The car's balance is absurd—front end biting hard, rear swinging just enough to rotate without scrubbing speed.
Thoma's Celica is raw power and precision, his AWD system clawing for traction, but Collei's lines are cleaner—sharper. She's milking every inch of the lane, apexing within a breath of the guardrail.
Thoma mutters under his breath, eyes locked forward. "She's fast. Engine revs like mine. Could be NA. 2.0 liter maybe. That thing's no stock Eight-Six…"
They hit another series of switchbacks. Collei flicks into a downhill left, initiates a feint drift—right, then snap left, weight transfer perfect—and slides through the corner with surgical finesse. The rear tires scream briefly but never lose control. Her tach needle dances just below redline. Third gear. Screaming.
Thoma growls, foot heavy on the gas. "Alright, no more holding back."
He drops a gear, turbo spooling as he closes the gap on the exit. Then—the tight right-hander. He spots Collei braking early, her car tucked in clean on entry.
Now.
He dives to the inside, stomping hard on the brakes. Too hard.
His foot slams the pedal—instinct, not calculation—and the front tires lock up instantly. No ABS to save him. The GT-Four screeches in protest, front wheels deadlocked as the weight shifts forward violently. The car slides, tires screaming, momentum outpacing traction.
"Shit—!"
The Celica veers wide on exit, understeering as the locked wheels bite too late. Thoma wrestles the wheel, countersteering to correct, but the moment's gone—Collei's AE86 has already vanished into the shadows ahead, taillights shrinking into the next corner.
In the silence of his cockpit, all Thoma can hear now is the ringing of his tires in his skull.
And the growing realization that this race… is slipping away.
Meanwhile, Collei deftly eases off the brakes, every motion fluid, deliberate—an extension of muscle memory honed through countless late-night runs on Mount Yougou. Her heel shifts smoothly from brake to throttle, her toes feathering the gas as she modulates the weight transfer. The rear tires of the Eight-Six slip just enough—precisely the right amount—initiating a clean, arcing drift through the hairpin. The chassis rotates effortlessly, front tires angled dead ahead with no countersteer input. It's a textbook four-wheel drift, the kind that would earn a silent nod from Arlecchino herself. The rear end swings out but never breaks control, the Trueno slicing through the curve like a scalpel. The instant the exit appears, Collei feathers the throttle again and punches the gas. The AE86 bites down hard on the pavement, shooting forward, blocking Thoma's attempted overtake with surgical accuracy.
Inside the Celica, Thoma feels his foot tense on the throttle, the surge of torque suddenly feeling inadequate. His brow furrows, sweat beginning to bead along his temple despite the cold. "Her focus on the road is unbelievable," he mutters, voice tight between clenched teeth. "I've been tailing her this whole time, trying to squeeze her, force a mistake—hell, even a twitch. Nothing. No hesitation. No overreaction. She's fucking unshakable."
His grip on the steering wheel tightens. Even in the GT-Four, with its superior power and all-wheel drive advantage, he's finding no cracks in her defense. "Even the best students at Feiyun would crack under this kind of pressure," he thinks, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.
In the Eight-Six, Collei's eyes remain locked on the road. Her knuckles pale against the black leather of the Nardi wheel, but her breathing stays steady. Controlled. Focused. Each apex, each brake zone, each gearshift becomes its own micro-battle in a war of attrition. She doesn't need to see Thoma's Celica in her mirrors—she feels it, like a shadow pressing against her rear bumper. Her heart races, synched perfectly with the engine's furious pulse. "I know you're behind me," she thinks. "But Ningguang gave me two instructions. No distractions. No rearview checks. Eyes forward. Stay on task."
She slams the shifter from third to fourth, the dogleg gearbox clunking with satisfying precision. Her foot crushes the throttle to the floor. The 4A-GE engine, running like a banshee in the upper powerband, screams past 9,000 RPM. Collei's fingers flick a quick glance at the tachometer—needle just kissing the redline. Her revs spike, high-pitched and razor-sharp, the sound splitting the silence of the mountains.
Back at the parking lot, Clorinde stands at the edge of the guardrail, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her eyes track the distant echoes of shrieking engines and squealing tires. Something about this race—itches. It's clean. Too clean.
She finally turns toward Ningguang, her voice low but edged with challenge. "You spoke to her before the race. What was the second instruction you gave?"
Ningguang doesn't answer right away. Instead, she watches the road quietly, as if measuring something unseen. Then, slowly, her lips curl into a smile—thin, sharp. "Rev limiting."
Clorinde blinks. "What?"
"She's holding back," Ningguang says coolly, turning her gaze on Clorinde. "You know what her engine can do. It's a high-revving 4A-GE, balanced to run near eleven thousand. But for this run, I told her to cap it at nine."
Clorinde lets out a sharp exhale, realization dawning in her eyes. "A bluff."
Ningguang nods. "A restraint, more accurately. It helps Collei focus—prevents her from getting too caught up in the thrill. She's not a trickster. She's a soldier. I'm managing her tempo for her." She pauses. "But it also keeps our opponent guessing. Makes them think they've seen her peak."
A faint smirk tugs at Clorinde's lips. "Smart."
Back on the pass, the final stretch comes into view—a long, sweeping series of corners leading down into a gentle braking zone. The straightaway stretches into the distance, barely visible beyond the glow of the headlights. Both engines howl in perfect sync. Thoma digs deep, pushing the GT-Four for every ounce of grip it has, while Collei holds steady, refusing to break formation.
They cross the finish line in lockstep. No overtakes. No positions gained. Just raw, matched aggression from beginning to end.
The cars decelerate, letting their brakes breathe. Their exhausts pop and crackle as they roll to a slow stop and turn back up the hill, engines idling low, tire smoke trailing faintly behind them. No words are exchanged, but the tension is thick. One round down. One more to go.
At the top, they park in silence. Keqing approaches with an arm raised. "This time, roles reverse. Collei will chase. Thoma leads."
Collei closes her eyes, lets out a single long breath, and straps her gloves tighter. "Now it's my turn," she whispers. Her fingers flex against the wheel. Her mind clears. "Let's see what you're really made of."
In the Celica, Thoma tilts his rearview mirror slightly, catching the nose of the Eight-Six as it creeps up behind. "She held her ground last time," he mutters. "Impressive. But now she has to follow my pace. Let's see if she can keep up."
Their engines rumble to life again, building to a throaty growl. Both machines roll forward slowly. Keqing raises two fingers, standing between them. Her voice slices through the silence.
"All right. Second run. Get ready."
She steps back, and the mountain holds its breath. The cars creep forward through the initial slope, just past the first curve. The instant they clear the apex, the spell breaks.
Both drivers slam the gas.
Engines roar like unleashed beasts, screaming across the uneven straight, the Celica's turbocharged torque tugging it forward with brute force, while the AE86 responds with a razor-fine climb in RPMs, every gear change screaming into the night.
Thoma glances into his rearview again—just once. The Eight-Six is there. Still on him.
"Alright," he breathes, voice low, like a mantra. "I've learned everything I need to know. Her rev range. Her powerband. Her line through the corners. Now it's time to cut the rope."
But behind him, Collei shifts gears again—and this time, she doesn't let off at nine. The tachometer needle soars past the artificial redline, climbing relentlessly.
9,000.
9,500.
10,000.
10,700.
11,000 RPM.
She hits fifth gear with a clean, crisp throw, engine howling like an angry ghost. The Eight-Six explodes forward, the entire chassis vibrating from the high-rev torque now fully unleashed.
Up ahead, Thoma swings into a left-hand sweeper, hugging the inside with surgical grip. But just a few car lengths back, Collei comes in hot. Too hot—for anyone else.
She initiates late. Brake, clutch, downshift—two gears. The car slides.
The rear end arcs wide, tires howling, suspension compressed from the g-forces. Her countersteer is nonexistent. It's the same perfect four-wheel drift—but now, faster. Tighter. Riskier.
The gap evaporates.
Collei's headlights blaze into Thoma's mirrors. Her silhouette is unmistakable now. The time for hiding is over.
Collei's pupils constrict as the scenery blurs past, her focus locked tight on the Celica's taillights just ahead. Her breath is shallow, precise—timed with the Eight-Six's heartbeat, synced with the surge of every RPM. "You've got speed," she mutters, voice low and controlled beneath the wail of the engine. "I'll give you that. But let's see if you can hold on when it counts."
Down at the summit parking lot, the quiet hum of engines fades beneath Ningguang's composed voice as she continues, almost unconcerned, her hands folded behind her back.
"When Collei is chasing," she says, her tone smooth and surgical, "her ability to focus sharpens like a knife. Her brain doesn't process turns or corners like most drivers—it's closer to instinct than calculation. She doesn't analyze lines. She feels them. It's not just skill—it's synchrony. If the lead driver's pace is a rope, Collei becomes the counterweight. She won't just match it. She'll stretch it—until it snaps."
On the pass, the mountain roars.
The Celica and the Eight-Six plunge into an S-turn hairpin, a vicious left-right combo with minimal runoff. Both drivers brake hard—Collei's heel dances between pedal and throttle as she blips the downshift with perfect timing. The Eight-Six's chassis flexes under the g-force, but she keeps it composed—no tail wiggle, no steering correction. Just clean rotation. Her front bumper creeps in, now barely a hand's width from the Celica's rear diffuser.
Inside the Celica, Thoma's jaw tightens, the corner of his lip twitching. He can feel the presence behind him like hot breath on his neck.
"No… no way. I should've figured out her limit by now," he mutters, panic beginning to creep into the edges of his voice. "I've read that car's rhythm. I know how it revs. How the hell is she still there?"
Behind him, Collei's breathing becomes sharper, tighter. Her grip on the wheel tightens, calloused fingers going pale as she clenches the leather-wrapped rim. The course is foreign—an unfamiliar beast with sharp teeth and sudden drop-offs—but her instincts scream at her to push. Her pulse pounds like a snare drum.
"I've never driven on a road like this… but if I ease off now, that's it. The chance disappears." Her foot slams the gas pedal down again. "I won't let that happen."
The Eight-Six rockets forward out of the apex, exhaust screaming like a banshee. The needle jumps, bouncing past 10,000, past 10,500, kissing 11,000 before she slams the shifter—ka-chunk—into fifth.
Back at the summit, the gravel crunches under new footsteps. Ganyu arrives, her eyes wide as she catches the tail end of the engine screams from below. Clorinde turns slightly, offering a nod. Ningguang doesn't break her gaze from the mountain.
"If Collei keeps up this pressure," Ningguang says, her voice now dipping into analytical sharpness, "something new will come into play."
Ganyu glances over. "What do you mean?"
Clorinde smirks and crosses her arms. "It's about drivetrain dynamics. That Celica's 4WD—good for grip, especially on rough patches. But the front wheels are doing too much—pulling the car forward and steering it. Under pressure like this, they wear fast. That, plus the Celica's weight, means one thing: those front tires are gonna give out."
Ningguang nods subtly. "He pushed hard in the first run. Now, he's paying for it."
Right on cue, on the course, Thoma takes a shallow right-hander. He turns the wheel in—but the Celica doesn't respond like it should. The nose drifts wide, the front wheels sliding over the edge of grip. The chassis bucks slightly as he fights to keep it composed.
"Shit," Thoma hisses. "Front end's going light—I'm losing turn-in! Damn it… I went too aggressive out the gate!"
Inside the Eight-Six, Collei's sharp eyes pick it up instantly. The line of the Celica's rear changes—subtle, but unmistakable. A wobble. A missed apex. "Not just my imagination," she murmurs, the edges of her lips curling upward. "He's struggling. Next hairpin… that's my window."
At the summit, Clorinde casts a glance at Ningguang, her mind already working through the possibilities.
"If it were you, where would you try the overtake?" she asks.
Ningguang doesn't answer at first. Her eyes are half-lidded, cool as glass.
"That depends on the gearing," she finally says. "Every driver has a weak point—an uncertain moment where they don't know whether to hold a gear or upshift. That moment creates hesitation. And hesitation opens a gap."
Clorinde's smile returns. "Ah. And because the Eight-Six revs way higher, it doesn't suffer that delay. So while Thoma's stuck in a shift, Collei's already in the throttle."
Ningguang smiles slyly. "That's why we capped her RPMs on the first run. Now Thoma won't see it coming."
On the course, the Eight-Six screams at 11,000 RPM—Collei's engine now fully unleashed. She charges through a downhill left-hander, eyes locked onto the Celica. Thoma makes his upshift—a half-second of power interruption.
Collei seizes the moment.
Clutch in—snick—gear change—clutch out. The Eight-Six lunges ahead. Her front bumper comes parallel with the Celica's door. Both engines scream in unison, echoing off the rock walls. They surge into a fast right-hand curve, side-by-side.
Inside the Celica, Thoma's jaw drops. "You've gotta be kidding me!"
He brakes late—too late.
Both drivers slam the brakes for the final hairpin, but Thoma's front tires are cooked. They lock up almost instantly, his ABS barely keeping the car in line. The Celica plows forward in understeer.
Collei, meanwhile, feather-touches her brakes with surgical precision. She blips the throttle twice—pop-pop—then slams down two gears. The Eight-Six dances into the corner, weight shifted perfectly over the front tires. She doesn't slide. She flows. One precise line, one clean rotation.
The moment they exit, the AE86 bursts forward—clean, controlled, dominant.
Collei takes the lead.
And with it, the race.
The Eight-Six crosses the finish line a full car length ahead of the Celica. Her undefeated streak remains intact.
At the parking lot, the crowd stirs as the two cars return. Collei parks neatly beside Team Speed Stars. The Celica rolls to a stop next to Heizou's WRX STI, its brake rotors glowing dull red.
Thoma steps out, sweat dotting his brow, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. "I… I lost."
Heizou walks up, jaw slack. "How the hell did she catch you?"
Thoma wipes his forehead and glances at the front tires—chewed and feathered to the edges. "Tire wear. I locked up on the last hairpin… damn near kissed the wall. She spotted the window and didn't even blink."
Across the lot, Collei pops her door open. The crew rushes in—Clorinde, Ganyu, Albedo, Navia, Keqing, Ningguang already closing the distance.
Ningguang's hand goes up in an enthusiastic high-five. "Nicely done, Collei! You were flawless."
Collei grins, cheeks glowing red beneath sweat-soaked bangs. "Th-thank you, Ningguang…"
But the night isn't over.
As the engines cool and the racers regroup, new tension fills the air. The next battle awaits—Clorinde's brutal mid-engine, rear-wheel-drive Lancia 037 against Heizou's modern WRX STI. Two completely different philosophies. Two titans on a collision course.
And everyone knows it.
The real storm is just beginning.