The night howls to life as engines scream in anticipation, snarling echoes ricocheting off the jagged cliffs of Nazuchi Pass. The mountain breathes with mechanical fury.
Collei sits in the cockpit of the Eight-Six, left foot pressed firm against the clutch pedal, her right heel dancing above the accelerator. Her hands—gloved, knuckles tense but unmoving—clutch the worn leather of the steering wheel at ten and two. Her breaths are long, deep, each inhale burning through the static in her mind like a torch in the dark. Her tachometer needle flutters near redline. The engine's metallic growl vibrates through the chassis, into her bones. The car is alive. So is she.
Opposite her, Topaz is strapped into her MX-5, a storm brewing behind her amber eyes. Her jaw is tight. No nerves now—just resolve sharpened into a blade.
She flicks a quick glance to her rearview mirror, the Eight-Six's pop-ups glaring back at her like predatory eyes. "Let's get this over with," she mutters, voice flat, grip tightening on the wheel until her knuckles go pale.
Then—BANG!
The starter's signal explodes through the air, and Topaz reacts with brutal force. She drops the clutch like a guillotine, tires shrieking in a cloud of smoke and grit as the Miata rockets forward. Her rear wheels hook violently into the asphalt, biting into the incline with an almost feral aggression.
In the same breath, Collei's foot snaps off the clutch. The Eight-Six lurches with a spine-jolting jolt, tires chirping as they hunt for grip. The car launches after the Miata, revs surging through the mountain silence like a banshee scream. She throws the shifter into second with a click-thunk, engine howling, chasing the tail-lights already flickering into the first hairpin.
On the sidelines, Serval watches the two cars disappear into the darkness, arms crossed over her chest. The wind rustles her jacket, but her expression doesn't flinch. "Go show them what you're made of, Topaz," she says under her breath, eyes sharp with quiet pride. "Win this for us…"
The road narrows. The guardrails grow teeth.
Topaz narrows her focus to a blade's edge. Her breathing is shallow, tempo rising to match the car's revs. She threads the Miata through the bend like it's an extension of her body. The first real corner arrives—a tight downhill left-hander bordered by a drop that would snap bone and steel alike.
She yanks the handbrake—clack—the rear wheels lock. The Miata's ass-end kicks out hard, tires screaming in protest. Her steering counteracts instantly, feathering the throttle mid-slide. The rear bumper skirts mere inches from the rust-streaked guardrail. Gravel explodes beneath the tires as she powers through the drift, snapping back into line. The Miata doesn't falter. She clears the apex still in the lead.
Behind her, the Eight-Six sticks like shadow to light.
Collei doesn't drift—it's different. More surgical. She heel-toes into the downshift, rev-matching perfectly. Brake. Turn-in. The front tires bite hard. She clips the inside line tight, nearly grazing the gutter, tires whispering against the edge of adhesion. As she exits, she floors it in second, the high-pitched scream of the 4A-GE echoing like a war cry through the trees.
She's gaining.
Far above, on the observation ridge near the summit, Ningguang stands with arms folded, her expression coldly analytical. Keqing and Clorinde flank her, silent for now as the wails of engines ripple up the mountain.
"When you compare the Eight-Six and the Miata," Ningguang begins, voice measured like a scalpel, "the Miata has the tighter chassis, shorter wheelbase. It's nimbler in short transitions. On paper, it should have the advantage in this kind of course."
She lifts her fan to brush a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.
"But Topaz… her driving is still raw. Unrefined."
Keqing turns to her. "Rough? In what way?"
"She throws the car into corners," Ningguang replies, eyes still locked on the distant headlights snaking along the pass. "Late braking, high-speed entries. It looks flashy—but she bleeds exit speed. She sacrifices control for aggression."
"Sounds familiar," Albedo murmurs from behind them, tone thoughtful. "Collei's old style wasn't so different. Heavy reliance on momentum, always on the edge of traction."
Ningguang nods slightly. "Exactly. Both were shaped by the limitations of underpowered machines. They've had to squeeze every ounce of capability from their cars. In a way, they're mirror images."
Clorinde arches a brow. "Then this comes down to technique?"
Ningguang's smirk turns razor-sharp. "No. This comes down to knowledge."
She gestures downward with a flick of her fan.
"The gutters."
Clorinde looks puzzled. "The drainage ditches?"
Ningguang nods. "They're uncovered here. Not like the paved-over ones on Narukami. If a driver knows how to use them—how to dip a wheel into them during corner entry without upsetting the car—it can anchor the inside and allow them to take tighter lines at higher speeds."
Albedo's brows rise, intrigued. "A dangerous tactic. One mistake, and you're over the edge."
"True," Ningguang replies, voice smooth. "Which is why it's so rare. But for someone desperate to overtake on a course with few passing zones, it might be the only weapon they've got."
She glances at Clorinde, her expression unreadable. "And who better to explain than a rally driver?"
Clorinde tilts her head slightly, lips quirking with amusement as she catches the bait. "Fair enough."
Below, the howling scream of engines reverberates through the mountain's skeletal trees—Topaz and Collei, locked in a relentless descent, vanish like twin streaks of fire cutting through the night. A symphony of raw horsepower and shrieking tires trails in their wake.
Inside the Miata, Topaz dares a glance in the rearview mirror. Her pupils contract. The Eight-Six is still there—closer than ever—its headlights beaming with the ferocity of twin searchlights, unblinking and merciless. Her pulse hammers in her neck. No one's stayed on me this long, she realizes, her knuckles turning ghost-white around the wheel. Her jaw tightens. No one's ever pushed me like this.
Just behind, in the cockpit of the Eight-Six, Collei narrows her eyes. Her breathing slows, syncing with the rhythm of the car as it lunges toward the apex. "Now I see it," she murmurs, more to herself than to anyone. Her grip relaxes just slightly—not in hesitation, but in total control. "I finally understand the difference between us."
She presses down hard on the accelerator. The throttle response is immediate, the Group A-tuned 4A-GE engine screaming through the high-end of its rev range like a banshee clawing for release. The tachometer needle slams past 9,000 RPM—9,500—then 10,000. The scream turns feral at 11,000, exhaust note sharp as a razor. The intake howls, and the Eight-Six lunges forward with renewed fury.
The gap shrinks. Visibly.
On the roadside, perched dangerously close to the outer edge of the pavement, spectators erupt into a chorus of disbelief and adrenaline-fueled cheers. One shouts, "That Eight-Six is on the goddamn Miata's bumper! Holy shit!" The screech of tires slicing into the next hairpin turn drowns out the rest.
Inside the Miata, Topaz feels the heat—figuratively and literally. Her teeth grit, the wheel biting into her palms. Sweat clings to her forehead as she rifles through her gears, heel-and-toe dancing on the pedals. "I'm not losing this. Not tonight!" she barks, slamming the gas pedal down.
The Miata lurches forward again, but it's starting to feel like she's wringing the last drops out of it. There's no more room to push. The tires are already at the edge. Yet the Eight-Six doesn't back off—it inches closer, inch by inch, breathing down her neck.
"How?!" Topaz growls, voice spiking in frustration. "How is that car still on me?!"
The two cars dive into corner after corner, barely a breath between them. The Miata's tail snaps out slightly with every flick of the handbrake, gravel spraying from its tires, while the Eight-Six follows with surgical precision—minimal slip, maximum momentum.
Above, at the summit, the tension thickens.
Serval clutches the radio tighter as an update comes through. "They've reached the halfway point," the spotter crackles. "No position change. MX-5 is still leading… but the Eight-Six hasn't fallen back at all."
"What?" Serval's brows snap downward, eyes locking onto the barely visible specks of headlights far below. "She's still holding on?" Her mouth tightens into a grim line. "Damn it. This is way closer than I thought…"
Back in the cockpit of the Eight-Six, Collei's green eyes track every nuance of the Miata's line. She watches Topaz's entries—wide and fast, burning rubber and momentum all at once.
"She's good," Collei admits under her breath, tone low and focused. "She knows this course like the back of her hand. Every blind turn, every deceptive apex."
She pulls the Eight-Six into another corner, countersteering with calculated ease. Her foot lifts only for a moment, just enough to pivot the nose before slamming the gas back down. The revs scream back to life. The 20-valve engine eats the transition alive.
"But…" she murmurs, voice edged in steel. "She doesn't understand the transitions."
As they blast out of the corner, Collei makes her move—not by diving into the inside, but by closing in on the short straight. Her car's acceleration between corners is sharper, cleaner. The torque curve is narrower, but she's timing it perfectly. Where Topaz is bleeding speed from her aggressive entries, Collei is clawing it back in the exits—and every fraction of a second counts.
Back on the summit, Ningguang continues her breakdown with poised, precise cadence.
"In battles like this," she says, turning to Clorinde and Albedo, "it's easy to lose count of the corners. Especially at these speeds, and especially on downhills. You can't afford even a moment's hesitation."
Keqing nods in agreement. "That's true. You can't tell whether the road ahead is a brief straightaway or the mouth of a sharp hairpin. You either stay flat-out and risk losing control—or you let off and lose time."
"Exactly," Ningguang affirms, eyes returning to the darkness below. "Knowing when to commit—when to go flat-out and when to lift—that's going to be the difference between Collei and her opponent."
Her voice is calm, but there's an undertone of sharpness—of experience earned through countless races studied and dissected. "Topaz is pushing hard into every corner. She's compensating with aggression. But Collei… she's beginning to read the course. She's thinking two, three corners ahead. And that's where this race will turn."
Clorinde folds her arms, glancing down the mountain with renewed focus. "Then it's only a matter of time."
Ningguang doesn't answer—but her silence says everything.
The tide is shifting. And the mountain knows it.
Below them, the wail of engines reaches a fever pitch—Topaz and Collei vanish into the tree-lined descent, like twin comets hurtling toward a hellfire horizon. Their taillights flicker like dying stars, swallowed by the bends of the mountain.
Back on the twisting blacktop, Topaz risks a quick glance in the rearview mirror. Her breath catches in her throat.
Still there.
The Eight-Six looms like a specter, headlights burning through the night like spotlights on a prison break.
"This is the longest anyone's ever kept up with me," she thinks, jaw tightening as her hands clamp down harder on the Miata's steering wheel. Her knuckles turn ghost-white. Every nerve screams that this shouldn't be happening. Yet it is.
In the AE86, Collei's pupils narrow like crosshairs.
"Now I see it," she murmurs, voice barely audible over the scream of the Silvertop. "I finally understand the difference between us."
She floors it—gas pedal to the firewall. The throttle linkage strains, and the 4A-GE howls in defiance. The tachometer needle climbs with manic urgency—9,000 RPM. Then 10,000. Past 11,000. The entire cabin vibrates with the feral rage of the engine screaming for war.
Gap closed. Inch by inch. Corner by corner.
Spectators scream from the roadside, shadows in a strobing blur of headlights and tail lamps. Another hairpin—blazing fast. The Miata dives in, the AE86 claws right behind it. Sparks erupt from undercarriages. Tires shriek in agony. The space between the two machines disappears like breath in winter air.
"Look at them go!" a voice shouts from the treeline. "That Eight-Six is riding her ass!"
Topaz's nerves start to fray. She's running out of mental track faster than asphalt. Her arms go rigid. The steering wheel feels like it's made of steel.
"I'm not losing this. Not today!" she growls through gritted teeth. Her foot slams the gas pedal down, pegging the throttle.
But the Miata responds with diminishing returns. Even with all her aggression, the AE86 keeps surging closer. Relentless. Surgical.
"How is this possible?!" Topaz barks, panic seeping in through the cracks. "How is that damn car still behind me?!"
The road is an echo chamber of mechanical rage—engines howling, tires clawing, brakes screaming in protest. Hairpin after hairpin, the two cars tear each other apart in a battle of inches. Collei doesn't just keep up—she starts reading Topaz like sheet music.
At the summit, Serval leans into the static of her radio.
"They've hit the halfway mark," comes the spotter's voice. "No change in positions—the MX-5 is still leading. But the Eight-Six is right on her ass."
Serval's eyes widen. Her cigarette dangles, forgotten, between two fingers.
"The Eight-Six is keeping up…?" she repeats, almost to herself. She steps closer to the guardrail, scanning the road below—just slivers of light weaving through the darkness like a stitched wound.
"This race is going to be closer than we thought."
On the descent, Collei dials in. Hyper-focused. Her brain processes every micro-movement of Topaz's car—every early apex, every throttle hesitation.
"Her cornering is tight," she mutters. "She knows this road like the back of her hand."
She tightens her grip on the wheel. Muscles tense. She's not just reading lines—she's writing them now.
"But there's one thing she doesn't understand."
The AE86 explodes forward again. Collei mashes the accelerator, engine bellowing, and the Eight-Six rides the edge of traction like a blade dancing on steel.
"My car's faster in the transitions. That space—those fractions of a second between corners—that's where I win."
Up top, Ningguang's voice slices through the tension like glass.
"They're nearing the decisive sector," she says, crossing her arms with a self-satisfied smirk. "This is where everything turns."
Her eyes lock onto Clorinde, who lounges against the railing with one foot crossed over the other.
"Looks like it's your time to shine, rally star."
Clorinde snorts, flicking her hair back with a casual wave. "Finally. You don't just power through these gutters. You thread through them. It's about precision, not just guts. One mistake? You're in a ditch."
Ningguang smirks. "Albedo. You remember the gutter hook she used to practice, right?"
"The one where she locks her tires into the drainage channel?" Albedo says, already catching on.
Ningguang nods. "That was her base form."
"But this isn't that," she continues. "These gutters don't have covers. A gutter hook here would destroy the suspension or worse. This is something else entirely."
Clorinde steps in, her tone shifting into lecturer mode. "She's inverted the concept. Instead of dipping into the gutters, she's using a technique to hover over them. She never touches the channel at all."
Albedo frowns. "How is that possible? She can't fly."
Back on the road, the first of the lidless gutter corners appears. Topaz dives in, late-braking hard, heel-toe downshifting into second. The Miata responds with a snarl as she cuts the corner tight—but Collei watches with laser precision.
"She's turning in too early," Collei says, narrowing her eyes.
She visualizes the ideal vector—a line carved through instinct and thousands of mental laps. A simulation fires off in her head: steering angle, throttle timing, weight shift. All systems go.
"That's it."
She buries the throttle. The Eight-Six catapults forward, the tach needle pinned past 10K as she lines up for the left-hander. She takes the outside approach, sliding the rear end just enough to put her front wheels near the gutter's edge—but never in it.
Inside the Miata, Topaz screams internally.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THOSE GUTTERS HAVE NO COVERS!"
Collei doesn't flinch. She surges forward, exiting the corner side-by-side with the Miata. The next right-hand hairpin comes up fast.
Collei's on the inside.
Topaz's eyes widen. "No! I'm not letting her take it!"
Both drivers brake late. Brakes screech. Tires chatter. Smoke rises. Collei holds her line, and when the apex hits—she drops the hammer. The AE86 launches with another high-RPM scream, its nose just kissing the edge of the lidless gutter. She threads through without touching metal.
Topaz lunges to block—but she's too late. Collei's momentum is nuclear. The Eight-Six rips past her out of the corner.
"What?! How did she fit through?!" Topaz's mind spirals. "There was no room! That gutter was open!"
At the summit, Clorinde finally lays it out.
"She's weight-shifting mid-corner," she says coolly. "Heavy throttle during the transition phase shifts mass rearward. That lifts the front end—just enough."
Albedo's eyes widen. "She's floating her inner front tire?"
"Exactly. Inner wheel lifting. She's using weight distribution to make the inside front tire hover above the gutter. It's like dancing on a tripwire and not getting cut."
Ningguang clasps her hands. "Brilliantly put, Professor Clorinde."
Below, Collei threads another left-hander, and again—lift. Her left front tire visibly rises as the AE86's suspension balances on a knife-edge. It lands with a kiss of screeching rubber as she hits the straightaway.
Topaz, still reeling, snarls.
"If she can do it, so can I!"
Determined, she hurls the Miata into the next right-hander, slamming the throttle mid-turn to mimic the weight shift.
The car lurches—suddenly light.
"I can't feel the front end… am I doing it?"
But then—wham.
The front right tire drops. Hard.
Metal screams as the suspension collapses into the gutter. Sparks fly as the Miata's undercarriage grinds across the edge.
"No—no no no—!"
The Miata snaps sideways, a brutal 90-degree rotation. The front wheel hits the inside wall of the gutter and catapults the car. It flips once—metal crumpling, glass exploding. Then again.
The Miata crashes down hard on its right side before landing on all fours, mangled but upright, the sound of shredded steel echoing into the treeline.
Collei sees the impact in the rearview and slams the brakes. The AE86 fishtails to a halt.
She leaps out.
"Topaz!" she screams, sprinting toward the wreckage. The smell of gasoline and ozone fills her lungs. She grabs the Miata's door and rips it open.
Topaz is slumped, breathing ragged. Blood trickles from a sharp cut on her cheek. Her voice is weak, but stable.
"Y-Yeah… I'm okay…"
Collei doesn't wait. She unclips the harness and hauls her out, supporting her as Topaz wobbles to her feet.
At the summit, Serval's radio crackles to life.
"Topaz crashed at Sector B7. Minor injuries. She'll be alright."
Serval exhales, shoulders slumping. "Thank fuck. She's tough."
As the night air settles and the chaos fades, one truth echoes across Mount Yougou:
For Collei and the Speed Stars—it's another hard-earned, brutal victory.
For Topaz—it's a lesson carved into steel and blood.
The mountain doesn't forgive.