Back in the pits, the air was beginning to cool, but Roan's internal temperature remained in the red zone. The residual heat of the engine combined with the pungent scent of molten rubber created a thick, heavy atmosphere in the garage.
He pulled off his helmet and unzipped his suit, sweat pouring down his chin. As people began to gather, their gazes weren't sharp or hostile. For the first time, Roan didn't feel the urge to retreat into his Mind Palace.
"Man, that T11 line... how did you even see that?"
A hand reached out, palms still warm from the track. It was King, the P3 finisher. His suit was half-off, and his gloves were shredded from the fight. There was no bitterness in his eyes—just the pure, analytical curiosity of an engineer looking at impossible data.
"That corner speed was insane. Watching you from behind, you were three-wheeling every apex. You play with the limit like it's a toy."
"Three-wheeling" is the hallmark of an elite karter. Since karts lack a differential, the only way to navigate a tight corner at maximum velocity is to use weight transfer to lift the inside rear wheel, preventing understeer. It's easy to do once; it's nearly impossible to do on every single lap with the surgical consistency Roan had just displayed.
Roan hesitated for a second before shaking King's hand. He wasn't used to talking to strangers, but he recognized the calluses on King's palm—the "medals" earned from thousands of hours fighting a steering wheel. It was the only ID card that mattered in this circle.
Respect in the paddock isn't bought with words. Fastest lap is the only currency, and Roan had just shown he was the wealthiest man on the track. For the first time, surrounded by people arguing over tire pressures and brake points, Roan felt a sense of belonging.
"Family! Here he is! The Ghost himself!"
A high-decibel shout shattered the moment. Before Roan could react, a heavy arm draped over his shoulder. Cho's stubbly, wide-angle face filled a smartphone screen, dragging Roan's frozen expression into a live broadcast.
The sense of security vanished. Roan's social anxiety spiked.
"Uh... hello everyone," Roan muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
The cold-blooded predator of Turn 1 was gone. In his place stood a teenager whose eyes darted everywhere, eventually settling on a random screw on the floor as if he were trying to identify its manufacturer. He awkwardly shifted his helmet from his left arm to his right, his hands finding nowhere comfortable to rest.
Cho, sensing the kid was about to short-circuit, mercifully pulled the camera away to address his viewers. The comment section was a waterfall of text:
[Wait, he's that young?]
[Contrast gap! The T11 monster is actually a shy high-schooler?]
[No way. 16 years old and just starting? Zhou Guanyu was in Europe at 10. Too late, he's got no chance.]
Cho's expression turned unusually serious. He looked at the camera with an intensity he usually reserved for high-speed crashes.
"Keyboard legends, listen to me," Cho said. "You're looking at the next great hope. He might even go further than anyone we've seen before."
The chat erupted in a war of "toxic milk" (jinxing) accusations and skepticism about the domestic racing environment. Cho didn't argue. He professionally muted the trolls and deleted the bait with a practiced swipe, as if brushing dust off a shoulder.
"Racing starts late here, but that doesn't stop us from reaching the top," Cho smiled at the lens. "Believe in the light. This kid is the future."
In the corner of the lounge, by the vending machine, a chilled blue-and-white can was held out to Roan.
"I knew about the T11 rubber-zone. But I didn't dare take it. You're crazier than me."
MV1 had removed his helmet. Up close, he radiated a sharp, professional aura. He didn't even bother wiping his sweat; his eyes remained fixed on Roan as if he were a rare specimen.
Roan took the drink. "The track told me it was there," he replied.
To him, it wasn't "crazy" or a "gamble." It was a physics equation. Grip + Friction = Viability. It was math, not courage.
MV1 paused, then laughed. He didn't dwell on the loss. Instead, he leaned against the wall, relaxed and composed. "So, what's the plan? You going to keep 'smurfing' in this pond forever?"
In the distance, the low-tier practice heat began. The engines sounded cheap and buzzy compared to the high-output machines they had just stepped out of. For a shark like Roan, the water here was indeed getting too shallow.
Roan took a sip of the drink. He looked up, his gaze no longer shy or wandering. It was as natural and certain as asking for a glass of water.
"Formulas. F1."
The air seemed to freeze. MV1's smile vanished, replaced by a complex look—a mix of pity for an idealist and respect for the sheer audacity of the dream.
"For me, that was a dead-end road paved with gold," MV1 said, pushing off the wall. His silhouette looked lonely as he turned to leave, waving a hand over his shoulder like a friend watching someone walk into a furnace.
"But... good luck."