Pushing his R.S.11 to its absolute limits, Luca's car roared as it surged forward, bringing him neck and neck with Miles. Every muscle in Luca's body tensed as the Sync Buff pulsed through him, sharpening his reflexes and focus. He knew he had to finish the race before his temporary power boost expired, or risk falling behind in the final laps.
As Luca's sleek black-and-red Renault emerged beside Miles' vibrant purple-and-green Mercedes, the disbelief in Miles' body language was unmistakable. How could this be happening? He had dominated the race up until now, and yet here was Luca, the extra participant, the failure he always knew, challenging him head-on for the lead.
Miles glanced over, his knuckles tightening on the wheel. How could someone who had barely made it into the academy, who had cunningly found his way in through a deal, catch up like this? He gritted his teeth, refusing to be overtaken. But Luca had other plans.
Luca had the urge to nudge Miles, but he knew better than to risk such a move. Instead, he searched for a way to frustrate Miles further, realizing that only winning would truly sting.
[You have 30 sec left for Sync Buff]
"Oh, no no no," Luca groaned in dismay, turning with Miles as they raced side by side. He had close to two minutes left for the race to end, and the Sync Buff would definitely not last.
Glancing at his opponent, Luca caught Miles shaking his head—a gesture to signal that his attempt wouldn't succeed. Luca instinctively waved him off and refocused on the track ahead. He could already feel the Sync Buff slipping away, just as the race reached its critical moment, leaving him at the moment of truth.
[Stamina +1]
[Sync Buff has elapsed!]
[SYNC BAR: [][][][] 0%]
"Ah noo!" Luca bellowed as he and Miles entered the 33rd lap. Miles was slightly ahead, with Luca's Renault just inches behind. If things stayed this way, Luca feared he might end up being the bridesmaid of this race.
The roar of the engines echoed across the track as they stormed into the final lap, the 34th and decisive one. With his Sync Buff now completely gone, Luca tightened his grip on the wheel. Every bend became a challenge, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath quickening. Pushing his R.S.11 to its absolute limits, Luca was determined to close the gap and surpass the superior stats of Miles' Mercedes AMG-F1.
Narrowing his eyes, Luca felt them grow watery for some reason, and his body was now being battered vigorously by the G-forces now the Sync Buff was gone. He forced himself to remain sharp, alert and more cautious as he guided his car to weave through the bends with Miles, stalking the Mercedes. Hitting the throttle when necessary, Luca was not just a threat in Miles's mirrors—he was closing in fast, right on his rival's tail as they approached the last lap's final stretch.
The fact that he had made it into the selectable seven brought a momentary flicker of joy, but Luca's focus remained on the real goal. Muttering under his breath, he recognized the final series of turns.
[You are moving at 300 km/h]
Luca's mind raced, but not as fast as the world blurring around him. His thoughts were slipping into chaos. Just race, boy he told himself, flicking the wheel with laser focus.
His Renault's nose cut in alongside Miles' Mercedes as they shot into a bend, tires screaming loud enough to pierce through the roaring engines. Rounding the corner, Luca knew he'd leveled with Miles, their cars nearly scraping against each other. He caught the disbelief in Miles' body language—the older racer was desperately trying to close the curve's gap. Luca smirked inwardly. It would be foolish not to capitalize on the moment. His Renault surged ahead as they both shot out of the bend, barreling into the final straight like bullets fired from the same barrel.
[Final straightway, host]
Luca slammed the throttle again, the G-forces slamming him back into his seat so hard he almost choked on air. But Miles wasn't backing down. His Mercedes leapt forward, keeping pace as the two rocketed toward the unseen finish. There might not be a checkered flag at this facility, but everyone watching knew this was the climax.
Luca leaned in closer, gripping the wheel with every bit of strength he had left, hoping the sheer pressure of his body might coax his R.S.11 into gaining that final edge. He wasn't a mathematician, but anyone watching the race unfold would see the same—there was no clear winner yet. He and Miles were neck and neck, an equal sign drawn between them.
[You might breakdown, host]
[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL-TIME:
-Car Speed: 310 km/h
-Heart Rate: 130 bpm
-Operational Status: 30% (Poor)
-Breathing: Hiked
-Distance covered: 130700m
-Time: 44 min. 20 sec ]
The horn blared.
Luca's heart pounded as he decelerated, his body slumping with exhaustion. He let go of the wheel, his hands trembling from the effort. Both cars had crossed the finish line at nearly the exact same moment, and Luca couldn't tell who had won. Glancing over, he saw Miles pulling up in his Mercedes, equally worn out, his expression of the result uncertain as well.
"Please, give me good news, System," Luca muttered, feeling suffocated in his helmet, his whole body aching.
[Congratulations! You have won a race!]
"I—I won it?"
[Yes, host.]
[1st Position] flashed jubilantly on the System's interface before him.
I won?! Thank goodness! Thank goodness!
[Congratulations! Daily Quest Completed!]
[You have been rewarded with (EXP)!
-Strength +2
-Stamina +2
-Endurance +2
-Agility +2
-Intelligence +2
-Reflexes +3
-Overtaking Skill +3
-Track Awareness +3 ]
Wow! Wonderful! I can't believe it.
Luca pushed open his canopy, the afternoon sun flooding into the cockpit of his R.S.11 as the familiar scent of burnt rubber filled the air. Exhausted but victorious, he hopped off his car with numb legs, the adrenaline wearing off. He glanced around as the other racers finished, the engines zooming down the track in succession.
Luca hopped off his car with the little strength he could muster, his legs feeling numb from the strain of the race. The roar of engines still echoed across the wide track as the other racers finished in sequence, their machines tearing through the final stretch. Removing his helmet, Luca ran a hand through his damp hair and began walking toward the stands where the officials gathered, a confident smile plastered on his face.
It seemed they were all contemplating who had won between Luca and Miles, and only a review of the footage would give the answer.
Luca spotted Mallow, who had his fists clenched in anticipation, and his head nodding slowly. He smiled back at Luca with a brief thumbs up.
Luca couldn't wait for his name to be called as the winner. He couldn't even believe he was able to pull this off. His legs weighing him down, Luca decided to rest on the frame of his car as they awaited the announcement from the glass room high up, next to the big TV.
After some minutes, the tension being palpable, murmurs and chatter erupting here and there, the announcement was finally made, and Luca's smile was replaced with a frown immediately.
"And 1st Position was attained by Miles Bellingham!" A staff announced.
Luca's heart sank deep as the words resonated in his ears. He delved into subconsciousness as Miles began his celebration, dancing with his girlfriend and friends.
System, I—I thought you said I won?
[Indeed, host. You claimed the 1st Position.]
So, what is this?
[I do not know, host. Your R.S.11 had crossed the line 0.001 seconds before the Mercedes AMG-F1.]
[I don't think there is a mode that claims 2nd Position as 1st.]
------------------------
Mallow walked up the stairs to the glass room after everyone had retreated into the main building. The selectable seven had been called out, and the rest were told to leave through the gates. Luckily for Mallow, both his clients had made it into the top: Harry finishing 6th, and Luca finishing 1st.
Yes, Mallow was certain Luca's Renault had crossed the line first. He didn't have any solid evidence, nor was he entirely sure, but his instincts screamed it was true, and he was determined to verify it himself.
The telemetry room's door was open, and Mallow stepped in. Inside stood Mr. Schafer, Sir Grimwald, and several other staff members. Mr. Payet, Miles Bellingham's agent, was also present, dressed impeccably in a black suit, standing off to the side.
"Mr. Mallow? What brings you here?" Sir Grimwald asked, folding his arms, his tone flat but inquisitive.
"I mean no trouble," Mallow began firmly. "I just ask to see the photo finish for myself. Agents are granted that privilege, correct?"
The room fell silent for a few moments, the air thick with tension. Mr. Schafer slowly sank into a chair, rubbing his temple as though warding off a headache. His expression, like the room's atmosphere, was uneasy.
Mallow could feel the weight of his words hang heavily. Glancing around, he noticed a monitor beside Grimwald, who subtly shifted to block his view.
"Let me save you the trouble, Mr. Mallow," Grimwald finally said, his tone measured. "Yes, your agent finished first. And his," he gestured toward Mr. Payet, "finished second."
A pregnant pause filled the air before Grimwald added, "But that information stays in this room. As far as everyone knows, Miles Bellingham finished first in this year's Grey-Husson Academy program."
Mr. Mallow's face flashed with disbelief, his mouth hanging open as the weight of corruption hit him. He couldn't believe such blatant manipulation was happening, even in something as supposedly straightforward as an academy race. Swallowing hard, he managed to ask, "Why? Is it about money? Were you paid?"
"No, Mr. Mallow. It's because it's the right thing to do," Sir Grimwald replied, his expression smug. "Miles Bellingham finished almost at the same time—mere milliseconds apart, in fact. Why get bogged down by such tiny details when we can just crown him?"
"No, you can't," Mallow shot back, his voice rising in defiance. "That's not racing. Why not crown the actual winner?"
Grimwald chuckled, his posture relaxed as he unfolded his arms and nonchalantly clicked the spacebar on the keyboard. "That boy? I'm sorry, Mr. Mallow, but your client doesn't fit the image to be the face of Grey-Husson for a year. We need someone who's outspoken, handsome, good with the media. And Miles ticks all those boxes. Your client...doesn't."
Mallow's mouth formed an incredulous "O" as he fully grasped what was happening. His face darkened with frustration. "So, this is what it's come to? Just business? Mr. Schafer, you're okay with this? As a former Team Principal yourself, you're allowing this farce? This should be an atrocity in your ol' eyes," Mallow thundered. He knew he could do nothing about this, it was their management.
Schafer sat quietly, avoiding Mallow's gaze. Sir Grimwald didn't offer any further response, standing there as if the conversation had already ended.
"If there's nothing more you'd like to say, Mr. Mallow," Schafer finally spoke, his tone weary and detached, "please leave."
Mallow spat on the floor in disgust, muttering curses under his breath as he stormed out of the room.