Neo shifted his weight, muscles coiling beneath the hum of his Rayfield. His left leg shimmered faintly—dark energy crawling up like ink in water.
Armament Haki. Hardening.
He leaned into the incoming impact. The off-road rig that had swerved to ram him was nearly twice his size, plated with scavenged armor and reinforced bumpers that could chew through concrete.
Didn't matter.
Neo's heel lashed out.
BOOM!
The kick landed with a sound that wasn't human—metal screaming as the left side of the rig imploded. The entire vehicle shuddered, its reinforced paneling crushed inward like tinfoil.
The crowd watching from the ridges went dead silent.
That wasn't a crash. That was a detonation by foot.
But Neo wasn't done.
The Nomads inside the rig were still gaping when his second kick came—a harder, sharper strike wreathed in obsidian force.
BOOOOM!
The truck lifted off the ground. All four wheels left the dirt before it came crashing down in a shower of sparks and dust.
The drivers were screaming now—half in disbelief, half in terror.
This guy isn't human!
Their off-roader had been tricked out with hardened steel, carbon shock frames, and anti-ballistic plating—stuff that could laugh off Gatling fire.
And this man… had just kicked it into the air.
Neo straightened on his bike, the night wind ripping past him, his tone casual and almost amused.
"C'mon," he said through the comms, voice low and mocking. "Don't stop now. I only didn't flip you on the first kick so you could come again."
He pointed toward them. "So do it. Hit me again."
The Nomads in the dented truck stared back, faces pale under the neon dust.
Neo revved the Rayfield, closing in like a predator. He smashed a gloved fist through their windshield, glass exploding inward. "You wanted my Rayfield, right? Take your shot. Make it worth it."
Then he grinned. "Or are you already out of guts?"
Before they could answer, another roar split the air behind him—deep, guttural, angry.
A heavy-duty armored hauler came barreling in from the rear, engine growling like a beast. Its driver meant business—full speed, aiming straight for Neo's back.
"...From behind?" Neo muttered. "How unoriginal."
He flicked the Rayfield into auto-drive, his right hand sliding off the throttle.
"Armament Haki—Release."
He turned, drew back his fist, and punched the air.
The strike detonated outward like a shockwave. The pressure alone split the sand beneath him.
THOOM!
The blast slammed into the truck's front end. The impact folded the hood inward, blew the engine block straight out, and sent the driver catapulting through his own windshield.
The remains of the truck skidded to a stop, engine hissing like a dying animal.
Neo lowered his hand slowly. His voice was calm—almost bored.
"Alright," he said, turning back toward the battered off-roader beside him. "Now we can talk about that crash you promised me."
The Nomads inside froze.
"B-Brother, we, uh… surrender. Voluntarily. We'll vanish right now. Won't even breathe the same air as you again. Deal?"
Neo smiled pleasantly. "No deal."
That smile—sharp, gentle, utterly unhinged—was more terrifying than the explosions.
The Nomads barely had time to scream before the Rayfield's engine shrieked and Neo's next kick reduced their vehicle to twisted metal.
...
By the halfway mark, the Battle Run had stopped being a race.
It was a massacre.
One by one, vehicles that tried to ram or overtake him were reduced to flaming wrecks. The dust clouds were littered with burning chassis and overturned engines. Even the spectators fell silent, watching in horrified awe.
The legendary Rayfield cut through the desert like a divine weapon, and the man riding it—Night City's Slayer of Steel and Chrome—was grinning.
By the time the engines quieted and the horizon glowed orange with the final flare, the race was over.
And crossing the finish line first—her Thorton Caliburn gliding through the dust—was Panam Palmer.
Neo slowed behind her, engine purring, visor gleaming. He hadn't cared about the win. He'd come for the chaos, and chaos had delivered.
As for Jackie? He was leaning against his Arch Nazare at the side, laughing like a maniac, wiping dust off his jacket.
"Damn, hermano. You weren't racing—you were performing an exorcism."
Neo shrugged. "I did say I came here to relax."
...
Later, as the dust settled and the survivors limped from their wrecks, Panam stood on the podium collecting her prize—a hefty credit chip and the envy of everyone left standing.
Jackie watched from afar, arms crossed. "You know what's funny? That cash isn't staying in her hands for long."
Neo glanced at him. "How so?"
Jackie gestured toward the scorched horizon, where a few surviving Nomad rigs idled like vultures. "Take a good look. You really think her Caliburn beat those rigs? Hell no. You scared half the competition off, mano. Without us here, she'd be roadkill."
He spat into the dust. "Now they'll want her winnings back—with interest."
Neo exhaled softly, visor reflecting the dying sunlight. "So you're saying the fun's not over yet."
"Far from it," Jackie said, swinging a leg over his bike. "Stick close. You'll see."
Sure enough, they didn't have to wait long.
Panam had just finished collecting her payout when three off-roaders rolled up behind her—chrome glinting, their engines growling low and ugly.
Jackie grinned. "Told you. Some people just don't know when to stop breathing."
Neo revved the Rayfield, his voice low and calm.
"Let's go remind them."