An hour later, the sound of the pneumatic impact gun echoed as Takamori zipped off the last of the old tires from the EK9. Rin, crouched on the other side of the car, was already positioning the fresh Advan A050 mediums that had just been mounted to the rims an hour ago.
The scent of fresh rubber still clung to the air, mixing with the sharp tang of motor oil and the faint metallic whiff of brake dust. Every so often, one of the crew would glance up at the pit lane outside, still empty, still theirs.
"Careful with the threads on those wheel studs," Takamori reminded Rin, torque wrench in hand. "We don't need stripped threads before the first run."
Rin rolled his eyes, not looking up from his work. "Relax, I know what I'm doing. I'm not one of the twins."
"Fair enough," Takamori said with a grin.
A moment later, the rhythmic click-click of the torque wrench confirmed the first corner was secure. The two of them moved in sync, swapping out each wheel in a fluid pattern they'd practiced countless times on other cars, but this felt different. This was race prep, not routine workshop maintenance.
Near the back of the garage, Daichi had been unusually quiet, leaning against his 3000GT with his arms folded. He'd been watching the process for the last twenty minutes, eyes narrowing slightly, almost as if he was calculating something in his head.
Finally, he straightened up, turned toward the hatch of his 3000GT, and popped it open. "Alright," he said casually, "let's make this interesting."
Walter, who was going over a laptop readout with Simon, glanced over. "Uh-oh. That tone never means something simple."
From the boot of the 3000GT, Daichi pulled out a large, well-worn gear bag. He tossed it onto a workbench, unzipping it to reveal a pristine racing suit in white, red, and black, the unmistakable colors of Toyota's GT500 program from the late '90s. The fabric was clean, the patches still crisp, though there were faint creases that spoke of years folded in storage.
Takamori stopped mid-torque and blinked. "Is that…?"
"Yeah," Daichi replied with a faint grin. "GT500 suit. Back from when I was still running with Toyota."
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me you've had that thing in the back of your car this whole time?"
"Not the whole time," Daichi said, already pulling the suit out and shaking it free. "Just figured… might be worth keeping around. You never know when you might need it."
Walter frowned, arms crossed. "Hold on. You're not seriously thinking about getting in the EK9 yourself, are you?"
"Why not?" Daichi countered. "It's been a while since I've stretched my legs on a proper circuit. Last time was in 2007 at the Nürburgring. Before that? Fuji was practically my backyard."
Simon gave him a skeptical look from behind his glasses. "With respect, Daichi… that's a big gap. Racecraft is one thing, you never lose the fundamentals, but car feel, timing, precision… those fade if you don't keep sharp."
"Yeah, but muscle memory's a stubborn thing," Daichi said, unfastening the zipper on his jacket. "Once you've learned it at a high enough level, it never really leaves you."
Nikolai wasn't convinced. "And what if you push too hard? This isn't GT500 speed, but it's still a lightweight front-wheel-drive race car with a swapped B18C and fresh mediums. It'll bite if you're rusty."
Daichi just smirked, as if their doubt was exactly the fuel he needed. "You think I don't know that?" He laid the suit out flat, the old sponsor patches. Castrol, Bridgestone, TRD, catching the light. "I'm not going out there to set a qualifying lap. I just want to feel the car, see what she's like before Izamuri takes her out later."
Walter exhaled through his nose, clearly torn between telling him no and seeing how this played out. "Fine. But if you bin it, you're walking home."
Simon closed his laptop with a decisive snap. "Alright, if you're doing this, I'll log it anyway. Data is data, even if it's from a… vintage driver."
Daichi chuckled at the jab. "Vintage, huh? I'll take that as a compliment."
While Takamori and Rin finished bolting on the last wheel, Daichi started changing. He stepped into the legs of the suit with a practiced motion that suggested the routine had never really left him. The fabric hugged his frame, the faint scent of racing fuel still lingering in it from a different era of his career.
Walter shook his head with a faint grin. "It's surreal seeing that again. I remember watching you on TV in that suit."
"Yeah?" Daichi zipped it up, the collar snapping into place. "Well, now you're gonna see it in person."
Nikolai crossed his arms. "You sure you don't want to take a few laps in something slower first? Ease yourself into it?"
Daichi waved the idea away. "The EK9 is perfect for that. It's balanced, predictable, and—most importantly, it's honest. If I screw up, it'll tell me immediately. No active aero, no complex electronics, just me, the car, and the track."
Simon stepped over with the telemetry module in hand. "Fine. I'll wire it in, but remember: this is still shakedown territory. Don't go chasing ghosts out there."
"Relax," Daichi said, grinning as he pulled on his gloves. "I'll treat her with respect."
The garage had taken on a different kind of energy now. Takamori and Rin rolled the EK9 back slightly to check clearance on the fresh tires, their sidewalls still glossy from the protective coating. Walter and Nikolai stood by the pit exit, exchanging quiet words but keeping their eyes on Daichi.
By the time Daichi pulled his balaclava over his head and slid the helmet on, the skepticism in the room had shifted into something else, curiosity. The man had decades of racing history behind him, championships across multiple series, and the kind of experience most drivers could only dream of. Even if the years had added a little rust, there was no denying that part of him still belonged on a racetrack.
He stepped toward the EK9, running a gloved hand along the roofline before opening the driver's door. The race seat, the snug harness, the minimalistic interior, it was a far cry from the high-tech GT500 cockpits he once commanded, but the smell of fuel, rubber, and sweat inside was universal.
Simon leaned down beside him. "Remember, build up slow. Let the tires come to you. No heroics on the out-lap."
Daichi gave him a small nod, strapping himself in. "Got it. I'm just here to say hello to Fuji again."
The EK9 sat there, idling with a steady burble from its tuned exhaust, the fresh A050s ready to bite into the tarmac. Outside, the pit lane lay empty, the wide stretch of track beyond shimmering faintly under the mid-morning sun.
Daichi tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the familiar weight of it grounding him. His eyes flicked up toward the open pit exit, the first corner waiting somewhere in the distance.
He took a slow, deep breath. It had been thirteen years since he'd last done this.
And now, he was about to do it again.
Daichi eased the EK9 out of the garage, letting the clutch bite smoothly before feeding in the throttle. The B18C's note was sharp but not overly aggressive, the fresh Advan A050 mediums still cold under him. He kept his hands light on the wheel as he rolled toward pit exit, listening to every vibration, every nuance of the chassis through the seat.
The marshal at the end of pit lane gave a wave, and Daichi slipped the car onto Fuji's tarmac, short-shifting as he entered the first turn. A tight late-apex right-hander downhill that fed into a long straight heading to the fast Coca-cola Turn kink. His inputs were clean, deliberate, not yet chasing the limit, but reading the car's language like an old novel he knew by heart. The Honda felt tight, precise, even, but the steering had that faint stiffness that came with brand-new rubber still finding its bite.
Coca-Cola Corner approached. He rolled off the throttle, trail-braking in, feeling the chassis lean ever so slightly on the right-side tires. The grip was solid, but the car's weight transfer told him exactly where the balance sat. The B18C's note sang sharp and eager, a reminder that this was not a showroom Civic. As he fed in throttle out of Coca-Cola Corner, the steering wheel chattered faintly through his gloves, every vibration telegraphing the surface of Fuji's asphalt.
Then came 100R, the long, sweeping right-hander that tested bravery as much as setup. He eased in, steady throttle, feeling the car's response mid-corner. Even on an outlap, the EK9 whispered feedback through the wheel, clean, precise, eager to dance if pushed harder.
Braking for the hairpin, Daichi let the revs drop, feeling how the rear wanted to rotate just enough to help the car pivot. A small smile crept inside his helmet. She was nimble, raw in a way modern cars rarely allowed anymore.
The climb toward 300R came next. He fed the throttle progressively, letting the engine breathe, the intake howl mingling with the slight whistle from the K&N. The corner flowed naturally, pulling him toward Dunlop's chicane. He braked firmly but not aggressively, threading through the tight left-right, the curbs a reminder to keep it clean on the first pass.
Past Dunlop, the track curved through the 13th Corner, fast entry, late apex, before leading into Netz Corner, the tight and technical turn that punished hesitation. Daichi shifted down, clipped the apex, and let the car run wide just enough to set himself up for the long acceleration toward Panasonic.
Panasonic Corner, one of Fuji's defining challenges, unfolded in front of him. He turned in gently, eyes already on the exit, letting the car breathe on the throttle before the final squeeze to full power. The front tires dug in, the rears planted, and the straight opened up ahead like a runway.
Daichi's right foot sank into the pedal, the EK9 surging forward with a fierce but measured urgency. The high-rev scream of the B18C combined with the VTEC crossover singing through the empty grandstands. The acceleration wasn't like the brutal shove of a GT500 car, but it was immediate, raw, and eager to rev all the way to redline.
At that exact moment, across the paddock, Izamuri strolled into the pit lane from the hotel. His hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower, casual clothes on, expecting to see the EK9 parked where they'd left it.
"Where's the car?" he asked, his voice carrying over the relative quiet of the paddock.
Everyone in the garage turned in unison and pointed toward the main straight.
Izamuri followed their fingers, and his eyes widened as the EK9 shot past, Daichi at the wheel, wringing every ounce of speed from the car.
"No way…" Izamuri muttered, stepping closer to the pit wall.
Walter smirked without looking away from the track. "Yeah, your car's in good hands right now."
Simon, arms crossed, added dryly, "We told him to take it easy."
From Izamuri's perspective, it didn't look like Daichi was taking it easy at all. The car blasted past start/finish, the engine note peaking before Daichi hit the brakes for Turn 1. The whole run looked… deliberate. Controlled chaos, every movement purposeful.
Back on track, Daichi was no longer in sightseeing mode. He attacked the first corner later and harder, feeling the chassis respond. Coca-Cola Corner was sharper now, the front biting with aggression before he punched out onto the short chute to 100R.
This time, 100R was a steady, committed arc, the Civic loaded perfectly, tires singing but holding firm. The Hairpin was met with a deep brake, trail-braking into the apex before snapping back on power, short-shifting to keep traction.
The run through 300R and into Dunlop was faster, the brakes are on the limit, the chicane devoured with surgical precision. Corner 13 and Netz felt tighter, crisper. By the time Panasonic arrived again, Daichi was already thinking about the straight.
He floored it earlier, the EK9 rocketing down Fuji's endless stretch. The speedometer climbed, the tach danced at the edge of red, and the pit wall blurred into a streak beside him.
Izamuri caught sight of his car tearing past for the second time, Daichi's helmet barely visible through the glare of the morning sun. He felt a pang of surprise, maybe even awe, but mostly curiosity. Just how quick was this old pro going?
On the final approach into Turn 1 for the cooldown lap, Daichi let the car breathe, downshifting smoothly, his lines still precise but with far less throttle commitment. The lap was done, and he knew it had been a good one.
As he rolled down the main straight again, coasting past the pits, Walter glanced at Simon, both of them reading the live data. The number on the screen made Walter's eyebrows climb slightly before he looked back at the track.
2:04, 000
No warmup beyond one lap. No prior seat time in the EK9. Thirteen years since his last competitive run. And Daichi had just laid down a blisteringly fast lap. Not just competitive, but record-breaking for the EK9 one-make series. Faster by a margin that would make any rival team's jaw drop. And he'd done it on his first real push lap in thirteen years.
The crew didn't know yet. Neither did Izamuri. Only Simon, watching the live timing on his tablet, knew what had just happened. And for now, he kept it to himself, eyes following the EK9 as it coasted down the pit lane, the engine note dropping to a low, contented rumble.
Daichi pulled into the garage, braking gently to a stop. The car idled for a few moments before he shut it off, the smell of hot rubber and brake pads filling the air.
He pulled off his helmet, revealing a faint smile and eyes that still burned with the old competitive fire. But he said nothing about the time. Not yet. Simon had been watching the live timing in silence, leaning casually against the pit wall while Daichi rolled the EK9 back into the garage. He didn't want to make a scene, not yet, but the moment he saw the official sector splits flash on his tablet, he knew he had to say something.
He stepped away from the wall, scanning the garage until his eyes found Walter, who was busy wiping his hands with a rag.
"Walter," Simon said in a low, deliberate voice. "We need to talk. Now."
Walter raised an eyebrow at the sudden seriousness in Simon's tone. "What is it?"
Simon glanced around to make sure Izamuri was out of earshot, he was still standing a few meters away, chatting with Rin—and then turned the tablet toward Walter. "That lap Daichi just did? 2:04. Flat."
Walter froze mid-wipe, his hand still clutching the rag. "...You're joking."
Simon didn't blink. "Do I look like I'm joking? 2:04, 000."
For a second, Walter just stared at the numbers on the screen, processing what he was seeing. Then, without another word, he turned and marched straight toward Daichi, who was peeling off the top half of his racing suit.
"Oi, Fujiwara!" Walter barked. "You have any idea what you just did out there?"
Daichi gave him a puzzled look. "What, did I mess up the gearbox or something?"
Walter shook his head, a crooked grin forming despite his disbelief. "2:04. Flat. That's your lap time."
Daichi blinked, then gave a short laugh. "...You're messing with me."
Simon stepped in, holding up the tablet. "Nope. Verified timing. Fully official. And before you think this is just good for the day, it's faster than anyone's ever gone in this series. Ever."
It took Daichi a moment to process. His eyes widened slightly. "You're saying I just—"
"Broke the lap record," Walter finished. "By a lot."
Daichi's expression changed. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in disbelief, but in deep thought. Without another word, he pulled out his phone and called Haruka, who was still back at the workshop with Hana, Ayaka, and the twins.
"Oi, Haruka," he said when she picked up. "Quick question, who's got the EK9 one-make lap record at Fuji?"
There was a pause on the other end, then Haruka's voice came through clearly. "It's Nobuteru Taniguchi. He set a 2:06.150 back in a demo run with a 250-horse K20-swapped EK9, fully race-prepped. That's about a hair quicker than last year's pole lap, 2:06.355 in a 240-horse B20 EK9. Why?"
Daichi leaned against the workbench, glancing at Simon and Walter. "Because I just ran a 2:04.000 in ours."
There was a beat of stunned silence before Haruka almost shouted, "WHAT?! That's two point one seconds faster than Nob Taniguchi! And our car's not even running a K20 or B20, hell, just last Saturday it was what, 218 horsepower?"
"Yeah," Walter cut in so Haruka could hear. "After tuning yesterday, we got it up to 235 with the B18C and the K&N intake. Still nowhere near the power of those other builds."
"…That doesn't make sense," Haruka said slowly. "You shouldn't be anywhere near those times, let alone blowing them away. Unless…"
His voice trailed off in a way that made everyone look at each other.
"Unless what?" Daichi prompted.
Haruka sighed audibly over the phone. "Unless the car is stupidly light."
Simon's head turned toward the corner of the pit where the workshop's portable scales were sitting. "We can confirm that in five minutes."
Five minutes later, the EK9 was rolled onto the scales, each wheel perfectly positioned on its own pad. Simon tapped the display, adding up the readings.
1102 kilograms.
It was just over the 1100 kg minimum weight limit for the series, barely legal.
"That's… insane," Nikolai muttered, crouching to double-check the numbers. "The lightest car on the grid last year was 1180 kilos. We're 78 kilos under that."
Walter turned to Haruka, still on speakerphone. "Care to explain?"
There was a guilty laugh on the other end. "Alright, alright… When I bought the EK9 new, I may have gotten… creative. The front fenders, roof, hood, trunk, driver and passenger doors, and both bumpers, those are all lightweight fiberglass. And I replaced all the glass with polycarbonate panels."
Simon's jaw dropped. "Fiberglass roof? Even touring car teams rarely go that far unless it's a high-end build."
Haruka continued, as if listing grocery items, "Lightweight seat brackets, minimal sound deadening, no HVAC, and a smaller battery. I built it to be fast, not comfortable. I didn't think we'd be in a position where it mattered this much."
"That's not just creative," Takamori said, eyes wide. "That's ruthless weight reduction."
"It's race legal," Haruka added quickly. "Well, barely. But yeah, that's why it's so quick through Fuji's technical sections. Combine that with the extra 17 horsepower from Monday's tuning and those sticky A050 mediums, and… well, Daichi just turned it into a giant-killer."
Izamuri had been listening quietly the whole time, his expression shifting from confusion to amazement. He finally spoke up. "So… our EK9 is basically the lightest car in the series, and now it's making more power than it did two days ago. And Daichi just set a record lap without even trying to qualify?"
"Pretty much," Walter confirmed. "Which means if you can get anywhere near that pace, we're looking at pole position without question."
Simon was still looking at the numbers on the scale, shaking his head slightly. "This car's got an advantage no one else will see coming. But we can't let the rest of the paddock find out just how light it is, not until race day. If they know, they'll start filing protests before we even hit qualifying."
Daichi smirked, glancing toward the EK9. "Then we keep it quiet. No public time sheets, no talking outside this garage. Let them think we're just another midfield team until it's too late."
Nikolai grinned at that, crossing his arms. "I like that plan. Keep them sleeping until we crush them."
Walter, ever the strategist, added, "We'll need to tweak the setup for Izamuri, Daichi's style is smoother and carries more speed through the sweepers, but Izamuri's aggressive in the braking zones. The lighter weight means he can brake later, but we'll need to make sure the car stays stable."
Simon nodded. "I'll make the adjustments tonight. And I'll start a new baseline file, this 1102 kg spec is now our reference."
The atmosphere in the garage shifted then, not just excitement, but a quiet confidence. They all knew they were sitting on something special, something that could dominate the opening round if they played their cards right.
Daichi glanced toward Izamuri, who was still looking at the EK9 like he was seeing it for the first time. "Get ready, rookie. You've got a record-breaking car under you now. Don't waste it."
Izamuri gave a small nod, the weight of the responsibility sinking in. "I won't."
The sound of the wind outside carried into the pit, mixing with the faint creak of the cooling brakes on the EK9. The numbers on the scale still glowed softly, 1102 kg, like a quiet promise of what was to come.