The night on Mount Akina was silent, save for the rustling of trees and the occasional whisper of wind curling along the hairpins. The moon hung pale and watchful, bathing the mountain in silver.
At the base of the pass, the faint orange glow of a cigarette sparked in the dark.
Bunta Fujiwara exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the cold air. Seventeen, lean, and sharp-eyed, Bunta leaned against the wall of Yuichi's father's gas station — the place they worked, the place they loitered, the place where half the legends of Akina would one day be born.
Inside, Yuichi Tachibana counted cash from the till, glancing occasionally at his friend through the window.
"Oi, Bunta," Yuichi called, stepping outside and pulling on his jacket. "You running deliveries again tonight?"
Bunta didn't look away from the road."Nah," he murmured. "Just listening."
Yuichi smirked. "Listening? You've been standing there for an hour."
Bunta flicked his cigarette away, watching the glowing ember dance into the dark. "You hear it yet?"
Yuichi tilted his head, confused. Then — faintly — the sound came.
An engine. Two, actually.
Winding up the slope, bouncing between the cliffs, faint but rising. The unmistakable symphony of tuned carburetors, racing cams, and lightweight frames ripping through the night.
Street racers.
Yuichi's heart kicked in his chest. "That's—"
"Yeah," Bunta cut in, pushing off the wall. "They're back."
By the time the headlights carved through the last corner, a small crowd had already gathered.
Local kids, mechanics, grease monkeys, gas station punks — all drawn to the pulse of street racing like moths to a flame.
Bunta and Yuichi stood at the edge, arms crossed, watching as two cars slid into view — a red Hakosuka Skyline and a black RX-3 Savanna, both battered from hard driving, engines ticking and cooling in the cold air.
"Who won?" Yuichi asked.
Bunta shrugged. "Does it matter? Neither of 'em can corner worth shit."
Yuichi laughed. "Cocky as ever."
Bunta just smiled faintly, eyes gleaming.
That night, Bunta sat in the driver's seat of his Fairlady S30, engine off, just feeling the wheel under his hands.
He didn't need to race yet. Not tonight. He was still learning the mountain, still feeling its heartbeat.
His fingers traced the worn leather of the wheel, his foot tapped lightly on the clutch.
The mountain's not just corners, he thought. It's a living thing. You have to listen to it breathe.
Yuichi leaned in through the window. "Hey, you sure you're not gonna give 'em a scare?"
Bunta smirked. "What's the point?"
Yuichi rolled his eyes. "Show-off."
The next night, the same crowd returned.
More cars this time — a TE27 Corolla, a 510 Bluebird, a beat-up Civic RS. The rumors had started spreading: Bunta Fujiwara was planning a run. Some thought it was a joke. Others, a test.
Bunta said nothing. He showed up late, casually sipping a canned coffee, Fairlady parked in the shadows.
He watched.
He listened.
He waited.
Days passed. The mountain buzzed with tension.
One night, as Bunta filled up a customer's tank at the gas station, Yuichi elbowed him in the ribs.
"He's coming."
Bunta didn't need to ask who.
Keiichi Tsuchiya.
Word had drifted up from Usui and Myogi — the Drift King himself was coming to Akina. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.
Bunta only chuckled softly."Let him come."
That evening, Bunta took the Fairlady up Akina. Alone.
No crowds. No challengers. No noise.
Just him, the car, and the road.
The engine hummed under his touch, smooth as silk. The steering responded to the slightest motion. Every hairpin, every switchback, every straight became part of his body.
Where others braked, Bunta breathed.
Where others feared, Bunta played.
Where others tried to master the mountain, Bunta became its shadow.
A week later, Kai Kogashiwa's father arrived.
He didn't announce himself. Just showed up one night in a white first-gen MR2, parked at the edge of the crowd, leaning against the hood like a ghost from the future.
Yuichi muttered under his breath. "That's… that's Kogashiwa-san, right? Didn't think he ran the touge anymore."
Bunta flicked his cigarette away.
"Guess we're all coming out of retirement."
But Bunta didn't challenge him. Not yet.
Not Kogashiwa.
Not Tsuchiya.
He waited.
Because the mountain wasn't a tournament bracket.
It was a war of patience.