The chatter about "local legends" and "track ghosts" continued in the background, but Roan had already tuned it out. He only cared about the asphalt and the win.
"I was going to keep it a surprise, but I guess the timing screen gave it away," Marcus Vance said, watching Roan's reaction. "I personally invited MV1 to race today. This field isn't just full of amateurs anymore."
Marcus noticed that Roan, usually a "wooden" introvert once he stepped out of the cockpit, now had a predatory glint in his eyes. It wasn't fear—it was a starved, primal hunger for combat.
Seeing this, Marcus felt a weight lift off his chest. "A driver's pressure isn't just about the G-forces. Qualifying is over. Get ready."
"Exactly what I wanted," Roan replied.
He pulled on his helmet with a flick of defiance. The calm, unshakeable state he usually maintained was replaced by a surging tide of adrenaline.
Qualifying Results:
MV1 — 48.962sCho — 49.233sKing — 49.731sNana — 49.911s
...Roan Thorne (No Time)
The three-minute warning for the start of the race blared over the speakers. The karts filed out of the pits, completing a formation lap to scrub heat into the tires. Roan hung back at the very tail of the snake, P20, weaving aggressively to maximize his tire temp for the launch.
His first real-world race was about to begin.
Red lights on... Red lights off.
GREEN FLAG!
ROAR—!!!
Twenty two-stroke engines screamed in unison. Roan hit the throttle, and that familiar surge of torque pinned him into the seat. He executed a perfect launch, finding traction where others spun. In the first 200 meters of the main straight, he had already rocketed from P20 to P15.
Ahead, the pack bunched into a chaotic mess at Turn 1, a low-speed right-hander. It was a bowling alley of carbon fiber. Most drivers instinctively braked hard and swerved to avoid contact.
Roan saw the opening. The inside was a parking lot. The outside was empty.
He dabbed the brake, flicking the wheel left to widen the entry. The red DD2 kart sliced like a scalpel across the low-grip outer edge of the track. The rear end stepped out—a signal that he was dancing on the limit of friction—but that was the plan. He used the slide to point the nose at a late apex, carrying twice the momentum of the cars huddled on the inside.
One. Two. Three.
By the time the mid-pack was still fighting for room at the exit of T1, Roan had flashed past them on the outside. He was already P12.
"I told you!" Zack shouted from the grandstands. "My boy is carving them up like a Thanksgiving turkey!"
But at the front, the blue-and-white No. 1 kart had already completed a textbook exit. MV1 had already opened a one-car-length gap over second place.
Roan locked his visor onto that shrinking blue-and-white silhouette. The hunt was on.
Lap 7.
Roan's breathing was perfectly synced with the engine's RPM.
Inhale—Entry.
Exhale—Exit.
He had picked off 18 drivers. Now, only MV1 remained ahead, with a few soon-to-be-lapped backmarkers scattered between them.
MV1 hit traffic first—a kart covered in flashy influencer stickers driven by an amateur who clearly didn't check his mirrors. Despite the marshals frantically waving Blue Flags (the signal to let faster cars pass), the amateur stayed on the racing line.
MV1 was forced to lift and brake at the apex, losing momentum. Roan saw the window. He didn't hesitate. As the backmarker finally panicked and jerked left to get out of the way, Roan predicted the move. He didn't lift. He micro-adjusted the wheel to the right.
Swoosh!
Roan's kart brushed past the backmarker's side-pod so closely he could see the scuff marks on the plastic. He carried full speed through the gap, erasing the two-car-length deficit in a single second.
By the next corner, he was glued to MV1's bumper.
Roan felt a surge of confusion. MV1 was supposed to be a legend; why was he so easy to catch? Then, the realization hit.
MV1 had been managing his pace. He had been waiting.
For the next lap, MV1's defense became a brick wall. He checked his shoulder before every overtaking zone—an elite skill in karts, which lack mirrors—and positioned his kart with surgical precision to block Roan's every move.
Roan needed a new plan. He decided to sit on the leader's bumper, conserving his energy and waiting for a single, microscopic mistake.
They hit the main straight heading into Turn 1 again.
Suddenly, a cloud of yellow dust erupted from the T1 tire wall. Two backmarkers, fighting for P18, had tangled. One kart had overshot the braking point and was now perched on top of the tire barrier.
The caution lights flashed a steady, warning yellow.
Yellow Flag.
No overtaking. Slow down.
Instinctively, MV1 raised one hand high in the air to signal the pack behind him. A split second later, Roan mirrored the gesture.
Two karts, moving at high speed through a hazardous zone, their movements perfectly synchronized like a choreographed drill. It was a sign of mutual respect—a silent acknowledgement between two top-tier drivers who understood the rules of the game.