The following morning.
4:00 a.m.
The skies above Yougou Pass were painted in slate gray, a thick curtain of autumn fog cloaking the mountainside in a dreamlike stillness. The kind of quiet that seeped into your bones. Cold air bit at exposed skin, numbing fingers and making each breath puff out like smoke. The only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the highland breeze—until the unmistakable click of a lighter flicking broke the silence.
Arlecchino stood beside Collei's Eight-Six, a thermos in one hand, the other resting on the damp roof of the Trueno. Dew coated the windows like a thin coat of frost, beading and running in slow trails. She took a long drag from her cigarette, then exhaled through her nose like a dragon before stubbing it out with her heel.
"You were up late last night…" she muttered, eyes half-lidded as she glanced sideways at Collei, who shuffled up toward the car in a hoodie, her messy hair barely tamed into a ponytail. "Mind telling me where you went?"
Collei yawned, stretching both arms over her head as her spine popped audibly. Her voice was gravelly from lack of sleep. "Jakotsu Pass… I challenged a driver I raced before, back when the engine blew."
Arlecchino arched an eyebrow, lips tugging into a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Alright. But here—take this." She held out a paper cup, steam curling upward into the chill air. "Don't want you dozing off and ruining the payload in the trunk. Keep your focus."
Collei took it gratefully, her cold hands absorbing the cup's heat. "Yeah, I know…" she murmured, voice softer now.
She slid into the driver's seat, the smell of dew-soaked upholstery and old engine oil greeting her like an old friend. She set the coffee in the cup holder, one hand on the shifter, the other curling around the worn wheel. Clutch in. Key turned.
The Silvertop 4A-GE came alive with a rasping growl, its idle loping low and steady, like a predator stretching before a hunt.
"Alright, I'm off."
The Trueno rolled down the driveway with a deliberate smoothness, tires crunching over wet gravel. Headlights sliced through the fog like twin blades, carving a path into the murky dawn. Collei disappeared into the haze, engine rumbling into the silence.
Later that morning.
The fog had begun to lift, thinning into mist as the sun rose slowly above the treeline. Collei's Eight-Six cruised along one of Yougou's long, straight valley roads, the engine running at a relaxed hum in fourth gear. Her final tofu delivery of the morning sat safely in the trunk, cushioned and stable. Golden light now spilled over the horizon, catching on damp branches and rooftops in the sleepy town below.
Up ahead—hazard lights.
A bright, flickering amber blinked against the quiet gray.
Collei's brows knitted as her eyes locked onto the silhouette of the vehicle ahead. Angular body. Wide fenders. Distinctive wedge shape. No mistaking it.
The Lancia 037.
She coasted into the parking turnout, rev-matching down into second before easing to a gentle halt behind the Italian legend. Kill switch off. She stepped out, her sneakers crunching against wet pavement.
Leaning against the guardrail, bathed in the glow of the morning sun, stood Clorinde. Hair damp from the mist. Arms crossed. Serene.
"Oh. Hey, Collei!"
Collei approached with a tired smile, giving Clorinde a friendly tap on the back before leaning forward beside her. The cold metal of the railing pressed into her elbows.
"Hey there."
The two of them looked out over Yougou. The last wisps of fog were dissipating like breath on glass, retreating into the mountains. Below, the town slowly came to life. A dog barked in the distance. A few chimneys began to smoke.
"You taking in the view?" Clorinde asked, her voice mellow and genuine.
Collei nodded slowly. "Yeah…"
It was quiet for a while—peaceful. The kind of silence you didn't want to break.
Eventually, Clorinde spoke again, her tone lighter. "I heard about the race between you and Feixiao. Good going, Collei!"
Collei's head snapped toward her, eyes widening. "You know about that? It was just hours ago!"
Clorinde chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "When something like that happens, news spreads like wildfire."
The wind picked up slightly. The sunlight gleamed off the rooftops like embers beginning to glow.
"You know," Clorinde continued, "winter's creeping in. We've got maybe two weeks before the snow sets in for real. And once it melts and spring comes… that's when the expeditionary team's plans really go into motion."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, tone sharpening.
"So… have you made up your mind?"
Collei didn't respond right away. She turned her face back toward the horizon, the sun casting a halo around her bangs. Then, softly but firmly, she nodded.
"Yeah, I have. But… I'm not ready to tell Ningguang yet. There's still something I need to do first. I'll let her know after winter."
Clorinde smiled wide, the gesture warm and proud. "I'm glad to hear it. My plan's simple: refine what I already know. Be faster. Sharper. For now, we'll race together. And maybe… after that final race, wherever it ends up being…"
She turned to Collei, eyes glinting.
"We settle this. No more ties. No more draws. Just you and me, finishing what our fathers started."
Elsewhere — a rural gas station.
The sun had fully broken through now, casting long shadows across the tarmac. March sat on a folding chair outside, idly twirling a wrench. Beidou leaned against a fuel pump, arms crossed. Seele stood nearby, her S30Z parked just out of frame.
Amber leaned against the vending machine, grinning like a fox.
"Collei went up to Jakotsu Pass last night," she declared. "Had a rematch with Feixiao's Lan Evo."
Collective gasps echoed like a bad comedy skit.
"You're kidding," Seele blurted.
"Seriously?!" March added.
Amber just smirked. "Nope. She brought backup, sure. But she didn't need it. She smoked her."
Beidou let out a whoop, punching the air. "Hell yeah!"
Seele grinned. "Looks like she got her revenge. That last time… that engine failure during the first battle? This puts it to rest."
Amber nodded, folding her arms. "Exactly. That chapter's closed now."
Just then, a low, throaty rumble approached the station—distinct and foreign.
A white Ford Sierra RS Cosworth rolled in, its suspension humming slightly from the uneven pavement. The body was weathered but clean, decals minimal. The driver, a young woman with a sun-warmed complexion and boundless energy, stepped out and flashed Beidou a quick smile.
"High-octane. Forty liters, please."
Beidou glanced over her shoulder. "March! Forty high-octane, on the double!"
"Got it!" March beamed, springing into action with the pump.
The driver casually wandered back, eyes scanning the layout of the station.
"Hey, by the way," she asked, "you the driver of that Lancia 037?"
Beidou laughed. "I wish. Nah, that's someone else. And you are…?"
The woman extended her hand. "Name's Naganohara Yoimiya. A buddy of mine said the Lancia driver stops by here now and then."
Off to the side, Lyney, who'd been cleaning the front window with a rag and bucket, froze mid-swipe.
His eyes locked on the license plate: Yashiori 58.
He stared. Recognition hit him like a slap.
No way...
Beidou kept chatting, unaware. "She might swing by later. You can wait if you want."
Lyney slowly walked forward, his expression unreadable.
"Excuse me, miss," he said quietly. "Did you say… Naganohara? Any relation to Ryuunosuke?"
Yoimiya's eyes lit up. "Yeah! He's my dad."
Lyney stood there in stunned silence for a moment, then smiled softly, a little bittersweet.
As Yoimiya drove off, the Cosworth's exhaust note faded into the distance.
Beidou turned to Lyney, brow raised. "So, Boss… who's Naganohara Ryuunosuke?"
March leaned in beside her. "We know who she is, but who the hell was he?"
Lyney set the cleaning cloth aside, gazing off down the road.
"He's a former rally driver. Group B era. I haven't heard from him in twenty years. Drove for Ford—an RS200 Evolution. He wasn't as technically sharp as Arlecchino, but his guts… his aggression… unmatched. He and Clorinde's father clashed so many times it became legend. And when the final race came…"
He looked down, voice distant.
"The 037 took the win. And after that… Ryuunosuke vanished."
Back at Arlecchino's home.
The shrill cry of a landline phone pierced the quiet morning like a dagger. It rang once. Twice. Six times.
Click.
Her voice was calm at first. Controlled.
But as the voice on the other end spoke, her breath hitched.
"...Ryuunosuke? As in Naganohara Ryuunosuke?"
Her grip on the receiver tightened, knuckles whitening.
"It's been a while since we last talked."
As the day wore on, the signature shriek of a high-strung Italian rally engine echoed faintly down the road before tapering off. A moment later, Clorinde's Lancia 037 rolled into the gas station, coasting gracefully across the lot with the kind of poised confidence that only came from a driver who respected their machine—and a machine built for chaos and triumph. The mid-engine whirr quieted into a subdued idle, the 2.0-liter four-cylinder crackling slightly as it cooled, radiating heat through the perforated slats of the rear deck.
The doors unlatched with sharp metallic clunks. Clorinde stepped out with practiced fluidity, her boots hitting the pavement with a faint echo. Collei followed suit from the passenger side, the two women closing the doors almost in sync, the clack of Italian engineering punctuating the air before they strode toward the group clustered near the vending machines under the gas station awning.
Collei's eyes lit up at the sight of the familiar ponytail bouncing as Amber turned her way. Without hesitation, Collei broke into a light jog and pulled Amber into a firm, loving embrace, her arms locking tightly around her waist.
"Hey there, sweetie!" she said, her voice soft but overflowing with warmth.
Amber didn't hesitate—her arms wrapped around Collei's shoulders in return, her smile radiant. "Nice to see you again too. My little angel," she murmured, giving her a fond squeeze.
Collei giggled softly and leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on Amber's cheek. "So, what's going on? I know I took the day off today, but everyone's got this serious vibe. Something happen?"
Beidou, arms crossed and brow furrowed, gave a short nod, her stance all business. "Yeah. About thirty minutes ago, we ran into someone unexpected. The daughter of Clorinde's dad's old rival."
Clorinde's eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of curiosity forming behind them. "Wait—my dad's rival?"
Lyney leaned casually against a lamppost, arms folded, looking as though he'd just dropped the punchline to a joke only he understood. "Yep. You ever hear of a guy named Naganohara?"
The name hit like a jolt of electricity through Clorinde's chest. Her mind churned, assembling fragments of old stories, scattered facts her father had offhandedly mentioned over dinner or while working on the car.
"I've heard of him," she said slowly, voice tightening. "Dad told me about their rivalry… A proper rally champion. My father versus a multiple-stage winner… Naganohara."
Lyney gave a brisk nod, his expression serious now. "That's the one. His daughter—Yoimiya—grew up and took the wheel of his old Ford Sierra RS Cosworth. It's been fully restored. And from what I've seen, she knows how to make it sing."
March, quiet up until now, suddenly perked up and raised a finger like she was solving a mystery on the spot. "Yeah—and she might want to race you, Clorinde."
As if summoned by fate, March's eyes suddenly widened. Her arm shot out, finger pointing to the far end of the lot. "Oh God! Speak of the devil—it's here!"
The distinct rumble of a turbocharged inline-four drifted into earshot, gravel crunching beneath a stiff suspension as a white Ford Sierra RS Cosworth pulled up beside the Lancia. It had the unmistakable silhouette of an '80s rally weapon—boxy, menacing, and full of purpose. The intercooler hissed faintly as the engine settled into idle, the turbo whining softly as it spooled down.
Clorinde turned sharply on her heel, her expression hardening like stone. Her sharp eyes locked onto the figure stepping out of the Cosworth. "Yoimiya…" she muttered, voice like flint striking steel.
The woman who emerged from the driver's seat looked like she belonged behind the wheel—confident, grinning, eyes sharp. She strolled over with a loose, almost cocky gait. "Well, Clorinde… finally met you at last."
Clorinde blinked, caught off guard by the sudden, theatrical introduction. "Uh… Nice to meet you too?"
But Yoimiya's grin faded, giving way to something colder—something rooted in legacy and pride. "Now that we're standing face-to-face, I figure it's about damn time we see who's the better driver between us. Me, with my father's Cosworth… or you, with that fragile little Italian piece over there."
Clorinde's nostrils flared. Her fingers clenched into fists, knuckles bleaching white under her gloves. "Don't talk about the 037 like that," she snapped. "It smoked Audi's Quattro in '83 at the Acropolis. It'll smoke you just as hard."
Yoimiya chuckled, head tilting as if Clorinde's rage amused her. "We'll see about that."
Then she pointed—dead center at Clorinde's chest, arm stiff, hand unwavering. "I challenge you to a downhill race at my home course. Jakotsu Pass. Tomorrow night."
Clorinde's stare didn't waver. Her jaw was set, eyes burning with cold defiance. "I accept."
A breathless silence followed. The tension between them vibrated like a taut wire. Collei, Amber, March, Beidou, and Seele stood frozen nearby, all eyes fixed on the two rivals. No one dared speak. Not yet.
Then, without another word, Yoimiya turned sharply on her heel, walked back to her Cosworth, and got in. The moment she twisted the key, the turbo engine barked to life with a satisfying growl. She revved once—loud, sharp—then peeled out of the lot, merging onto the expressway and heading straight for Jakotsu like a bullet fired from the past.
That night
The gentle hum of the Lancia's engine pulsed against the stillness of the darkened street as it rolled to a quiet stop outside Arlecchino's home. The headlights cast long shadows across the pavement. The 037 idled softly, the mechanical ticking of cooling metal faint beneath its low purr.
Inside the cockpit, Collei unclipped her harness and turned with a grin. She lifted her hand and gave Clorinde a cheerful high-five. "Thanks for the ride!" she said, her tone bright and genuine.
Clorinde smiled, her expression finally softening. "You betcha. I'll see you tomorrow."
Just as Collei stepped out and was about to shut the door, a voice called out from the doorway—calm, commanding.
"Clorinde."
Arlecchino stood there, half-lit by the porchlight. Her expression was unreadable, but her tone held weight.
Clorinde paused. "Yes, Ms. Arlecchino?"
"Got a minute?"
With a slow nod, Clorinde unclipped her harness fully and stepped out, letting the door close behind her with a muted thunk. The engine was still running, idling smooth and steady. She walked over to where Arlecchino stood.
Their eyes met—Arlecchino's sharp, weathered, and calculating. "I'll be blunt. You ran into someone today. A kid driving a Ford Sierra RS Cosworth."
Clorinde's mouth tightened. "Yeah. I did."
"You racing her tomorrow?"
"I am."
A moment of silence. Arlecchino's eyes narrowed, just a fraction. Then: "Don't take this personally, kid… but you're gonna lose."
The words hit like a gut punch. Clorinde's eyes widened. "L-Lose?" Her voice cracked slightly—not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.
Later that night — Lake Jakotsu
The air was cool and thin, brushing gently across Yoimiya's face as she stepped onto the porch. Below, the lake shimmered under the moonlight. Somewhere behind her, the Cosworth's engine still ticked as it cooled in the garage.
Her father, Ryuunosuke Naganohara, stood with one hand resting on the hood of the Sierra. His fingers slowly traced the edge of the grille, eyes half-lidded in thought.
"Yoimiya."
His voice was low, calm, but there was an edge beneath it. Something old and unfinished.
She turned. "Yeah?"
"If I'm right… you're racing Clorinde tomorrow, aren't you?"
Her eyes widened. "Wh—What? How'd you know that?"
Ryuunosuke's gaze lifted. His eyes locked with hers, steely and unwavering. "Because I know her father. And I know that Lancia. But listen closely—there's only one way to beat that car. Only one way to take down that 037."
He stepped forward, the weight of old grudges settling on his shoulders like dust.
"Let me tell you how."
The following evening, Clorinde pulled up outside Arlecchino's house once again, the Lancia 037's exhaust emitting its signature dry, raspy growl as it idled beneath the dim porch light. The dying sun painted streaks of amber across the sky, casting long shadows that reached across the driveway like fingers of tension pulling her toward what lay ahead.
Collei climbed into the passenger seat, clicking the harness into place with a practiced motion. No words needed to be exchanged—she could feel it in the way Clorinde sat behind the wheel, posture upright, hands light on the Momo steering wheel but brimming with quiet readiness. She wasn't just going for a drive. She was going into a fight.
Just then, the low thrum of another engine could be heard in the distance. Not from the street, but from within. Heavy footsteps approached the car—measured, deliberate. Arlecchino appeared beside the driver's window, a cigarette tucked behind one ear, arms folded like a poker player with a full hand. Her face, mostly unreadable, carried the faintest trace of a grin.
Clorinde leaned over and rolled the window down with a solid metallic clack, the window gliding smoothly on decades-old race-spec runners.
Arlecchino leaned in just enough to be eye-level, her crimson eyes locked with Clorinde's. "Good luck," she said evenly. "Need any advice?"
Clorinde didn't hesitate. "Yeah. I need it."
That answer alone made Arlecchino's smile widen, if only slightly—a mark of earned respect. "Atta girl," she muttered, almost to herself. Then her tone dropped into low-gear seriousness. "Listen closely. Your best shot is on the very last bridge. If she's ahead of you there—and she will be—then that's your window."
Clorinde's brow furrowed. "You're sure she'll be ahead?"
Arlecchino nodded once, sharp and deliberate. "Trust me. Her old man and I went at it back in the day. I know how this bloodline drives. She's gonna pull something before the first bridge. Dirty or clean, she'll want to break your rhythm early. That's when you fall back—just a bit—and wait."
She raised two fingers and pointed ahead, her voice taking on the cadence of a general laying out a battlefield. "Right before the first bridge, there's a seam where the asphalt meets compacted dirt. Road dips and rises. The left wheels will catch it, and your front end will stabilize just enough to slingshot you out of the turn. No one ever uses it 'cause it feels unstable—but your 037's weight bias and mid-engine setup can take it."
Clorinde absorbed every word like gospel, her face stoic but tight. A single nod sealed her understanding.
Arlecchino knocked twice on the roof, then leaned back. "Good luck, kid."
As she turned away, Clorinde watched her retreating figure for a moment, then shifted her eyes to Collei. "Is your dad always like this?"
Collei chuckled softly, eyes warm. "Pretty much, yeah."
Clorinde breathed out, knuckles tightening around the wheel. "I understood what she said. Let's move."
The Lancia roared to life with a deeper growl, the Group B engine sending a brief puff of exhaust vapor into the cool night air as it pulled away, tires whispering across the pavement. The fight was on.
At Jakotsu Lake, darkness had long since blanketed the water. A faint mist rolled off the shoreline, wrapping itself around the trees like coiled breath. Yoimiya stood beside the white Ford Sierra RS Cosworth, running her hand along the rear fender as her father, Ryuunosuke, lit a cigarette and leaned against the front quarter panel, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
"You're racing Clorinde tomorrow, aren't you?" he said abruptly, voice low and gravel-lined.
Yoimiya flinched, eyes narrowing. "What? How do you—?"
Ryuunosuke didn't even look at her. "Because I know that Lancia. I know her dad. I know the rhythm. That car isn't like the rest of the junk these kids drive around here. That's a precision-bred, rally-born killer. It's light. It's quick. And if it's properly tuned, it'll climb and dive through Jakotsu like a goddamn snake."
He turned to her now, eyes sharp, voice harder. "But it's fragile. And you can exploit that—only in one spot. The hairpins."
Yoimiya shifted uncomfortably, her eyes flicking toward the pass behind them. "The inside shoulder? Are you serious? You're talking about jumping the inner line. If I hit that edge wrong, I'll tear my suspension out—or flip the whole damn car."
"You driving a city coupe?" Ryuunosuke barked back. "No. You're driving the Sierra Cosworth. Group A suspension. Lifted for rough gravel and jump landings. You hit it right, you don't bounce—you glide. Like a hammer finding its mark."
His tone softened, but only slightly. "You want to win, you gotta commit. That jump's your equalizer."
Yoimiya stared at the lake, her reflection fractured by the ripples. She gave a single nod.
Later that night, Jakotsu Pass echoed with the sounds of tuned engines crawling up its winding path. Clorinde's Lancia led the convoy, the anti-lag system giving off soft chirps and backfires every time she feathered the throttle on the uphill switchbacks. The road was still, the trees like sentries watching in silence as the cars climbed.
Behind her, Beidou and March followed in the R32, their xenon headlights painting silver arcs across the guardrails. Bringing up the rear, the Devil Z prowled like a wolf in the darkness—Seele behind the wheel, Pela riding shotgun, eyes flicking over telemetry readouts on a portable monitor rigged into the dash.
The group was connected by comms, their voices crackling through the static of radio chatter. March's tone was half-teasing, half-curious. "Pela, you're the bookworm. You ever read up on the Sierra Cosworth?"
Pela answered without hesitation. "It's a proper rally icon. Rear-wheel drive, turbocharged, lightweight. Excellent chassis balance. But—" she paused just long enough for tension to build, "—its rear end is twitchy. Especially on elevation shifts and leaf-covered surfaces. One wrong input and it'll bite hard."
Collei leaned forward in her seat, glancing at Clorinde. "You hear that?"
Clorinde nodded, eyes locked on the road. "Yeah."
A soft rustling scraped against the Lancia's windshield. Brown, brittle leaves spun across the hood and caught in the corner of the cowl vent. The temperature had dropped; the air was dense, the kind that clings to your skin and makes every breath feel like a countdown.
"Dried leaves," Clorinde muttered to herself, narrowing her eyes. Her grip on the wheel tightened, the worn suede wrapping beneath her gloves absorbing the tension. "That might decide the race…"
As the convoy neared the summit staging area, the pass unfurled before them like a ribbon of asphalt coiled around the mountain's bones. Jakotsu was alive with tension now—cold air, shifting leaves, and two bloodlines destined to collide in fire and gravel.
Tonight, the past would be rewritten—one apex at a time.