As night descends upon Hiraumi Pass—hidden deep in the southernmost folds of Seirai Prefecture—the still mountain air is pierced by the shriek of high-performance engines. Two machines streak across the winding blacktop, their howls echoing into the valley like ghosts of a bygone era.
A sleek, two-door notchback coupe leads the descent—its angular silhouette cloaked in a sharp blue and red rally livery. The suspension compresses tightly with every switchback, the tires digging in with audible protest as the car carves down the serpentine road like a blade. Behind the wheel, Diluc Ragnvindr's jaw is set firm, both hands gripping the wheel with the relaxed precision of a veteran. His scarlet eyes scan every apex, already memorized, every camber tilt and run-off etched into instinct.
Meanwhile, barreling uphill in a storm of turbocharged fury is a machine that carries history like armor. The squat, flared body of an Audi Quattro S1 shudders with torque as it rockets into another incline. The sound of its five-cylinder rally engine is raw and primal, barking and popping through the titanium exhaust like a war drum beat to life.
Inside the Audi's stripped-down cockpit, Jean Gunnhildr grits her teeth and smiles. The smirk she wears is equal parts reverence and challenge.
"Alright," she mutters under her breath, the hum of anticipation simmering just beneath her words. Her fingers wrap tighter around the suede Momo wheel, her thumbs riding the contours of the spokes like she's reading scripture.
Her right foot slams the accelerator to the floor. The Quattro surges forward violently, the boost gauge flicking into the red as the turbo spools up. The immense torque digs into all four corners, the legendary quattro system clawing at the pavement with unshakable grip. Every flick of the wheel is countered with a deft flick of her heel, the car rotating perfectly into each corner—its chassis loaded to the limit but never breaking loose.
Down below, halfway up the pass, Mika leans lazily against a worn steel guardrail, arms crossed, his eyes tracking the distant flashes of headlights slicing through the treeline.
He hears the screech of tires and the sonic boom of gearshifts well before he sees anything. But it's enough.
"Hey," Mika calls out to a teammate standing nearby, a girl in a windbreaker, sipping canned coffee.
She glances over. "Hm?"
"You heard? Jean and Diluc are out again. Running the pass."
Her brow arches. "Seriously? The founding members of Team Favonius? Together? Tonight?"
Mika snorts, lips curling into a half-smirk. "Yeah. And you know what that means."
A beat passes.
"Shit," the girl whispers. "This is about that challenge, isn't it? From the Speed Stars?"
Mika nods slowly. "Yep. Narukami bastards are trying to flex. And it looks like the OGs are taking this one personally."
The girl whistles. "No kidding. I figured they'd just let us youngbloods handle it."
"Normally, yeah. But think about it—why would both of them come out unless they meant to send a message?"
As the two speak, the thunder of approaching engines grows louder—closer—like a rising storm. Moments later, the rally cars pull into the upper lot of the overlook, their exhausts crackling and popping as the drivers ease them to a halt side-by-side. Headlights cut through the mountain mist, halos of white bleeding into the surrounding dark.
The team begins to gather, drawn like moths to flame.
The Nissan 240RS sits low and angry, its naturally aspirated inline-four ticking softly as it cools. The widebody fenders and period-correct rally decals mark it as a machine of purpose. Beside it, the Quattro S1 steams faintly from its vents, its flared arches and roof scoop making it look less like a car and more like a machine of war.
Mika steps forward, whistling low.
"Jean Gunnhildr and Diluc Ragnvindr… driving two Group B monsters," he mutters with awe, sweeping his gaze from one car to the other. "A 240RS and a Quattro S1. It's like a time capsule from hell."
He musters the nerve, walking up just as Jean swings open her carbon-fiber door, her boots hitting the asphalt with a muted thud. Diluc is already out, arms crossed, looking as composed as ever.
"You guys are really gonna race?" Mika asks, voice somewhere between reverence and disbelief. "It's been years since we've seen you two go full throttle."
Jean's expression softens, a warm smile gracing her features. "Of course. We wouldn't miss this. It's not every day we get a challenge from out-of-towners. We thought it was a good excuse to stretch our legs."
Mika laughs nervously. "We're not complaining. But still… it's a little surreal. Doesn't it feel like overkill?"
Diluc's chuckle is low and confident. "Seniority doesn't matter tonight. It's not about ego. It's about sending a clear message."
"Yeah, but," Mika frowns, "shouldn't we—your current crew—be the ones repping Hiraumi?"
Jean rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll get your turn. But this one's ours. Consider it... a lesson."
Diluc steps closer, his gaze steady. "We were you once. Racing every night like the world was ending. Building this team from scratch. But these days? Life pulls us in other directions. We're not here to steal the spotlight—we're here to protect what we helped create."
He pauses, then adds, "But we won't race without your blessing. That's the code, right?"
Mika meets his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yeah. You've got it. Give 'em hell."
Jean grins. "Gladly."
They climb back in, buckling into harnesses with the ease of years-long routine. The low rumble of the 240RS comes first, idling with menace. Diluc shifts into gear with a sharp motion, the dogleg gearbox clunking into place, and pulls out with a blip of throttle that sends gravel skittering across the lot.
Jean lingers. One rev. Two. The turbocharger chirps sharply between gearshifts as she dumps the clutch and launches the Quattro like a rocket, its tail writhing for a heartbeat before the AWD system grabs and slings it into the dark.
Silence returns—briefly—before the sounds of distant aggression fade into the horizon.
Mika exhales slowly. "Rusty, my ass. They're sharper than ever. Diluc's still driving with one damn hand like he was born with a wheel in it. And Jean… her throttle modulation's unreal. She can make a Group B car dance like a kei car."
The others nod in solemn agreement, their eyes fixed on the vanishing trail of tire smoke and brake light afterglow.
Tonight, Hiraumi Pass wasn't just a road.
It was an arena. And the old champions had just stepped back into the ring.
The following morning at Yougou, the soft golden light of dawn filters through the slatted windows of Arlecchino's modest home. Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, catching the warm hues of sunrise like flecks of gold suspended in amber. Collei lies curled beneath a thin, rumpled blanket, her breaths slow and even, the gentle rise and fall of her chest the only motion in the stillness. A faint breeze stirs the gauzy curtains, carrying the scent of morning dew and wet foliage, mingling with the distant, hollow chirping of early birdsong.
Arlecchino was long gone—it was her turn on the morning delivery shift, and by the time the first threads of sunlight cracked over the ridgeline, the AE86 had already disappeared down the slope, its exhaust echoing in the predawn quiet.
Collei stirs slightly, shifting to her other side, her brow twitching as the sunlight creeps across her face.
Then the sharp buzz of her phone cleaves through the peace like a blade.
"Nnnnngh…" She groans, eyes half-closed, fumbling blind across the nightstand. Her fingers finally close around the device and drag it to her ear, thumb swiping clumsily to answer.
"H-Hello…?" she mumbles, voice raw with sleep, dry and scratchy like sandpaper against her throat.
"Hey, Collei! It's Ayaka!" comes the chipper voice, bright enough to punch holes in her skull. "Sorry if I bothered you so early. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd invite you out for some breakfast. You know—catch up!"
Collei's brain takes a second to process the words. She yawns into the receiver, scrubbing a hand over her face like she could erase the fatigue with sheer friction. "Yeah, sure... I'll see you at the diner…"
"Great! I'll see ya there!" Click.
The call ends. The phone thuds back onto the nightstand. Collei stares blankly at the ceiling for a long beat, then groans louder this time—an exhausted, full-body sound. With a reluctant grunt, she swings her legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor cool and rough under her bare feet. Her joints protest as she rises, stretching her spine until it pops.
Time to go be human, she thinks.
By the time she pulls into the diner parking lot, the sun's up in full force—hanging low but hot, casting crisp shadows across the asphalt. Her AE86 idles to a stop next to Ayaka's identical model, both gleaming with freshly polished paint and mirrored glass. Side by side, they look like relics from another age—twin legends of the mountain, framed by the mundane scenery of a sleepy town just waking up.
Inside, the diner hums with life. The smell of bacon grease and coffee grounds hits her like a punch—overpowering, familiar, comforting. Vinyl booths, flickering neon signs, scratched Formica tables. It's old-school in all the best ways.
Ayaka's already seated, halfway through her breakfast, dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she waves Collei over.
Collei slides into the booth across from her with a grunt, the leather squeaking under her.
Ayaka doesn't waste time.
"So, Collei," she says, spearing a sausage link with her fork, "what's it like racing those pricks?"
Collei exhales hard through her nose, leaning back into the booth as she drags her fingers through her disheveled hair. "The girl—Kafka? She's actually got a head on her shoulders. Calm, methodical. Kinda scary, but in a good way. Blade, though?"
Her eyes narrow.
"That guy's a fucking maniac."
Ayaka doesn't even blink. "Not surprised. What did Bladie pull this time?"
Collei's knuckles whiten as her hand tightens on the fork. The memories come back in an instant—cold, sharp, unfiltered.
It had been late. The moon hung high over Asase Pass, veiled in a halo of mist, casting pale silver light on the twisting blacktop. The Eight Six's engine purred like a contented beast beneath her, each movement of the wheel met with precise obedience. Left hand flick, throttle feathered, rear end sliding just enough to pivot through a tight corner—she was in rhythm. In control.
Then came the sight.
Navia on the roadside, waving both arms frantically, her whole body language screaming stop.
Collei's foot hit the brake, heel-toe downshift snapping the revs into place. She coasted forward, eyes narrowed, heart starting to beat faster.
Further up the stretch, Clorinde was standing dead center of the lane. One arm raised. The other resting on her hip. Her face unreadable, jaw tight.
Collei rolled to a stop, window down.
"What's going on?"
"Stop the practice runs." Clorinde's voice was clipped. "It's dangerous."
Collei frowned. "Why?"
Instead of answering, Clorinde stepped forward and slammed a flat palm down on the AE86's roof. The hollow metallic thunk rang out.
"Come. You'll see."
She didn't argue. Albedo joined them as they headed uphill on foot, the scent of scorched rubber and oil growing stronger with every step.
Then they rounded the bend—and the world tilted.
Clorinde's Lancia 037 lay wrecked near the outer guardrail, rear left suspension ripped clean off the chassis. The fender was crumpled like paper, the rear engine hatch split and warped, fiberglass flayed open. The signature ducktail spoiler swung on twisted mounting bolts, barely clinging on, swaying in the breeze.
The glint of oil on the asphalt shimmered like black glass under the moonlight.
Clorinde pointed at it, seething. "Look what those assholes did to my fucking car."
Collei knelt by the carnage, fingers brushing against the warped control arms and the bent trailing link. The air reeked of burnt motor oil and metal. Her chest tightened.
"Jesus fucking Christ…"
The rage in her gut coiled like a spring.
Back in the diner, the buzz of conversation fades as she stirs her coffee absently. Ayaka's watching her closely.
"You alright?" she asks, voice gentler.
Collei blinks, the diner snapping back into view. "Yeah…"
She exhales, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Blade had his goons pour oil in a right-hand hairpin," she says, tone flat. "Clorinde hit the slick. The rear left slammed into the outer rail. Suspension was torn clean off."
Ayaka's fork hovers in midair.
"What the fuck?!"
Collei pulls out her phone, swipes through her gallery, then slides it across the table.
Ayaka picks it up. Her eyes widen with every photo—twisted undercarriage, snapped axle, fiberglass blown apart. The kind of damage that takes weeks to patch. If you're lucky.
"Holy fucking shit…"
Collei nods, arms crossed, eyes distant. "It was bad. But the Lancia got repaired. Rear hatch's a little Frankenstein now, but…" She smirks, leaning forward. "Clorinde kicked Blade's ass on the uphill."
Ayaka lets out a low whistle, admiration flickering in her eyes. "Damn right. He deserved every second of it."
For a while, the table falls quiet again, the only sounds the sizzle of a fryer behind the counter and the clink of silverware on plates.
Then Ayaka glances up with a grin.
"So. Where's your next expedition?"
Collei doesn't hesitate. "Hiraumi Pass."
Ayaka nods slowly, the grin widening. "Right on. Hiraumi's no joke. You ready?"
Collei meets her gaze, calm and steady. "I think so. By the way… thanks. For the advice. I'm really starting to understand it now."
Ayaka tilts her head. "Glad to hear it. My advice doesn't always stick, so it's nice knowing it helped someone like you."
Collei chuckles, her voice softer now. "Seems like I'm finally getting a grasp of the Eight Six for the first time."
Ayaka freezes, blink-blinking.
"…Huh?"
Internally: Oh boy… Here we go again…
She sighs and leans in with a flat expression. "Seriously, Collei, the things that come out of your mouth sometimes baffle me."
Collei shrugs, unbothered. "Hear me out. I've figured out how to overcome the Eight Six's flaws before—like learning a new course blind, or adjusting the suspension setup on the fly. But lately… I've been feeling the car. Like I finally get it."
Ayaka relaxes, her sharp edge softening into approval. "That's good. It's about time. Every bit of feedback, every adjustment—it all matters in that car. And the Eight Six? It doesn't lie."
Collei glances out the window. The sunlight glints off her car's hood, the gloss catching fire in the morning light. Her gaze lingers, her voice low.
"That Eight Six is special…"
Ayaka smiles, eyes warm. "Yeah. I can see that."
The moment stretches—quiet, thoughtful. Two drivers. Two machines. And the silent bond forged on winding asphalt, where nothing else matters but instinct, guts, and the engine's roar.
That night, the air at the rest area just before the expressway entrance had a crisp bite to it—clean mountain oxygen laced with asphalt and fuel vapor. Overhead, the sky had deepened into a muted indigo, the faint stars veiled by slow-moving clouds that hinted at a long, sleepless journey ahead. Sodium lights flickered quietly above the parked vehicles, casting hard-edged shadows across glossy bodywork and oil-stained gravel.
Ningguang stood at the front of the group, her tailored white coat catching the light just enough to emphasize her posture—tall, composed, and utterly in control. Her gaze, sharp as cut glass, swept across the gathering of drivers and support crew.
"Alright, everyone! Gather around!" Her voice sliced clean through the soft hum of running engines and idle chatter, drawing every eye in.
Boots crunched against the pavement as the team clustered near her—some leaning against their rides, others tightening gloves or tugging at sleeves, last-minute checks before the road swallowed them whole. Headlights flicked on and off in idle flashes as engines rumbled under hoods, impatient but leashed.
Ningguang folded her arms and gave a slight nod once everyone was assembled. "If you've noticed, we brought in a fourth support van for this run." Her tone was calm but with an edge of steel. "We're staying at Hiraumi Pass the entire weekend. The new van is packed with spare tires, extra brake pads, fluids, tools—you name it. We've got enough for both cars to survive Armageddon, but that doesn't mean anyone gets to drive like an idiot. Got it?"
Her eyes did a slow pass across the crowd, sharp and unreadable. No one dared crack a joke.
A few nods. A few clenched jaws. Beidou smirked and March 7th gave a double thumbs-up behind her back. But overall, the air was tight with quiet resolve.
Ningguang's hands clapped together, echoing like a gunshot in the cold air. "Perfect. Let's roll. We've got a long drive and a lot of road to claim."
The group dispersed in controlled motion, like soldiers moving out. Engines fired in sequence—mechanical symphonies of personality and purpose. Clorinde was the first to move, sliding into the stripped-down cockpit of her Lancia 037 with practiced ease. Her gloved hand twisted the ignition key, and the beast responded with a growl—low, raspy, and mean.
The newly rebuilt 2.1-liter Lampredi Twin-Cam inline-four snarled to life beneath the carbon-kevlar panels. A twin-charged monster: supercharged for the low end, turbocharged for the high, the kind of setup that threatened to shear traction in every gear if she wasn't careful. The idle was high and erratic, like a predator pacing a cage.
Behind her, Collei climbed into her Eight Six. The Toyota's engine came to life with a cleaner, smoother timbre—less violent, more composed. The high-revving 4A-GE 20V Silvertop purred at idle, harmonizing with the crisp tick of its electronics. It sounded like restraint made mechanical—an athlete in meditation, not yet pushing its limits.
The support vans followed—headlights flaring, diesel engines rattling to life in staggered delay. The convoy formed like a spear tip as they pulled onto the road, Clorinde at the tip, Collei on her six, the white Eight Six tracking the tail of the fire-breathing Lancia like a shadow waiting to pounce.
The night swallowed them whole.
Meanwhile, in a dim garage in Kannazuka Prefecture, old fluorescent tubes buzzed like insects as they bathed the Feiyun School's workshop in pallid light. Oil-slicked floors reflected the underside of a stripped-down Supra on a lift, and the clink of tools echoed between the concrete walls.
Heizou paced between tool chests, wiping a crescent wrench with a dirty rag, while Thoma leaned against a parts shelf, arms crossed.
"Hey, Boss," Thoma said, his voice low but crackling with energy. "Did you hear? Speed Stars are running at Hiraumi this weekend."
Heizou looked up, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah. And they're going up against Jean and Diluc."
Across the room, Xingqiu sat perched at a workbench littered with blueprints and component diagrams. He tapped a stylus against his tablet. "Then you two should go watch. You'll learn more in one night trackside than a month in here."
The two younger drivers exchanged a glance—grins slowly breaking across their faces.
Heizou spoke again. "That's exactly what we came to ask."
Xingqiu didn't look up. "Permission granted. Take notes. And don't come back empty-handed."
Hours later, tires crunched over gravel as the convoy crested the final bend into Hiraumi Pass's staging area. The forest rose tall and black around them, looming over the wide, open parking area like a coliseum of trees. The air was colder here—thinner, infused with pine sap and the scent of burned brakes from unseen ghosts of past battles.
Clorinde's Lancia was the first to pull in, turbo flutter chirping as she backed into her space with precise control. Collei followed close behind, the Eight Six slipping into its spot like a whisper. The engines wound down in overlapping layers of sound—growl, hum, tick, tick, tick—until the mountain silence reclaimed the space.
Clorinde stepped out, cracked her neck, and scanned the lot. Then she froze.
Parked across the lot were two machines that radiated presence even in stillness. One of them—a boxy, brutal wedge with unmistakable flared arches and rally decals—made her eyes go wide.
"No way... an '83 Audi Quattro?" she muttered under her breath, voice low and tinged with disbelief.
She waved Collei over. "Hey. Come check this out."
Collei jogged over, flexing her arms after the long sit. "What's up?"
Clorinde nodded toward another car beside the Audi. A square, no-nonsense silhouette with a blue-and-white Rothmans-style livery. Rear-wheel drive. Purpose-built.
"See that Nissan 240RS?" Clorinde said. "That's your opponent for the downhill."
Collei stared for a second, heart skipping a beat. "No way…"
Her voice trailed off, tension blooming in her chest. The thought was electric. That was no poseur car. That was the real deal.
Footsteps approached—Ningguang, flanked by Keqing, Clorinde, and Collei, walking calmly toward where Jean and Diluc stood near their own team. Conversations trailed off as leaders met.
"The track's all set and broken in for you," Jean said, her words warm, but formal.
Ningguang gave a curt nod, offering a polite smile. "We appreciate it. Thank you."
They shook hands—firm grips, followed by respectful bows from both teams.
"A pleasure," they all said at once.
As the group turned back toward their cars, Jean leaned toward Diluc.
"Well," she said quietly, "didn't expect that. They seem… nicer than we thought."
Diluc's eyes didn't leave the Lancia. "No kidding. I expected hotheads. Not drivers who know how to show respect."
Jean's gaze followed his, her eyes narrowing as they fixed on the retro-red rally car. "Looks like a rivalry from 1983 is about to spark up again…"
Later, under the full canopy of night and the quiet murmur of support vans unloading gear, Ningguang called Collei and Clorinde over one last time.
"Alright. You know the drill. Run the course at eighty percent. No need to overextend—just feel out the road, the camber, the surface wear. Every hairpin, every straight. Once you're familiar... then you go all in."
They nodded—eyes focused, jaws set.
Clorinde climbed back into her Lancia, flicked switches, and let the engine roar to life once again. The twin-charged four-banger screamed into the cold air, building boost as she popped the clutch and surged forward. The Lancia moved like it had claws, gripping the mountain pavement as it slithered into the first series of turns. Even at eighty percent, the car was vicious.
Seconds later, Collei's Eight Six peeled out in pursuit. No violence—just surgical movement. She kept her tach just under the redline, feathered throttle through tight bends, and used every inch of the road with precision honed from countless dawns on Mount Yougou. Her hands moved with grace—blip downshifts, countersteer corrections, heel-toe braking. No wasted inputs. No panic.
Though the Lancia had the power advantage, the Eight Six was a whisper behind it, staying tight through the corners, refusing to lose ground.
Two philosophies. Two eras. Two drivers.
And only the mountain would decide which mattered more.
As practice wore on into the scorching afternoon, the scene shifted back to base camp. Ganyu stood motionless in front of the fourth support van, her wide, disbelieving eyes fixed on the labyrinth of organized chaos inside.
"Whoa… it's all mostly spare tires and parts. That's crazy," she muttered, her voice tinged with genuine awe as her gaze drifted over the racks of stacked semi-slicks, driveshafts in foam brackets, brake rotors wrapped in labeled zip bags, and torque wrenches lined up like rifles in a locker.
Leaning against the edge of the van with casual ease, Keqing tilted her head, the corners of her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Yeah. Considering how far we are from Narukami, we don't take chances. Out here, if something breaks and you're not prepared, it's over. Better to look paranoid than pack light."
Time moved forward in long, sun-soaked hours. The shriek of rubber on asphalt echoed faintly from the valley beyond. Eventually, Collei rolled into base in the Eight Six, its bodywork dusted in fine grit, its tires roasted to hell and back. She pulled up and killed the engine with a flick of her wrist, the idle cutting out with a sharp rasp.
Albedo was crouched beside the car, locking the final lug nut into place. With one clean motion, he lowered the car from the jack.
"All set. She's yours," he said, offering Collei a wry smirk as he stood and wiped his hands on a towel already stained black with brake dust and axle grease.
Collei flashed a grin, eyes gleaming. "Awesome."
She opened the door and slid into the bucket seat, one hand adjusting the steering wheel and the other turning the ignition. The engine barked to life—sharp, guttural, and immediate—its idle lumpy with the unmistakable pulse of a finely tuned 20-valve. She gave a quick rev—just a heartbeat—and the familiar roar answered back. The note wasn't just power. It was personality.
With a wave to Albedo, Collei rolled back out, tires chirping slightly as she pulled away and pointed the Eight Six back toward Hiraumi Pass for another run into the evening shadows.
Standing nearby, Ningguang approached, her gaze following the hatchback as it disappeared into the turns beyond the trees. "How's the Eight Six's setup holding?" she asked, tone even but curious.
Albedo didn't look at her. His eyes were still on the road where Collei had vanished. "Perfect. Like a machine built for one purpose only."
He crossed his arms slowly, still watching the bend. "And it looks like she's starting to understand what it means to prepare a car before the battle even starts. She's tuning with her head now—not just her hands."
Ningguang gave a small nod. "I've noticed it too. Her aura has changed. She's sharper. More deliberate. Whatever she's been doing while away from us... it's paying off."
By early evening, Clorinde's Lancia growled back into base with a throaty gurgle from the straight-cut gearbox. She eased the rally monster into place and killed the engine. The air shimmered with heat off its hood vents as she stepped out, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a long pull, her suit clinging to her skin with sweat.
Navia strode up with a casual bounce in her step, a towel draped over her shoulder. Her eyes fell on the Lancia's still-ticking engine. "So? How's the new setup treating you?"
Clorinde took another sip and nodded. "Feels incredible. Boost is hitting clean in the low RPMs now, and the top-end surge is just brutal. But…"
She squinted, brow creasing.
"…the rear's dancing too much on corner entry. It's rotating too early. Getting throttle-oversteer way too easily."
Navia's eyes narrowed, analytical gears already spinning. "Too light in the back, huh? I can lower the suspension a few millimeters more—tighten your rebound damping too. It should settle the rear end without killing your mid-corner response."
Clorinde smiled faintly, her fatigue giving way to trust. "Yeah. Do it. I want that thing planted."
Navia shot her a wink. "On it."
As she got to work, Clorinde stepped back and regarded her car. The Lancia 037 stood tall—its lean, purposeful silhouette defiant in the sun. Even now, even here, the spirit of rally warfare pulsed beneath its body panels. It wasn't just a machine. It was a relic that still had blood to spill.
A new presence approached with quiet authority—measured steps, clean posture, and the unmistakable air of a veteran.
"Hey. You must be Clorinde, right?" Jean's voice was calm and leveled, carrying the subtle weight of respect.
Clorinde turned. "That's right."
Jean's eyes swept across the Lancia and softened. "Still looks damn good after all these years."
Clorinde gave her a sidelong smirk. "And judging by that stance, you're the one behind the Quattro."
Jean nodded. "That's me. Looks like an old rivalry's being reborn. Audi versus Lancia. Group B ghosts coming back for one more dance."
Clorinde laughed softly. "Couldn't agree more. Funny how history always loops back."
Jean paused, then turned, halfway walking away before glancing back. "Mind if I pitch something?"
Clorinde raised a brow. "I'm listening."
"A mixed stage. We race downhill halfway, turn around at the cone at the bottom, and race back up. Up and down. One run. Winner takes it."
Clorinde's lips curled into a wide grin. "Spice things up, huh? You're on."
Jean grinned and shot her a thumbs-up before walking off. "See you on the line."
Moments later, Ningguang and Keqing stepped beside Clorinde, having overheard the exchange.
Clorinde turned to Ningguang, a little sheepish. "Hope you're cool with me taking that challenge."
Ningguang gave a faint shake of her head. "It's fine. I spoke with her earlier. She's clean—no tricks. Just wants a real race. And honestly… this might play into our hand."
Keqing smirked. "More variables make it more interesting. Besides, I'm curious to see who handles the transition better—an old rally queen or a WRC tank."
By twilight, the sun began to bleed into the horizon. The sky bruised violet. Camp wrapped up slowly. The drivers were spent, baked by heat and battered by G-forces, but their minds were sharp—focused.
"We booked a lodge for you two," Keqing announced as she approached, smug satisfaction written all over her.
Clorinde blinked. "You what?"
Keqing chuckled. "Yeah. Air conditioning. Real beds. Consider it a gift. You'll need your heads clear tonight."
Clorinde lifted her fists in mock victory. "Hell yes! My Lancia's a goddamn sauna after dark."
Then, pausing, she asked, "But why only us?"
Ningguang's expression turned serious. "Because you're the drivers. The outcome tonight hinges on you two. The rest of us? We're just the pit wall."
Collei raised a hand lazily. "It's fine! I'll crash in the back of the Eight Six. Nothing new."
Ningguang's eyes narrowed. "Negative. That's a direct order. I'm not letting a key driver sleep in a metal oven. Fatigue affects your reflexes. No arguments."
Keqing pointed toward the first van. "Grab your bags. Van one. Go."
Minutes later, the van dropped the girls off at the lodge. The AC was like heaven against their sunburnt skin.
Clorinde peeled out of her racing gear and collapsed onto the bed in a plain cotton nightgown, her hair damp with sweat. Collei did the same, eyes half-lidded from pure exhaustion.
"Keqing said they'll pick us up around four," Clorinde murmured, rolling onto her back.
Collei yawned. "Four's perfect. More sleep than I get at home…"
Clorinde smiled. "Honestly? I feel bad for the others. But this AC... god, it's a miracle."
Collei chuckled. "Hey, you're the one piloting a deathtrap rally car from the '80s."
The room went quiet. Clorinde rolled over and blinked in surprise—Collei was already asleep, her breathing soft and even.
"She's out already…" Clorinde muttered, then turned her gaze to the ceiling.
"I wish I didn't feel the pressure so much. She makes it look easy. People think she's naïve… even kinda dumb. But she's tough. Behind the wheel? She's something else."
Clorinde closed her eyes, her voice barely audible now.
"…and I'm the fragile one."
Back at the mountain, the air was still oppressive. Heat clung to everything like a second skin. The sky was a solid dome of blue, and the team clustered beneath the only shade for miles—a crooked tree near the parking lot.
Ganyu lay on the grass with her arms folded beneath her head, eyes closed, serene in the sun like she was bathing in moonlight.
Navia wiped sweat from her neck and frowned. "How the hell is she not melting? I'd be a puddle by now."
Keqing just smiled faintly. "She's something else."
She looked toward the lot where the Lancia and Eight Six sat side-by-side—both looking like they were simmering under a broiler.
"Good thing those two got the cold room," she added.
Navia nodded. "Yeah. Those machines aren't just hot rods. They're pressure cookers. And tonight… they'll be pushed to the edge."
As the sun finally dipped below the mountains, darkness crept in—slow and steady, like a countdown. The breeze picked up, bringing no relief.
The real race was coming.
And everyone could feel it.