The wind had a voice.
Up on Akina's slopes, when the sun dipped and the crickets stilled, the wind whispered secrets along the asphalt. You could hear it in the rustle of the trees, in the shiver of guardrails, in the low hum of engines cooling under the stars.
Bunta Fujiwara stood at the summit, smoking quietly.
His Fairlady S30 rested behind him, silver under moonlight, its frame still ticking from the run he'd just finished. Not a race — just a run. Feeling the road, listening to the heartbeat of Akina.
Yuichi Tachibana slumped against the guardrail, panting. "Man… you're a lunatic."
Bunta didn't reply. He watched the empty road below, the black ribbon of tarmac coiled through the mountains.
Yuichi let out a shaky laugh. "Nobody even showed up tonight. You're doing this for ghosts."
Bunta smirked faintly. "Then I'm the fastest man the dead have ever seen."
---
A week earlier, at the gas station…
"Bunta! BUNTA!"
Yuichi burst through the garage door, breathless, waving a crumpled flyer.
Bunta, half under a customer's Celica, grunted. "What?"
Yuichi slapped the paper down. Akagi Night Battle — Challenger's Meet. Open call. Prize? ¥50,000, cash.
Bunta dragged himself out, wiping oil-streaked hands on his pants. "So?"
"So?! It's the biggest event this month, you idiot!"
Bunta gave a lopsided grin. "And?"
Yuichi threw his hands up. "You're impossible."
Bunta lit a cigarette, leaning against the car. "Why should I drive halfway to Akagi when I've got all the practice I need right here?"
Yuichi crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. "Because word's getting around. People think you're just Akina-fast. Not real fast."
Bunta exhaled smoke. "Good. Let 'em sleep on me."
---
But even Bunta couldn't hide forever.
That weekend, they came.
First it was the locals — kids from Myogi, Gunma, Usui — all hungry for a piece of the Akina ghost.
Then came the bigger names — seasoned racers with tuned Levins, Bluebirds, old-school Civics, even a lone Mitsubishi Starion. Bunta watched them gather at the base of the pass, leaned against his Fairlady, and smoked like it was just another Tuesday.
Yuichi fidgeted beside him, excitement crackling through his bones.
"Bunta, I counted six different teams. SIX. They're gunning for you, man!"
Bunta tapped ash onto the pavement. "Yeah?"
Yuichi grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. "Do you ever feel anything?"
Bunta cracked a grin. "The wheel. The road. The smoke in my lungs. That's enough."
---
The first challenge came from a cocky punk in a TE27 Levin.
He swaggered over, toothpick dangling from his mouth, shades on even at midnight.
"You the Fujiwara guy?" he sneered.
Bunta flicked his eyes up, cigarette bobbing in his lips.
"Who's asking?"
The Levin kid jerked his thumb toward the lot. "I'm Tatsuya. Heard you were some Akina big shot. Thought I'd warm up on you."
Yuichi tensed. "You don't wanna—"
Bunta cut him off with a raised hand, pushing off the car.
"Alright."
The crowd murmured.
Yuichi pulled Bunta aside, whispering harshly. "You're actually taking this guy seriously?!"
Bunta smiled. "Serious? Nah. I just need to stretch my legs."
---
The run was over in three corners.
Tatsuya burst off the line like a firecracker, tires screaming. For a moment, it looked like he had it — tight lines, confident throttle, clean shifts.
But Akina doesn't forgive cockiness.
By the second hairpin, Bunta was already on his bumper, Fairlady sliding smooth, barely a whisper over the asphalt.
By the third, Bunta slipped past — no drama, no crowd-pleasing drift, just surgical precision and a perfectly timed gutter dip. Tatsuya's jaw dropped as the silver shape vanished ahead, swallowed by mist and moonlight.
At the finish, Bunta leaned against the hood, calmly lighting another cigarette as Tatsuya skidded in, wide-eyed and pale.
"Welcome to Akina," Bunta murmured.
---
But the night wasn't done.
An older driver stepped forward, arms folded, calm as stone.
Yuichi hissed under his breath. "That's Sakamoto from Myogi. Ex-rally guy. AWD."
Bunta exhaled smoke. "AWD, huh?"
Yuichi grabbed his sleeve. "He's no joke, Bunta. He's not like that punk."
Bunta tossed the cigarette aside, stepping into the Fairlady with a grin.
"Good."
---
This race was different.
Sakamoto didn't burst out of the gate. He stalked the Fairlady, staying tight, using his all-wheel drive to devour corners. On the uphill, he even nosed ahead, the weight of his experience pressing down.
Yuichi watched from the sidelines, heart in his throat.
Is this it? Did Bunta finally meet his match?
But then — halfway down — Bunta shifted.
Not the car.
Him.
His lines sharpened. His throttle control tightened. His footwork became art. Where Sakamoto used the car, Bunta became the car.
At the next switchback, Bunta slid inside, slipping past with a whisper, not a roar.
The crowd erupted.
Yuichi punched the air, screaming. "That's my boy!!"
---
Later, in the quiet after the crowd dispersed, Bunta and Yuichi sat on the guardrail, feet dangling over the drop.
Yuichi panted, still riding the high. "I swear, man… you're gonna be a legend."
Bunta smirked faintly, flicking ash into the wind.
"I'm just a guy who doesn't like being second."
Yuichi nudged him. "Yeah? Feels bigger than that."
Bunta's eyes softened, gaze drifting to the horizon where dawn brushed the sky with the faintest pink.
"Maybe," he murmured. "Maybe not."
---
Far below, at the base of the mountain, a pair of headlights flickered in the trees.
A white first-gen MR2 sat parked quietly, engine idling low, its driver watching the summit through narrowed eyes.
Kai Kogashiwa's father.
He smiled faintly, rolling a cigarette between his fingers.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting."
But he didn't challenge.
Not yet.
---
The days blurred.
Bunta became the storm no one could outrun.
He crushed a Bluebird from Gunma with one hand on the wheel, beat a Civic EF from Usui in a rain-soaked downhill, toyed with a pair of brothers in matching Corollas on a midnight run.
Every victory carved his name deeper into the asphalt.
But it wasn't the wins that made him famous.
It was how he won.
Calm. Effortless. Without malice or showboating.
Like a ghost dancing through the mountain.
---
One night, after his fifth straight victory, Yuichi caught Bunta outside the shop, sipping coffee under the stars.
"Bunta," Yuichi began softly, "why don't you ever celebrate?"
Bunta looked at him, thoughtful.
Then, with a faint smile:
"Because the mountain's not done teaching me yet."
Yuichi fell silent.
---
Down in the city, whispers spread.
They spoke of Akina's monster.
Of a driver who didn't chase fame, only the perfect line.
Of a young man whose name, one day, would shake the foundations of Japan's street racing world.
But up on the mountain, Bunta Fujiwara just lit another cigarette, slid into his Fairlady, and let the night carry him forward.
The road was long.
The road was waiting.
And Bunta?
Bunta was just getting started.