Ethan is even more determined within himself to win since he learned about Elton's past. It wasn't just about uncovering the identity of Fortress Omega's mastermind, Caesar—it was also for Elton. He repeatedly tackled the high-speed turns, a section of the track where he often made mistakes.
Elton's words echoed in his mind, "The key to high-speed turns is choosing the right braking point. You have to keep pushing the brake point further, gradually increasing your speed through the turn. That way, you can maintain control while maximizing speed. But remember, the most important thing is to keep your steering movements as minimal as possible."
"Smaller steering, the right braking point…" Ethan muttered to himself.
Once, twice, five times, ten times, a hundred times... With every repetition, Ethan's cornering technique became almost flawless.
Even after finishing his racing practice, Ethan didn't rest. Back at home, he strapped on the sandbags Ayrton had given him and started doing pull-ups, building up strength in his arms and legs day by day. Ayrton had also made him another training tool—two long wooden sticks fashioned into chopsticks. Ethan used them to catch flies.
At first, he couldn't catch a single one. The flies moved too fast, and his hand movements lagged behind their flight path, so he was always just clamping down on thin air. But over time, Ethan began to understand the timing, adjusting his hand movements to intercept the flies a few centimeters ahead of where they were headed. Gradually, he became more accurate.
Aria even brought him a glass jar filled with flies he had caught, a testament to his improving skill. Little did Ethan know, this peculiar training would prove invaluable in his upcoming race.With only eight days left until the race, Ethan headed to the NASCAR office to pick up his race credentials. On the way, he spotted Vanka walking down the street, carrying his flat, olive-green messenger bag and wearing a brown newsboy cap. With his small frame, he looked like a schoolboy—until he turned around.
"Geez, Vanka, you look like a kid. No, wait, too many wrinkles," Ethan joked from his car, chuckling.
Vanka noticed Ethan's car, adjusted the brim of his hat, and proudly showed off his new cap.
"Hey! Ethan, my old friend!" Vanka shouted, a wide grin spreading across his thin, dark face, revealing his big teeth.
Ethan picked up Vanka, and the two of them headed to the office together, chatting and laughing along the way, planning to grab a drink after they were done. When they arrived, the place was already packed with racers. As Ethan and Vanka got out of the car, one racer walked by, and Ethan attempted a friendly greeting. The racer merely glanced at Ethan and ignored him, cutting in line ahead of him.
"Hey, hey, hey! That guy's got no manners," Ethan muttered loudly.
"Don't sweat it, Ethan. Newbies in this place get ignored all the time. They don't get respect when they don't know who you are." Vanka said, standing on his tiptoes to pat Ethan's broad shoulder.
The thunderous roar of engines filled the air as the line of race cars rumbled down the road, their sound like a symphony of power. The convoy of sleek, metallic beasts moved like a steel dragon, their sheer presence commanding attention. Each car gleamed with a cold, unforgiving luster, reflecting the sunlight in blinding flashes. They were the undisputed stars of the scene, a spectacle of speed and precision. Passersby stopped in their tracks, eyes wide with admiration, unable to tear their gaze away.
As they stepped out of their cars, the racers ahead of them at the registration line quickly moved aside, instinctively making way. Some even stepped forward with eager smiles, practically falling over themselves to offer a warm welcome, their behavior not unlike that of sycophants.
Vanka, ever the strategist, discreetly pulled Ethan into a secluded corner. His voice dropped to a low murmur as he began to brief Ethan on the names of each competitor, his tone serious, aware of the weight these names carried...
Vanka pulled Ethan aside to a secluded corner and began explaining the names of the racers to him.
"Ethan, see that guy in front with the gray hair? That's Prost Johnson." Vanka's eyes sparkled with admiration—Prost was once his idol.
"He looks pretty weak to me, doesn't seem like much," Ethan scoffed, shaking his head dismissively.
"Shh, don't talk nonsense! He's a legend!" Vanka shot Ethan a warning glance.
They both turned to look at Prost. His face was slightly worn, and his frame looked a bit frail—likely the aftereffects of battling cancer. But there was a steely determination and wisdom in his eyes that seemed to cut through everything. He stood at the front, exuding a calm authority; he was clearly the team leader.
"Ethan, the guy behind Prost, that's Hakkinen..." Vanka whispered cautiously, making sure their conversation wasn't overheard.
"Hmm, he's quite handsome, though not as much as me," Ethan said smugly, earning another glare from Vanka for his vanity.
Hakkinen O'Connor stood out in the crowd with his striking appearance. His chiseled features and clean-cut brown hair always looked fresh, and his well-proportioned physique was all lean muscle, without an ounce of excess.
"See that cocky guy over there? That's Fangio Martinez," Vanka said, pursing his lips in disdain.
"Impressive, Vanka, you know them all!" Ethan bent down and playfully patted Vanka on the head.
"Pfft, it's not hard to figure out, you can tell just by looking," Vanka replied proudly.
Fangio Martinez, dressed head-to-toe in designer gear with bleached blonde hair, was the epitome of a rebellious rich kid. His face was often adorned with a cocky grin, giving the impression that he was always on the verge of either losing his temper or pulling some unexpected stunt. He shoved a person in front of him, motioning for them to move back in line. The racer quickly noticed Fangio and meekly stepped aside, bowing his head as he moved to the back of the line.
"Ethan, see those two in the middle? The one in the blue suit is Schumacher Smith, and the one in yellow is Hamilton Davis. They're rivals to the core," Vanka explained in a hushed tone. "Schumacher's a lone wolf, stubborn as they come, hates working with anyone. On the other hand, Hamilton's Joseph's pick for team support, always ready to clear the path for others. But every time Hamilton tries to help, Schumacher just won't cooperate."Vanka explained.
As they watched, Schumacher, positioned slightly ahead, shoulder-checked Hamilton with a deliberate force, signaling him to move aside. Hamilton, not one to back down, elbowed Schumacher in return, his face darkening with irritation.
"The third to last is Raikkonen Black, and right before him is Robert Wilson," Vanka continued, his voice dropping even lower.
Raikkonen's presence exuded a cool, detached charisma. His expression was calm, almost stoic, with piercing black eyes that seemed to miss nothing. His jet-black hair was neatly combed, contrasting sharply against his pale, almost alabaster skin. His tall, athletic frame moved with a measured grace, every step deliberate, radiating an aura of unflappable calm.
In contrast, Robert Wilson was the picture of warmth. A gentle smile played on his lips, his slightly tousled light brown hair giving him a friendly, approachable look. His eyes were soft, full of sincerity, and there was an easygoing air about him, his average build making him seem more relatable than intimidating.
"And that last one?" Vanka asked, his voice barely above a whisper now.
"That's Rosberg Stewart…" Ethan responded, crossing his arms as he studied the man closely.
Rosberg looks cold, his deep blue eyes emanate an icy calmness and distance. His hair shines like silver, and with no previous information about him, he looks mysterious.
"Ethan, remember this guy—his race number is 18. I caught a glimpse of it just now," Vanka noted with a keen eye.
"I'll remember, no doubt about it," Ethan replied with a determined nod, his gaze lingering on Rosberg for a moment longer.
After they had all received their race badges and were ready to leave, Ethan, waiting for a quiet moment, collected his own—number 24. A number he couldn't help but feel held a special kind of luck...