As dusk bled into twilight and the last golden rays surrendered to the deepening shadows, the team regrouped at the summit of the mountain pass. The air was thin and cool, saturated with the scent of pine and scorched rubber from earlier warm-up runs. The resting area buzzed with a low hum of anticipation, lit faintly by the dying sun and the occasional flicker of cigarette embers. Everyone was accounted for—except Collei.
She had taken the Eight-Six down alone for a recon run, her expression unreadable when she pulled out of the lot. No words, just purpose.
Now, deep in the guts of the pass, Collei coasted the Trueno along the tight mountain curves at a snail's pace, the engine idling low in second gear. Her eyes stayed locked ahead, scanning every inch of the road like it was scripture. She wasn't just memorizing the layout—she was absorbing the soul of the mountain.
She eased the Eight-Six to a halt just before a wicked hairpin, the nose of the car angled slightly downhill, headlights dimmed. Gravel popped under her boots as she stepped out. The silence around her was thick, broken only by the ticking of the cooling exhaust. She walked the outside line of the turn, crouched low, ran her fingers across a patch of uneven asphalt. Her breath caught in her chest. This turn wasn't just tight—it was vicious. The kind that could flip you if you got greedy on the throttle.
Back at the summit, the air was growing colder, and the mountain shadows stretched long. Keqing, Albedo, and Ganyu had gathered near Clorinde's Lancia Rally 037. The machine sat like a caged animal beneath the fading sky—its wedge profile sharp and menacing, painted in Martini stripes that shimmered with just a hint of nostalgia and danger.
Leaning against the Lancia's rear fender, Keqing crossed her arms and smirked, her violet eyes flicking toward the horizon. "Looks like Collei's really taking her sweet time with that recon run," she muttered, lips curling into a half-grin tinged with impatience.
Albedo checked his watch, his expression clinical as always. "No kidding. She's been gone, what? An hour?"
"Something like that," Keqing sighed. She nudged her elbow toward Clorinde, who stood languidly against the Lancia's roof, her arm draped like she had nothing in the world to prove. "Meanwhile, Clorinde here was in and out in the time it takes someone to take a piss."
Ganyu let out a soft, melodic chuckle. "No kidding. Hey, Clorinde, are you actually racing today, or just here to flex that old rally car like it's a trophy?"
Navia laughed louder, arms crossed as she leaned against the bed of her Hilux.
Clorinde didn't flinch. She scoffed, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Take a hike, Ganyu," she said coolly. "I recon my own way. Quick and clean. I don't need to babysit every crack in the pavement to know where I can win."
Keqing's smirk deepened. "Good. We're counting on you for this one. You're leading off tonight—so make it count."
Clorinde's eyes narrowed, her lips pulling into a blade-sharp grin. "I always do. I've had my rest, and I'll take all the time I need on the way down. Especially since an old rivalry's about to reignite." Her gaze drifted toward Jean's Audi Quattro parked across the lot—its boxy frame and flared arches a stark contrast to the curved elegance of the Lancia. Her eyes hardened. "The ghosts of '83 are watching."
As the last sliver of sunlight disappeared, the mountain slipped into darkness, and the pass transformed. A hundred headlights flared to life in the distance, casting long beams across the tarmac and trees. The hairpins and sweepers below glowed with the eerie hush of nighttime anticipation. The crowd had grown. Spectators lined the road, clinging to guardrails and tree stumps like rally stages of old. Murmurs rippled through the group, voices hushed but excited.
"It's been ages since Jean went head-to-head with anyone," someone said, leaning close to the edge of the overlook.
Another nodded, hushed reverence in his tone. "No kidding. And this ain't just a race—it's the Audi Quattro versus the Lancia 037. The rivalry that lit up Group B."
"The pressure's on," a third voice added. "Speed Stars hasn't lost a single one yet. People are expecting a bloodbath."
Across the road, Heizou and Thoma leaned against a rusted guardrail, eyes on the gathering storm below.
"Man," Heizou muttered, scanning the rows of spectators and their flashes of phone screens, "this looks more like Sanremo in the '80s than a Kanrei pass."
Thoma whistled low. "No kidding. Never seen this many people come out for a weekday run. Even the forest feels louder."
Down at the staging area, Keqing approached Jean with her usual razor-sharp composure. Her boots clicked against the pavement. "We're starting with the uphill section. Cone at the summit marks the turnaround. After that, you head straight back down. If nobody passes, we go for a rematch. You good with that?"
Jean, seated behind the wheel of the Quattro, looked up. A faint smile played on her lips. "Exactly what I wanted."
Keqing nodded and stepped away, the air thick with tension. Jean and Clorinde now stood face to face, the weight of four decades of motorsport history between them.
Jean smirked, her voice low and laced with steel. "This is more than a race, Clorinde. It's the second chapter of a war that started in 1983. In case you forgot—I'm Jean Gunnhildr."
Clorinde's smirk mirrored hers. "And I'm Clorinde. I don't forget. Let's quit wasting breath and light this mountain up."
They shook hands—firm, cold, without ceremony—and parted. Clorinde slid into the Lancia with the familiarity of a gunslinger holstering steel. She locked in the five-point harness, fingers moving fast but fluid, flicking each latch with muscle memory. Her gloved hand twisted the master switch, then primed the ignition.
Clack. Vrummmmm!
The Lancia's 2.1L twin-charged inline-four snarled to life, a mechanical scream barely muffled by the thin firewall. The Lexan windows rattled from the idle alone.
Then: Knock-knock.
She turned. Ningguang stood outside her door, her face bathed in the red glow of the taillights.
"Ningguang," Clorinde called over the engine, popping the latch. "What's up?"
"This isn't something I usually do, but this one matters," Ningguang said, tone clipped and serious.
Clorinde leaned closer, expression sharpening. "Talk to me."
Ningguang rested a hand on the roof, leaning in until her voice was barely audible over the engine. "On the uphill—don't pass. Stick to her tail. Make her feel you. But don't go past."
Clorinde blinked. "You sure? That's not how I usually run."
"Trust me," Ningguang said flatly. "Match her pace. Keep her in your sights. At the turnaround, leave her with a seven to eight second gap at most. That's the ceiling. Any more and we lose momentum."
Clorinde absorbed that, nodded slowly. "Understood."
Ningguang gave the roof a firm pat, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Then give her hell. Group B style."
Clorinde grinned like a wolf. "Always."
As Ningguang stepped away, Clorinde dropped the shifter into neutral and gave the throttle a quick stab. The Lancia answered with a shriek, the revs flaring past 5,000, its exhaust popping in the exhaust like machine gun fire.
Over in the Audi, Jean was focused. Her harness clicked tight across her chest, and her gloved hands curled around the suede steering wheel. Diluc leaned in through the open window, his expression unreadable.
"So what's the plan?"
Jean's voice was low and fierce. "Simple. I prove that the Audi Quattro still rules the mountain—even on dry tarmac."
Diluc raised an eyebrow. "Bold talk. That Lancia's a knife on asphalt. Sure, it's 'only' 350 horses in Evo 2 spec, but she's feather-light, mid-engined, and quick on rotation."
Jean smirked. "Let her be quick. I'm not here to chase."
Diluc stepped back and gave a nod, signaling up the line.
Keqing raised her arm at the starting line.
Engines howled.
The Lancia 037 and Audi Quattro sat side by side, turbos breathing deep, exhausts snarling and spitting fire into the dark. The trees trembled from the sound. Fans pressed closer to the rails. The world narrowed to headlights and tire smoke.
The stage was set.
The countdown began.
Keqing raised her hand high, her voice slicing through the thick curtain of anticipation like a blade.
"On my count!"
"FOUR!"
"THREE!"
"TWO!"
"ONE!"
"GO!"
Her hand dropped like the starter's flag in a rally stage, and the Audi Quattro launched forward with a brutal, resonant bark. Jean's reaction time was flawless—clutch dumped, throttle modulated with surgeon-like precision. The Quattro's permanent all-wheel-drive system dug into the asphalt with feral urgency, its five-cylinder turbo snarling as all four tires clawed at the tarmac in unison.
Behind her, Clorinde's Lancia 037 broke traction immediately. The rear wheels lit up in a brief flash of wheelspin, the 2.1L twin-charged engine screaming as the tach pegged near redline. But Clorinde was ready. Her right foot danced with controlled finesse, feathering the throttle just enough to tame the beast. The torque surge flattened out as traction returned, and the Lancia surged forward in a shrill wail of mechanical violence, its supercharger and turbo working in seamless tandem. A scream, then a howl, then full-throttle fury.
They blasted into the first high-speed left-hander.
Jean entered clean—braking early, rotating the Quattro with a light lift and a quick jab of steering input. The Audi settled into the turn with four-point traction confidence, its weight shift perfectly balanced through the corner apex.
Clorinde stayed tucked in behind. She didn't attempt a pass. Not yet. Her Lancia dove into the same corner milliseconds later, but the approach was different—more raw, more tactile. She trailed brake deeper, left-foot brushing the pedal while her right foot blipped the throttle in short, staccato bursts. The car danced. The rear slipped—then caught—then slipped again, riding the ragged edge between grip and chaos. She wasn't following Jean's line. She was carving her own.
They rocketed out of the turn, the glow of Jean's taillights flaring red as she braked hard for the upcoming right-hand hairpin.
The Quattro's stability under braking was surgical. Jean squeezed the brake pedal with composure—no drama, just pure grip. The nose dipped, chassis hunkering down under the intense load as she downshifted with a precise blip. Her hands never moved erratically. Calm. Measured. Deadly.
Clorinde? She was on a knife's edge.
The Lancia's nose dove violently, rear end twitching as she heel-toed down two gears in rapid-fire succession. The twin-charged engine barked at each downshift. She flicked the wheel into the hairpin, weight transferring onto the outside front, then countered the rear's slide with a twitch of opposite lock. No ABS. No traction control. Just her raw hands and reflexes keeping the Lancia from snapping into a spin.
She caught the slide and powered out hard—supercharger disengaging, turbo spooling like a banshee.
From the summit, the mountain came alive with sound.
The warbling roar of the Audi's inline-five turbo bounced through the forested ravines like an old WRC stage in Corsica. Seconds later, the shrill, metallic scream of the Lancia's twin-charged four-cylinder carved through the air like a razor. The soundscape wasn't just noise—it was history echoing back, a Group B ghost race conjured from legend.
By the support van, Albedo leaned against the tailgate, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.
"Looks like the race has started."
Beside him, Collei nodded, her expression a tight blend of awe and intensity. Her eyes were pinned to the road ahead, as if trying to visualize every shift and brake input through sound alone.
"No kidding," she said, her voice low. "Reminds me of those old Group B tapes I used to watch in Yougou. Before I ever got behind the wheel. Before…" she trailed off, then smiled faintly, "...before Clorinde kicked my ass in the downhill."
Albedo chuckled. "You've come a long way since then. But don't forget—Clorinde's racing against Jean Gunnhildr now. She's not just some ex-rally ace—Jean's a textbook case of throttle mastery. Her timing's impeccable."
He glanced sidelong at Collei.
"Still," he added, "you've got something she doesn't. Clorinde might have Senna's spirit in her right foot, but Jean? Jean's not invincible."
Collei's hands clenched slightly. "Just meeting her made me nervous."
"Use that," Albedo said, voice firm. "Nerves mean you're awake. You'll need it against Diluc. His one-handed technique might look showy, but it's precise. And it's dangerous. Focus."
Collei nodded, the flicker of self-doubt vanishing behind a veil of steel.
On the course, Jean narrowed her eyes. Her grip on the suede steering wheel tightened, thumbs pressed firm into the horizontal spokes. She leaned into the seat, breathing synchronizing with the beat of the engine.
"Time to push."
She stabbed the throttle. The Audi leapt forward like a war dog unchained.
Clorinde stayed on her like a shadow, the Lancia clawing through gears with a scream that bordered on fury. Into the next sweeping left-hander, Clorinde's eyes narrowed.
Not bad, she thought. That Quattro's a real piece of engineering. But as Röhrl said—'The Lancia handles like a formula car.'
She downshifted from fourth to third, the revs flaring past 8500. Her left foot fluttered the clutch. Her right slammed the throttle to the floor.
The supercharger dropped out—torque curve diving momentarily—then the turbo picked up with a feral shriek. Boost hit like a hammer. The Lancia surged forward as she danced through a narrow left-hand kink, suspension compressed under lateral load, tires howling like wounded beasts.
They approached another hairpin.
Both braked.
Jean's rotors glowed like molten metal, the Quattro's weight staying settled as she entered. Her footwork was clinical. Throttle blip. Downshift. Apex. Roll on power.
Clorinde braked harder—deeper. The Lancia twitched, rear end stepping out slightly under trail-braking load, but she caught it with delicate steering inputs and a throttle pulse to stabilize the drift. She was still behind—but barely.
Jean checked her rearview. The Lancia hadn't dropped back.
She's still there? Jean's brow furrowed. That thing's got no business holding pace on tarmac. But it's right on me. She's good. Real good.
Clorinde grinned behind the wheel.
"Your throttle control is sharp, Jean. I'll give you that. But the Quattro's heavy. All that grip means understeer if you're off by even a hair."
Her eyes flicked to the next corner.
"And those tires? You're heating them up more than you think."
She exhaled slowly, grip tightening. "Let's see if you can keep those Michelins alive, darling."
She downshifted again. The Lancia roared.
Back at the start line, Keqing approached Ningguang. Her eyes were fixed on the distant glow of headlights threading through the upper sectors of the pass.
"You're letting Clorinde call her own pace," Keqing said. "I can tell. What's the angle here?"
Ningguang didn't flinch. "Mhm."
Keqing's brow lifted. "Not like the usual. What's different this time?"
"They're not your average racers," Ningguang replied, turning her gaze toward the dark mountain. "They're not chasing street rep. They're veterans—disciples of a very old school. And Clorinde? She knows the Quattro. Its history. Its weaknesses."
Keqing crossed her arms, skeptical. "You think tire degradation's enough to turn the race?"
Ningguang nodded slowly. "On the uphill? Definitely. The Quattro's tarmac weakness is always the same: mid-corner push. And over a prolonged run, it eats tires—fronts especially. If Jean overdrives, that understeer only gets worse."
Keqing tilted her head. "And Clorinde's throttle technique?"
"Refined. But still evolving. She's learning to delay her power delivery just enough to rotate without breaking rear traction. It's why I told her to hold back now—match Jean's pace, no more."
"Seven to eight seconds at the turnaround," Keqing murmured. "That's tight."
"Calculated," Ningguang said, her voice calm. "And if she nails the descent? That time gap means nothing. This race doesn't end at the top."
Her eyes narrowed.
"It ends in the fire of the downhill."
Back in the race, the tension thickened like fog. The air inside Clorinde's helmetless cockpit was electric with focus. She eased off the accelerator—not by much, just enough to let the Audi Quattro pull slightly ahead. It wasn't surrender; it was strategy. Her right foot hovered with restraint, the revs dipping slightly as she coasted through the straight. Her grip on the worn Momo wheel tightened, forearms rigid, biceps coiled.
"Ningguang," she breathed under her breath, the name slipping from her lips like a promise, not a plea. "This is a risky move. But I'll make it count. She's fast—faster than I expected—but seven seconds? That's just fuel for the fire."
The scream of her twin-charged engine echoed through the valley like a war cry. The Lancia surged into a tight right-hand turn, tail twitching ever so slightly as she coasted in—then a sharp heel-toe downshift. Her left foot stabbed the clutch, right foot blipping the throttle mid-brake, and her hand worked the dogleg shifter like second nature—one seamless motion. The Lancia's weight shifted perfectly. No drama. No wasted movement.
Ahead, the Quattro powered out of the corner, AWD claws digging in and launching forward with brutal efficiency. The gap widened. Clorinde didn't chase.
She didn't need to.
"Just breathe," she told herself. "Trust the work. Every late night with the cones. Every heel-toe drill till my ankle cramped. Every lecture from Ningguang about tire behavior and pedal modulation. This is it."
A short straight uncoiled ahead. The sound of the crowd faded beneath the roar of engines, as if the mountain itself had swallowed them whole.
Throttle 60%. Grip steady. No corrections.
Her hands stayed glued to the wheel at 9 and 3, every muscle in her body tuned to the Lancia's vibrations. Her senses stretched forward—not just seeing the road, but feeling it. The angle. The surface grade. The camber.
At the next hairpin, she attacked.
Downshift—blip—set the nose.
Throttle just enough to rotate, not slip.
The rear stepped out half a foot—perfect.
Back on throttle—power feeds in—car re-centers.
The Lancia's response was as precise as a scalpel. It wasn't just dancing through the corner—it was slicing it apart.
On the sidelines, spectators felt the shift.
"Badass!" one guy yelled, leaning over the guardrail. "Quattro's still got the lead!"
Another chimed in, voice loud over the engine noise. "Hell yeah! That five-cylinder howl is pure rally!"
A third scoffed, arms crossed. "Team Speed Stars hyped up that driver and car combo like it was something special. Where's all that talk now?"
Across the road, Thoma shot a look of disbelief. "Those idiots didn't do their homework."
Heizou stood with arms folded, a smug grin on his face. "The Quattro's iconic, no doubt. But on tarmac? The Lancia 037's a precision instrument. Lightweight, rear-drive, razor sharp. Clorinde's driving like she's playing a Stradivarius. Just give it time."
Back on the pass, Jean maintained her rhythm. Her steering inputs were smooth, brake modulation exact, right foot whispering to the throttle with every exit.
In the rearview mirror, Clorinde's headlights shrank slightly—just a flicker, like a ghost refusing to vanish.
Jean smiled faintly. "Impressive. She knows how to pace. Most rookies would've burned their tires trying to keep up. Not her. She's studying me."
Her eyes flicked back to the apex ahead. Her grip on the Nardi steering wheel tightened slightly.
"Let's see how long she can keep up this tempo."
Behind her, Clorinde exhaled slowly, pulse steady, but the blood in her ears was starting to drum. She stayed at a controlled distance. Her eyes were locked ahead, watching Jean's line like a hawk—memorizing turn-in points, brake zones, throttle pickups. Internalizing it all.
"Seven seconds?" she muttered. Her tone shifted—calm, but with a tinge of menace. "That's seven seconds you're going to regret giving me."
The final uphill hairpin approached—a tight right with uneven pavement near the inside. A perfect place to test tire fatigue. Jean braked early, trail-braked in clean, AWD sticking like glue.
Clorinde entered a beat later. Her approach was surgical. Foot off-throttle, brakes squeezed—then blip—second gear engaged, right foot feathered perfectly through the apex. The tail stepped just enough for her to point the nose straight. No wasted motion. No fight.
Just flow.
She exited tight, right on the rumble strip.
Her expression hardened.
"The uphill's done. Now it's my road."
As the road dipped, her posture changed. Shoulders rolled forward. Right foot tightened. Fingers loosened. Her entire aura shifted from defensive to predatory.
The turbocharger's pitch rose sharply as she buried the pedal. The boost gauge spiked. The revs screamed past 8500, the exhaust snarling as anti-lag popped and cracked like gunfire.
The downhill began.
First was a sweeping left—Clorinde didn't lift. She took it flat, tires protesting with a faint squeal. Next, a tightening-radius left-hand hairpin. This time she downshifted to second mid-brake—foot dancing across the pedals in a flawless ballet.
The Lancia rotated sharply, sliding sideways in a four-wheel drift, controlled by throttle and steering tension.
Clorinde's lips curled. Her voice was low, almost a growl.
"Focus. No fear. I own the downhill. Just me, the machine, and gravity."
The car spat flame as it exited the corner, the revs rising, her timing laser-sharp. Every gear change was a gunshot. Every corner exit felt like a spring snapping loose.
She was gaining now.
Gaining fast.
And she knew it.
The mountain echoed with the raw fury of Group B—a ghost of a racing era reborn in the hands of a new generation.
The battle had only just begun.
At the Summit Turnaround Area
Collei and Albedo stood at the edge of the turnaround zone, the night air tense with anticipation. In the distance, the faint snarl of engines climbing the mountain cut through the stillness, growing louder with every second.
Collei narrowed her eyes into the darkness of the downhill, her voice tight. "They're coming in fast."
As if summoned by the pressure in the air, Ganyu sprinted over from the crowd, slightly out of breath, her cheeks flushed. "I just got the update—Clorinde's trailing Jean!"
Collei and Albedo's eyes widened in unison. A quiet, palpable shift rippled between them.
Albedo nodded, his expression unreadable but thoughtful. "Perhaps. But remember—the Quattro has its weaknesses. The real battle starts on the downhill. That's where this race is won or lost."
Collei exhaled slowly, crossing her arms, her gaze drifting to the distant tree line that cloaked the road. "Still… I feel bad for her. Falling behind like that—it must feel awful. I'd be a wreck."
She paused, her eyes lifting to the stars scattered across the sky like cold fire. Her voice softened, but it was laced with hope. "But… knowing Clorinde, she's probably doing this for a reason."
Back in the Race
The shriek of Clorinde's Lancia pierced the mountain air as she pushed harder, her pace quickening with each breath. Her confidence, now unshakable, bled into her driving—every movement calculated, every corner an opportunity. Her thoughts moved like electricity, syncing with Ningguang's teachings.
"Keep the pace, Clorinde. No wasted movements. Manage your tires. Trust your instincts."
Her voice was low, steady, spoken more to her machine than herself. "No second-guessing. Not now."
The Lancia approached a brutal right-hand hairpin. She braked hard—heel-and-toe downshifting with machine-gun precision, her right foot balancing the throttle to keep the car poised. The Lancia entered the corner in a fluid four-wheel drift, its rear sliding out just enough to rotate the nose without breaking traction. Its taillights painted streaks of crimson across the guardrail as it rocketed out of the turn like a missile unleashed.
She clenched her jaw. "After this corner… punch it. No holding back."
Clorinde mashed the accelerator. The Lancia surged forward with violent grace, the supercharger and turbocharger harmonizing into a bloodcurdling wail. Her fingers danced across the shifter, her left heel and right toe working the pedals with perfect synchronicity. The chassis gripped the tarmac like a predator latching onto prey, darting through a fast left-right combination without hesitation.
At the Starting Line
Ningguang stood still, arms folded across her chest, her sharp eyes locked on the summit above. Keqing stood beside her, silent at first, watching the road with the same cold focus. Then Ningguang spoke, her words measured and proud.
"Remember the runs we did in Kannazuka? That's when she began refining her throttle control. She understood where she was lacking, and ever since, she's been obsessive about fixing it. She pushes herself harder than anyone I've ever seen. Even I underestimated how fast she'd progress."
Keqing nodded slowly. "She's like Collei in that way. Once she commits, it's not a question of if, it's when. And she learns faster than most can even react to."
A faint smile tugged at Ningguang's lips. "Exactly. If she's going to win this, she'll have to push the Lancia to its limit—and then beyond. No safety net. No hesitation."
At the Summit
Jean's Audi Quattro tore into the turnaround area, the howl of its five-cylinder engine reverberating like a war cry. Jean yanked the handbrake with clinical precision, sending the car into a razor-sharp 180 around the cone. Tires screeched, the rear swung out perfectly, and the Quattro shot down the mountain like a bullet out of a barrel.
The crowd erupted in cheers. The thunderous noise masked the subtle change in the wind—until Clorinde's Lancia 037 screamed into view.
Her headlights flared through the trees as she braked hard, the car momentarily skidding before she initiated her own 180-degree turn. The Lancia pirouetted with balletic grace, tail sweeping around the cone with barely a whisper of lost momentum.
Her foot buried the throttle. Flames burst from the exhaust in a thunderous bark, and the Lancia vanished into the dark, chasing Jean with relentless intent.
Ganyu snapped her stopwatch. Her eyes lit up. She threw a fist in the air. "Go get them, Clorinde!" she screamed over the din.
A Few Moments Later
Keqing's phone buzzed. She answered swiftly. "Ganyu. Perfect timing—how many seconds?"
She froze mid-breath, eyes narrowing. "…That much?"
Keqing looked up at Ningguang. "She said the Lancia's only six seconds behind."
Ningguang didn't blink. She turned to the mountain, lips curling into a smile. "Nicely done, Clorinde. Now finish her off."
Back in the Race
Everything had changed.
Clorinde's driving now had a different edge. She was faster, more surgical—more dangerous. She wasn't just pushing the Lancia now. She was unleashing it. The narrow gap was crumbling beneath the fury of her precision. Every downshift was exact. Every corner an attack.
The gap was vanishing. Turn after turn. Hairpin after hairpin.
Her voice was a snarl through clenched teeth. "I know you're here somewhere, Jean. Come on—show yourself!"
Inside the Quattro
Jean flicked a glance into her rearview mirror. The faint glow of headlights shimmered in the darkness. Her eyebrow twitched.
"I see what you're doing, kid," she muttered. "You were waiting for the downhill all along…"
Jean pushed the Quattro harder, throwing it into a sweeping left-hander, trying to lengthen the gap. The tires protested. The AWD system clawed at the road. But the Lancia wasn't far behind anymore.
As the Quattro barreled into the straightaway, Jean stole another glance at her mirror.
There—slashing through the last corner like a blade through silk—was Clorinde's Lancia.
Clorinde grinned as her headlights locked onto the Audi's taillights. "There you are. Now I'm going to show you what this thing can really do."
She exited the hairpin at blistering speed, the Lancia screaming at redline. Her car had become an extension of her will. A weapon.
The Final Section
Both cars screamed into a right-hand turn. The Quattro was holding on, but just barely. Jean felt it—a subtle, poisonous bloom of understeer creeping into her steering inputs.
She blipped the throttle, trying to shift the weight, to pivot the car's nose. It didn't work.
The understeer worsened.
"Shit," she hissed. "I pushed it too hard on the uphill trying to shake her…"
The Quattro skated wide at the exit. The Lancia was right there—tucked in like a guided missile.
Jean's eyes snapped wide. "Damn the luck! This understeer is killing me!"
Clorinde's eyes burned with focus. "I'm running out of time. Two hairpins left… I have to move."
Both drivers braked hard for the left-hand hairpin. Jean threw the Quattro into a desperate four-wheel drift, trying to keep her lead. But the weight transfer betrayed her again—the Audi slid wide, kissing the edge of the guardrail.
Jean gritted her teeth. "GOD DAMN IT!"
Clorinde saw the opening. Her hands moved faster than thought. She dropped a gear and punched the throttle.
The Lancia exploded forward.
She darted past the Audi like a rocket, taking the lead cleanly just before the final stretch.
They barreled down the straightaway, both drivers hammering the redline. Then came the last right-hand hairpin.
Clorinde hit the brakes hard, weight shifting smoothly. The Lancia gripped—perfectly. She powered through the exit, the road ahead empty.
It was done.
At the Finish
The mountain trembled beneath the scream of engines as Clorinde's Lancia Rally 037 crossed the line first, its exhaust bellowing like a war drum. The crowd went wild, voices rising into the sky with an almost primal energy.
Behind her, Jean fought the Quattro through the last turn, finally crossing the finish in second, her expression caught somewhere between frustration and reluctant admiration.
Clorinde slowed, her knuckles white against the wheel. She exhaled hard, then cracked the door open, stepping out into a sea of roaring fans. She raised her hand high, forming a proud number one. Her smile—bright, ferocious, unrelenting—said everything.
Keqing and Navia jumped into the air.
"That's how it's done!" Keqing yelled, her eyes shining.
Navia threw a fist toward the road. "Clorinde, you're unstoppable!"
Ningguang, ever composed, allowed herself a faint nod. "Well done, Clorinde. You've earned it. I'm proud of you."
Jean rolled the Audi to a halt just beyond the line. She gripped the wheel for a long moment before finally letting out a slow breath and smiling. "Kid's got the makings of a legend… That was one hell of a run."
Clorinde stood with her team now, the Lancia idling beside her, paint gleaming under the spotlights. Her victory wasn't just another win—it was a resurrection. A Group B ghost brought roaring back to life by pure will.
Fans murmured in awe. Some spoke of legends. Others whispered of destiny. But all agreed on one thing—this race would be remembered.
The night had birthed a new chapter in racing lore.
And yet, it wasn't over.
Because farther up the mountain… Collei's engine was already warming.
And her showdown with Diluc was just about to begin.