Under the crisp mid-morning sun, the Fuji Speedway paddock buzzed with an energy that was both focused and restless. The air still carried the echoes of Daichi's astonishing run, a lap so absurdly fast it had left even seasoned veterans speechless. But now it was Izamuri's turn.
He zipped up his racing suit, fastening the Velcro strap at the collar with deliberate precision. The fabric still felt stiff from its lack of use, but his hands trembled, not from fear, but from the anticipation of unleashing the EK9's full potential. The car sat poised in the pit lane, freshly shod with the Advan A050s, its fiberglass panels gleaming under the light.
Walter clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, rookie," he said, grinning, "don't try to be The Stig right away. Build into it."
Nikolai, leaning on the pit wall, muttered in his thick accent, "And don't crash it, da? This car is lighter than my mood in prison."
Even Simon chuckled. "If you can match Daichi's pace, I'll buy you dinner. Hell, I'll buy everyone dinner."
Sliding into the seat, Izamuri gripped the steering wheel. The familiar, raw smell of petrol and rubber filled the cockpit, and as he fired up the B18C, the engine barked to life, a sharper, angrier note than he remembered from Saturday's test. Haruka's fine-tuning had transformed the car. It wasn't just quicker, it wanted to be pushed.
The early practice began the moment he rolled out of the pit lane. First lap, cautious. He tested the brakes into Turn 1, feeling for bite. At Coca-Cola Corner, the front end hinted at understeer, just enough to keep him honest. The 100R felt endless, his hands feathering the wheel to keep the line tight. Into the Hairpin, the rear twitched, but the car recovered instantly.
Second lap, faster. He braked later, shifted with more aggression, and started trusting the tires. Through Dunlop, he clipped the apex cleanly, feeling the car stick like glue. On the straight, the engine screamed past 8,000 RPM, and the scenery blurred.
Third lap, too fast. He entered the coca-cola with more speed than expected, and the EK9 pushed wide, forcing him to fight the wheel and nurse it back into the racing line. The pit crew winced, but Izamuri just gritted his teeth and kept going.
"Looks like James May found the loud pedal," Takamori muttered.
"More like Hamster before he flips something," Rin shot back.
Hours passed like minutes. Run after run, Izamuri pieced together the car's quirks. Each mistake refined the next lap, each correction building confidence. By early afternoon, his lap times began flirting with last year's pole, 2:06.355.
Walter's radio crackled.
"That's it, Izamuri. Smooth hands, smooth feet. You're right there."
And then, it happened. One clean lap, every braking point perfect, every apex kissed, the throttle applied just early enough to slingshot onto the straights without wheelspin. Crossing the line, the timing board lit up: 2:05.955. Four-tenths faster than last year's fastest qualifier.
The pit erupted. Takamori raised both fists. Nikolai yelled something in Russian that was probably unprintable. Even Simon gave a sharp whistle. But there was one unspoken truth hanging in the air, Daichi's 2:04 flat still loomed like Everest.
Izamuri knew it too. Back in the pits, sweat dripping down his face, he leaned against the EK9.
"I don't get it," he admitted. "The car feels amazing, but… how the hell is he that fast?"
Walter smirked. "Kid, some people are just born with it. Senna. Schumacher. Daichi Fujiwara. The rest of us are just trying to keep up."
Simon crossed his arms. "And if we put him on Top Gear's lap board, I think even Clarkson would swear himself hoarse."
They laughed, but the mood stayed light. The whole day had been about growth, about proving that Izamuri could not only race, but race well. By the time the sun dipped low over Fuji, the crew was exhausted, but satisfied.
Izamuri, however, looked back toward the track, watching the fading light over the main straight. "Two-oh-four," he murmured. "I'll get there."
Later that evening at Fuji Speedway's hotel was calm compared to the roar of engines that had filled the day. The golden light of the setting sun stretched across the lobby windows, giving the building a warm glow, as if it too was winding down after the long hours of testing and discovery. The team split naturally into groups, each carrying their own rhythm into the night.
In the museum wing of the hotel, Daichi, Simon, and Walter walked slowly through polished corridors, their shoes clicking against the marble floor. This was no ordinary museum, it was part of the Fuji Speedway Hotel's pride, a collection of historic race cars and memorabilia dedicated to decades of Japanese motorsport. The trio stopped before a gleaming Nissan R390 GT1, the car that had once taken on Le Mans. Its blue livery still looked alive under the spotlights, as though it were ready to sprint onto the Circuit de la Sarthe at any moment.
Daichi's hands rested on his hips, his expression unreadable. For him, this was memory lane. "You know," he muttered, almost to himself, "when I was a kid sneaking around Suzuka, I never thought I'd see half these cars outside a TV broadcast. Now I've raced against some of them."
Walter let out a low whistle. "It's mad, isn't it? Standing here, looking at legends. You with GT500, me with touring cars, Simon with F1, between us we've brushed shoulders with giants. And now we're here, building up a rookie and a Civic. Feels… surreal."
Simon adjusted his glasses and gave the display a keen look. "Don't underestimate the Civic, or the rookie. Cars are just tools. What matters is how much potential the person behind the wheel carries. Daichi, your lap time proved one thing today, that car can perform beyond expectations. Now it's on Izamuri to bridge that gap."
Daichi nodded, but there was a shadow in his eyes. He wasn't just thinking about lap times, he was thinking about Akagi's sudden appearance at the workshop. About danger mixing with dreams. But for the moment, he allowed himself to linger in the quiet sanctuary of racing history, knowing tomorrow would bring its own storms.
Meanwhile, Rin and Takamori had claimed a table near the buffet hall. The sprawling spread of food was overwhelming: sushi rolls lined neatly like soldiers, steaming trays of tempura, stacks of soba, miso soup, and rows of small plates filled with local specialties. The dessert section alone could make a grown man cry.
Rin already had two plates in front of him, and Takamori wasn't far behind. Both were laughing, jabbing chopsticks toward the trays with the enthusiasm of men who'd burned through an entire day on their feet.
"Oi," Takamori said between bites of karaage, "you think the twins would even leave anything for us if they were here?"
Rin snorted. "Forget it. If the twins were here, this buffet would look like a battlefield. No sushi left standing, no tempura survivors. Just rice grains scattered like shrapnel."
Takamori nearly choked laughing. "I can see it now, the staff crying, chef passed out in the kitchen, and the twins standing victorious with bowls stacked taller than Fuji-san."
The mental image sent them both into hysterics. Other guests shot them annoyed looks, but neither cared. For them, the laughter was more than a joke, it was relief. Tomorrow would be heavier, more serious. Tonight, they let themselves breathe.
In the hotel gym, however, things were far from lighthearted. Nikolai stood with arms crossed, watching Izamuri on the treadmill. The young driver's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his breaths sharp and steady as the belt rolled beneath his feet. The machine's digital display showed his pace, fast, relentless.
"Faster," Nikolai commanded, his Russian accent sharp. "Push. Do not think, just run."
Izamuri gritted his teeth and increased the speed. His legs protested, lungs burned, but he didn't dare stop. Nikolai's eyes bore into him with the intensity of a man who had endured far worse.
"Motorsport is not only about hands on wheel," Nikolai continued, pacing slowly like a drill instructor. "Your heart, your lungs, your body, it must be machine. You cannot fade in lap twenty when rivals are still hunting. You must be predator, not prey."
Sweat dripped onto the treadmill. Izamuri's arms pumped, muscles aching, but somewhere deep inside, determination flared brighter. He thought of Daichi's lap time. Two minutes and four seconds. He thought of his own. Two minutes and five, barely under six. That one second gnawed at him like a wolf at the door.
After twenty minutes, Nikolai finally raised a hand. "Enough. Cool down."
Izamuri stumbled off the treadmill, chest heaving. He grabbed a towel and slumped onto a bench, water bottle trembling in his grip. "You're trying to kill me," he panted.
Nikolai cracked the faintest smile, rare and fleeting. "No. I am trying to make you stronger. When I was your age, I trained like this in Moscow winter. Snow outside, ice on window, breath turning to fog. But every step built endurance. Endurance is what wins long races, what keeps you alive when others collapse."
Izamuri gulped water, letting the words sink in. For the first time, he understood why Nikolai had agreed to mentor him. This wasn't just about teaching technique—it was about forging him into steel.
The session didn't end there. Nikolai led him through weight machines, pushing his arms and shoulders, then balance exercises to mimic the strain of cornering g-forces. Each drill seemed brutal, but Nikolai never wavered, nor did he let Izamuri quit.
By the time they finished, it was past nine. The gym lights flickered slightly as if mocking their exhaustion. Izamuri collapsed against the wall, towel draped over his shoulders. His entire body buzzed with fatigue, but beneath it all, he felt a strange satisfaction.
Nikolai crouched in front of him. "Listen. You have talent. Raw, sharp, dangerous talent. But talent without discipline is wasted. You must learn control. Today, Daichi showed what mastery looks like. You? You are still fire without shape. But fire, if forged, becomes blade."
Izamuri looked up, sweat dripping into his eyes. "Then forge me," he whispered.
Nikolai's stern expression softened just a fraction. "Da. That is why I am here."
By the time they left the gym, the hotel hallways had quieted. Guests had retreated to their rooms, the air carrying only faint echoes of laughter from the bar. They passed the buffet hall where Rin and Takamori were finally winding down, plates empty, still joking about the twins staging a culinary apocalypse.
From the museum side, they glimpsed Daichi, Simon, and Walter still deep in conversation, gesturing animatedly at a display of an old Formula Nippon car. The team was scattered, yet somehow connected, each preparing in their own way for what lay ahead.
Izamuri trudged toward his suite, muscles aching, but mind sharper than ever. The road ahead wasn't just about lap times anymore, it was about proving himself worthy of the people who believed in him. As Izamuri reached his suite, he shut the door behind him, and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. The room was dark, save for the dim light spilling in from the balcony, where the silhouette of Mount Fuji loomed in the night. He peeled off his training clothes, took a hot shower, and sank into bed. His body ached in every joint, but his mind was wired, replaying the day's laps and thinking about the seconds still left to shave off. Sleep came eventually, pulling him into a deep, dreamless rest.
The next morning. Wednesday came, The morning sun crept over the mountains, bathing Fuji Speedway in gold. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and distant cherry blossoms. Izamuri woke earlier than expected, the stiffness in his muscles a reminder of Nikolai's brutal gym session. He stretched for a moment, then dressed and made his way down to the buffet hall.
It was quieter than yesterday, fewer guests, and the aroma of fresh coffee and grilled fish hung in the air. He loaded his plate with a balanced mix: scrambled eggs, rice, miso soup, and a small portion of salmon. At another table, Walter and Simon sat across from each other, eating in companionable silence while reviewing something on a tablet. Daichi was nowhere to be seen, likely, he'd already headed to the pit area to check on the car.
Rin and Takamori came stumbling in halfway through Izamuri's meal, looking like they'd only just dragged themselves out of bed. Rin immediately beelined for the coffee machine, while Takamori grabbed a ridiculous pile of toast.
After breakfast, the team agreed he had an hour to rest before they hit the track. Izamuri returned to his suite, lay down, and scrolled through some old onboard footage of professional drivers at Fuji, memorizing braking points and racing lines. The hour passed quickly, and soon a call from Nikolai summoned him back to the pits.
An hour later at the track, the EK9 sat in its garage bay, its white paint gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The Yokohama A050 mediums from the previous day were still mounted. Haruka had already inspected them earlier that morning and decided they had enough life for another round. This session wasn't about chasing lap records, it was about learning how to preserve the tires and manage a consistent race pace over multiple laps.
Daichi handed Izamuri his helmet and suit. "You're not here to be fastest today. You're here to be consistent. Same lap times, minimal tire drop-off. That's what wins races."
Walter, standing nearby with a clipboard, added, "We'll be watching your delta closely. Push too hard, and the tires will cook before the stint's done. Keep them in the right window, and they'll reward you."
Simon chimed in from behind the laptop, "And if you do start dropping off, you adjust, smooth inputs, careful throttle. Pretend you're paying for every lap out of your own wallet."
Izamuri smirked at that, but deep down he understood the gravity of the exercise. Tire preservation was as important as outright speed, sometimes even more so.
He slid into the EK9, tightened the belts, and fired up the B18C. The engine barked to life, settling into a steady idle. The garage doors lifted, letting in the bright morning light, and Izamuri rolled the car out onto pit lane.
The first few laps were cautious, feeling out the grip level. Fuji's asphalt was still cool, and the tires took longer to come up to temperature. As the sun rose higher, Izamuri gradually pushed harder, but always with restraint, braking a fraction earlier, rolling the throttle on smoothly, avoiding unnecessary wheelspin out of the corners.
Through 100R, he kept the steering inputs gentle, allowing the car to settle before committing to the long arc. At the hairpin, he resisted the urge to dive deep into the braking zone, instead focusing on clean exits to preserve the rear tires.
Lap after lap, the pit crew watched his times from the monitors. Walter kept track of the delta, occasionally radioing in small instructions.
"Watch your entry into Coca-Cola, don't scrub speed unnecessarily."
"Your mid-corner pace at Netz is a little hot, ease off, save the fronts."
Simon observed the live data streaming from the car, noting tire temperatures and pressures. "Front right's getting a little warm," he told Haruka, who nodded and relayed a more measured corner entry over the radio.
By mid-morning, Izamuri had settled into a rhythm. His lap times hovered within a few tenths of each other, showing the consistency Daichi wanted. The tires, while showing some wear, still had plenty of life.
Occasionally, he would misjudge a corner, locking up slightly into Panasonic, or carrying a fraction too much speed through the Dunlop chicane, but each mistake was quickly corrected. Nikolai's training on discipline seemed to be paying off, there was no frustration, only recalibration.
Once the crew was satisfied with the preservation run, they switched the focus to race pace simulations. Walter gave him the go-ahead "Alright, you've been kind to them, now show me what a sustained push looks like without burning them alive."
Izamuri's tone over the radio changed immediately. "Copy. Let's do it."
The Civic screamed down the main straight, the shift light blinking as he grabbed fourth gear. Braking hard into Turn 1, he clipped the apex and powered out, the car dancing slightly under throttle. Through Coca-Cola and 100R, the tires protested faintly but still held their grip.
Lap after lap, he maintained a pace just shy of qualifying speed. The A050s held together remarkably well, showing only gradual degradation. Simon's updates over the radio confirmed it, "Temps stable. Wear rate good. Keep going."
The sun climbed higher, casting sharper shadows across the track. The Civic's white paint shimmered as it darted between corners, the B18C's note echoing off the grandstands. It wasn't the record-chasing fury of Daichi's run yesterday, but it was exactly what they needed—a driver learning the art of balance between aggression and longevity.
Lunch Break Approaches
By 11:50, Walter called him in over the radio. "Alright, that's enough for the morning. Bring it in."
Izamuri eased off the throttle, guiding the Civic through its final cooldown lap. He focused on keeping the brakes and tires in check, knowing the afternoon session would demand just as much precision.
As he rolled into pit lane, the crew moved in, guiding the car back into the garage bay. The sound of the engine faded into silence as he shut it off, pulling the belts loose.
Sweat clung to his forehead as he removed the helmet. The scent of hot rubber and faint gasoline lingered in the air. The team stood around, ready to inspect the car, but their attention was mostly on him, measuring his reaction, gauging his learning curve.
And as Izamuri swung the door open and stepped out onto the concrete, the clock struck noon. Lunch break had arrived.