In the deep shadows of the pit garage, Roan was sealing himself into a mobile sauna.
Fireproof underlayers, rib protectors, the racing suit, neck brace, helmet, and gloves. At these temperatures, the gear felt less like protection and more like a thermal trap.
"Roan, seriously, don't give yourself heatstroke," Zack said, dabbing his own forehead with a sodden towel. He held an ice-cold electrolyte drink in one hand and a wet rag in the other. "We don't have a medical team on standby. Skip the thermal training for today."
"This is the medical team," Roan's voice came out muffled through the helmet. He pointed at the ice water in Zack's hand. "You're the Chief Medical Officer."
Marcus Vance stood by the pit wall, stopwatch and timing board in hand. He watched the fully armored Roan with a rare, silent flicker of respect. In an era of instant gratification, few kids possessed the stomach for this kind of grueling, repetitive misery.
"Go."
No wasted words. Roan climbed in, buckled the six-point harness, and fired the engine. The Rotax DD2 let out a high-frequency scream, tearing into the shimmering heat waves.
One lap. Two. Five.
There was no flashy drifting, no desperate counter-steering. Roan's driving style was exactly like the weather: brutal, stable, and direct. Braking points, turn-in, apex, exit—every lap was a carbon copy of the last. He laid his tire marks precisely over the previous ones, his gear shifts hitting at the exact same millisecond.
To an amateur, it was boring. To a pro like Marcus, it was terrifying.
"Normal players would be puking after ten minutes in this heat," an old mechanic muttered, leaning against a stack of tires. "Does this kid even have a cooling system?"
"Twenty-five minutes," Marcus noted, his fingers tapping the clipboard.
49.3s.
49.3s.
49.3s.
49.2s.
The data was cold and honest. Even as the heat clawed at his stamina, Roan remained a machine. In the T8 high-speed sweeper, the lateral force hit 2.5G. Roan's head was shoved toward the outside of the curve, but his neck muscles—now hardened like hydraulic struts—locked his helmet in place. Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn't even blink.
Finally, Marcus raised the checkered flag.
Thirty minutes. This wasn't just a long karting stint; it was the standard race duration for Formula 4.
Roan lifted off the throttle, coasting into the pits as the engine died. The sudden silence was deafening. Zack rushed forward to help him out, but Roan unbuckled himself and vaulted out of the cockpit.
His landing was rock solid. No staggering, no dry-heaving, no kneeling on the asphalt like he had a month ago. He pulled off his helmet, and a plume of steam rose from his head like a freshly opened pressure cooker.
Zack checked the heart rate monitor on Roan's wrist. 185 BPM.
Then, the number began to plummet. 160... 140... 120...
Within sixty seconds, his vitals had returned to the safety zone.
Marcus handed him a dry towel, his tone softening a fraction. "Congratulations."
Roan wiped the grime and sweat from his neck. In his Mind Palace, a shower of digital sparks accompanied a new rank update: [Physique: D+].
"Not bad," Roan said, his voice steady. "Could've gone longer."
In the lounge, Roan drained an electrolyte bottle. Water wasn't enough; he needed to replace the salt he'd bled out onto the track.
"Theory is one thing," Marcus said, sitting across from him. He toyed with the stopwatch. "But fitness is just the baseline. Racing is about the fight."
Roan set the bottle down with a deliberate thud. "I've been waiting for this."
"Tomorrow is the Sunday Open Race. Twenty karts. Mostly amateurs and semi-pro 'hot-shoes.' Not many full-time pros." Marcus leaned in, a devilish, almost cruel smile touching his lips. "As the final exam for your two months of 'Hell Week'... you're entering."
Roan nodded. "What's the goal? Pole to Win?" He was confident no one on this track could touch his single-lap pace.
"No," Marcus shook his head. "I want you to skip qualifying. You'll start P20. Dead last."
The air in the room stilled.
Twenty two-stroke karts. The narrow, twisty Silverstone North track. A field full of unpredictable amateurs with messy lines. Starting from the back wasn't a race; it was being thrown into a meat grinder.
"Last to First," Marcus's voice was like iron. "If you don't take the win, go back to driving a delivery truck. I don't need a robot who can only run fast laps on a clean track. I need to see your survival instincts in 'dirty air.' I need to see if you can fight."
Roan blinked. It was illogical. It was unscientific. It went against every racer's instinct to hunt for pole.
But it was a massive adrenaline rush. The light in Roan's eyes flared brighter than it had all day. He didn't feel insulted; he felt challenged. A faint, cocky smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the look of a predator who had just been told the cage was open.
He grabbed his helmet, already mentally mapping the overtakes.
"Copy that."