On the third lap, while navigating the high-speed left-hander of T8, the 2.5G lateral load finally pulverized Roan's fragile neck muscles.
His head snapped to the right, the bottom edge of his helmet slamming against his neck brace with a sickening thud. His vision was instantly compromised. Unable to spot the apex, his line faltered, and he was forced to lift off the throttle in a corner that should have been taken flat-out.
In that heartbeat of weakness, a red blur flashed past.
Chen had pounced. The professional had spent the last two laps meticulously chipping away at the gap, waiting for Roan's form to crack. He seized the opportunity and swept past.
The tide had turned. Roan was no longer the hunter; he was the prey. And with every passing second, his stamina bar was bleeding dry. Time had switched sides to favor the professional.
The collapse continued into the fourth lap. Exhaustion didn't just bring muscle failure; it brought cognitive static. Chen showcased the terrifying discipline of a pro, hitting every mark and pulling away with surgical consistency.
Half a car length. One car length. Two.
Watching the back of Chen's suit grow smaller, Roan knew that if he kept racing "by the book," he was dead. But right now, even holding the line was a monumental struggle. He had to gamble.
Fifth lap. The final circuit.
Roan stopped trying to attack. Instead, he took the most conservative lines possible—not to be fast, but to save every scrap of kinetic energy. On the short straights, he tucked himself into a ball, lowering his head to minimize aerodynamic drag. He was a predator playing dead, waiting for the one opening that mattered.
On the second long straight, Roan tucked into Chen's slipstream. He rode the "tow" in the low-pressure pocket behind the lead kart, closing the gap millimeter by millimeter. It still wasn't enough to pass.
Then came T14. The final hairpin.
Chen followed the textbook line—hugging the outer curb, preparing for a perfect trail-brake entry and a late apex to maximize his exit speed onto the finish line. It was the only "correct" way to take the corner.
But the moment Chen touched his brakes, he glanced in his mirror and felt a jolt of pure terror. The kart behind him... wasn't slowing down.
Roan hadn't just missed his braking point; he had ignored it.
It was a suicidal dive. Roan didn't take the wide entry; he plunged his nose into the narrow, closing gap on the inside. The chassis shuddered violently under the load, tires screaming in a high-pitched wail as they emitted plumes of acrid white smoke. He was trading the life of his tires for track position.
Physics dictated that at this speed, Roan should have locked up and plowed straight into the gravel trap. Even if he held it, the loss of exit speed should have allowed Chen to execute a "cross-over" and take him back on the straight.
But Roan had calculated the specific geometry of T14.
The finish line was less than 15 meters from the apex. If there had been another lap, Roan's move would have been a disaster; Chen would have passed him on the straight with ease. But there was no straight. The apex was the finish.
"Madman!" Chen hissed as the red kart slid sideways across his nose.
Roan had braked ten meters later than the professional. His entry speed was massive, his kart drifting almost perpendicular to the track. He was on the verge of spinning out into the grass, but for now, his nose was ahead.
Through sheer, desperate brake modulation, Roan kept the kart on the blacktop. As Chen straightened his car and floored the throttle, Roan was still fighting to get his nose pointed at the line.
Roan was closer to the stripe, but moving slowly. Chen was further back, but accelerating like a rocket.
The finish line rushed toward them. Chen's nose began to overlap Roan's rear bumper.
STRIKE!
Roan's front nose-cone crossed the line 0.1 seconds before Chen's.
Screee—
Both karts slowed, but Chen's momentum carried him far past Roan. Roan had crossed the line at barely 30 km/h, while Chen was screaming through at 50 km/h. If the line had been half a meter further back, Chen would have won.
But there were no "ifs."
Roan had won by a heartbeat.
He allowed the kart to roll to a stop at the pit entrance. He didn't want to move. He couldn't move. Before the wheels had even stopped turning, he released the wheel and slumped into the plastic seat like a pile of discarded clothes. His helmet clattered against his neck brace.
He felt like Loki after being slammed into the floor eighty times by the Hulk. He had won the battle, but his body was the casualty.
Zack and Justin vaulted over the barrier. "Roan! You okay?"
Roan raised a hand—a weak, trembling gesture. He couldn't find the breath to speak. Every muscle was screaming in a language of pure pain. The peak G-load of that final flick had likely spiked over 3Gs. For a body with zero specialized training, it was a form of physical torture.
By the time they got him onto a bench in the P-room, Chen had already returned. He held his helmet, his face devoid of any frustration from losing. Instead, he looked like a scientist who had just discovered a new element.
"You won the bet," Chen said, handing over a cold Coke. "But a real race lasts thirty minutes. You turned into a puddle in less than ten."
Roan reached for the can, but his hand was shaking so violently he couldn't grip it. "I... I still... won." His voice was a rasp, but his eyes were burning with a jagged light.
"Yeah," Chen smiled, patting Roan's shoulder—a gesture that made the boy wince in agony. "I'll be your sparring partner."
The Coke slipped from Roan's trembling fingers and hit the floor. He was beyond words. The only thing he had the energy for was to retreat into his Mind Palace and update his status:
Physical Fitness: F-Rank.
Then, the world went black.
When Roan woke up, he felt as if someone had poured quick-setting concrete into his neck and then tried to twist his head off with a pipe wrench. Every millimeter of movement sent a rusted-hinge grind through his spine.
"Ngh—"
He tried to touch the back of his neck, but his right index finger was vibrating like a controller with a stuck haptic motor. Classical muscle failure.
On the small table in front of him sat a can of Coca-Cola. His coolant. His fuel.
Using both wrists like a pair of crude tongs, Roan managed to pull the can toward him. He tried to pin his right hand down with his left to stop the shaking. He fumbled at the aluminum pull-tab three times.
Click.
The tab didn't budge. It wasn't stuck; he simply lacked the localized muscle power to pop it.
Systemic thermal overload, Roan thought, staring at the unreachable sugar. F-Rank. Definitely F-Rank.