The checkered flag had fallen, the engines were silent, and the paddock was buzzing with that strange mixture of adrenaline and fatigue that only race day could bring. Mechanics moved like ants, hauling jacks, tires, and toolboxes back into their haulers. Drivers, their suits streaked with sweat and rubber dust, shuffled toward the podium area where the officials had hastily erected a small platform draped with a Honda banner.
It was time for the podium ceremony.
The atmosphere was strangely casual, no roaring fanfare, no dramatic music, just the muffled chatter of fans pressed against the barriers and the clicking of cameras. This wasn't Formula 1 or Super GT. This was the EK9 One Make Series, still young, still rough around the edges, its prize pool modest and its ceremonies simple.
And yet, the way Naka GP treated it, you'd think they had just conquered Monaco.
The announcer's voice cracked slightly over the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your top three finishers! In third place, Mike Hunt for Naka GP! In second place, James Ronald Hawthorn, also for Naka GP! And your race winner, Hugo Vatanen for Hugo Speed!"
The three men climbed onto the podium. Hugo, tall and reserved, stepped onto the center block with a faint smile, raising a hand politely to the applauding crowd. James swaggered up to second, arms raised high like a rock star basking in his fans' adoration, even though the cheers were lukewarm at best. Mike, grinning ear to ear, jogged to his step and waved dramatically, even blowing kisses to the small crowd.
The official handed each of them a modest trophy, simple silver cups on wooden bases. Hugo accepted his with quiet dignity, bowing lightly toward the officials and thanking them. James snatched his as if it were his birthright. Mike raised his high over his head, basking in the flash of cameras.
Then came the moment that soured everything.
A Naka GP crewman, dressed in black and gold with the NEIT logo plastered across his chest, marched onto the stage carrying a chilled bottle of champagne. He shoved it into James's hands with theatrical flair.
The crowd gasped.
This wasn't Formula 1. The EK9 One Make didn't even allow champagne sprays. Budget, optics, and respect for younger privateers made the series keep things small and neat. But James didn't care. He yanked the cork out with a loud POP! and let the foam spray into the sky. Mike joined in, having smuggled his own bottle from behind the podium, and soon the two were showering each other, spraying the officials, even soaking the announcer's microphone.
It looked absurd.
As if someone had dropped two Hollywood actors into a grassroots race series and told them to play at being Lewis Hamilton. The crowd chuckled awkwardly, some booed, others just shook their heads.
Hugo stood there in the middle, holding his trophy, drenched in champagne he hadn't asked for. His jaw tightened as James tried to pass him a bottle. "C'mon, Hugo! Join us!" James shouted, grinning like a fool.
But Hugo simply stepped down from the top step, handed the bottle back without a word, and walked calmly down the stairs. The officials looked relieved. Hugo moved through the crowd with measured steps, disappearing back into the building, leaving James and Mike alone in their self-congratulatory storm of champagne spray.
Back in the G-Force garage, the scene was the polar opposite of the farce at the podium. Izamuri sat on a folding chair in front of his car, still in his racing suit, helmet resting beside him. His body was drained, but his eyes still burned with the fire of the race. Fourth place. Not a podium, but close. Closer than anyone had expected from a rookie.
Walter and Simon were double-checking the telemetry sheets, comparing sector times and noting how Izamuri's pace matched Hugo's except in straight-line speed. Daichi had his arms crossed, standing by the garage shutter, watching as the last of the crowd dispersed toward the parking lot.
Meanwhile, Rin and Takamori rolled the tire racks back into the Hiace, while Haruka supervised the careful loading of the Championship White EK9 onto the flatbed truck. The car bore the battle scars of the race, scuffed bumpers, a crooked mirror, streaks of black paint from James's "accidental" bump. Yet to the team, it looked like a badge of honor.
Nikolai, sweat dripping from his forehead, tightened the straps that would secure the car for transport. "No more surprises. She rides safe back to the workshop," he muttered.
Daichi nodded. "She deserves it. So does Izamuri."
The rookie looked up at the sound of his name, forcing a small smile. "I'll do better next time."
"You already did enough," Daichi said firmly. "Fourth in your first outing, against that circus? You've done more than enough."
Ayaka arrived with Hana, both carrying plastic bags of snacks and drinks from the vending stalls. They handed water bottles around, trying to lighten the mood. The twins, looking far too smug for their own good, were helping pack tools into crates, but given their chaotic streak, no one could tell if they were actually helping or just hiding something they'd stolen.
"Those Naka GP clowns…" Rin muttered, wiping grease off her hands. "Spraying champagne like they've won Le Mans. What a joke."
Ayaka sighed. "They don't care. They only care about making a scene. That's what makes them dangerous."
Haruka closed the flatbed's latch and clapped his hands together, as though sealing the work. "Doesn't matter. They can have their circus. What matters is Izamuri drove clean, drove hard, and proved he belongs here."
Nikolai chuckled bitterly, tightening the last strap. "Belongs? He nearly beat them. If not for their tricks, he'd be on that podium."
Daichi raised a hand, silencing the argument. His voice was calm, steady, commanding. "We'll deal with them in time. For now, focus on what we can control. We pack up, we go back, we prepare for Sugo. And next time, we fight on our terms."
Everyone nodded. The words carried weight.
As the toolbox slid into the Hiace, Izamuri rose from his chair and stretched, his muscles aching from the relentless battle. He looked out toward the now-emptying grandstands, hearing echoes of the cheers that had risen when he fought wheel-to-wheel with Arai, Hugo, and even James.
For a moment, he allowed himself a small smile. Fourth place wasn't the podium. But it was a beginning. A statement.
Behind him, Daichi watched with quiet pride. In Izamuri's determination, he saw a spark that reminded him of his own youth, long ago at Suzuka and Nürburgring. Perhaps brighter still.
"Alright," Daichi finally said, his voice breaking the silence. "Let's finish loading up. We've got a long drive ahead."
The G-Force crew moved as one, boxes sliding shut, ratchets clicking, bags being hoisted into the van. Every sound echoed with a sense of closure, not defeat.
For today was not the end. It was only the start.
The last of the boxes clattered into the Hiace. Daichi tugged on the van's sliding door until it locked with a metallic clack, then turned to wipe his hands with a rag. The rest of the crew gathered in loose knots, Walter leaning against his 190E, Simon flicking through the data sheets one last time, Rin and Takamori perched on the wheel well of the flatbed, and Izamuri sitting on the tailgate of the Corolla, helmet bag resting beside him.
The paddock was beginning to empty. Teams that had no reason to linger were already queuing at the exit gate, transporters rumbling toward the highway. A thin haze of exhaust fumes hung over the pit lane, mixing with the fading scent of burnt rubber.
That was when Hugo appeared.
The tall Swede walked toward them from his own pit, his blue-and-yellow race suit half unzipped and tied at the waist, hair damp from the shower he had taken after the podium. He carried himself with calm precision, every step measured, every glance steady. Unlike the Naka GP chaos, Hugo radiated professionalism.
"Daichi," Hugo called, his voice warm but direct. "Before you all leave, would you like to join my team later? At one o'clock we're going to stream the Racers World Challenge opening round. I've arranged a television in our pit. It should be… educational."
The mention of RWC caught everyone's attention. Even the twins, who had been pretending to arm-wrestle on the hood of the Hiace, paused mid-match.
Daichi raised an eyebrow. "The RWC? Didn't think you'd be interested in watching another series on your race day."
Hugo gave a faint smile. "Racing never stops. And besides, seeing how the best in the world approach strategy, pace management, pit discipline, it never hurts to learn. An hour from now. You're welcome to sit with us."
Daichi turned to the crew. They were tired, but the sparkle in Simon's eyes and Walter's subtle nod said enough. Everyone knew the RWC was the top of the ladder, the place where dreams either burned out or turned into legends. Even a broadcast could sharpen their instincts.
"We'll join," Daichi said finally, clasping Hugo's hand.
"Good," Hugo replied, his handshake firm. "Then I'll see you at one." He nodded to Izamuri, who had risen from the Corolla's tailgate. "And you, rookie, don't be late."
Izamuri gave a small, respectful bow. "I'll be there."
As Hugo left, another figure approached. Ryusei Arai, his scarlet-and-white suit still streaked with grime, strolled across the paddock with a bottle of water in hand. The Arai Speed crew trailed behind him, pushing their car back into their garage.
Izamuri braced himself. He expected some kind of lecture or cold remark. After all, he had fought Ryusei harder than anyone else on track. Five laps of relentless attacking, five laps of wheel-to-wheel combat, and finally Ryusei's brakes had given up the ghost.
But instead of hostility, Ryusei extended a hand.
"That was impressive," he said flatly, his eyes sharp.
Izamuri blinked. "Excuse me?"
Ryusei stepped closer, lowering his voice as if he didn't want the paddock to hear. "For years, no one has broken through my defense at Fuji. Not veterans, not former GT drivers, not even professionals who tried their luck in this series. You…" he jabbed a finger lightly at Izamuri's chest, "…you did it. And you're just a kid. No record, no karting background, nothing. Yet somehow, you fought me as if you'd been racing for a decade."
Izamuri's chest tightened. Compliments weren't something he was used to. Not from rivals, not from someone with Ryusei's stature.
"I was just… doing my best," Izamuri muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
But Ryusei shook his head. "No. That was more than just 'your best.' That was instinct. Pure instinct. The way you positioned your car, the way you chose the inside of Dunlop, the timing, it was surgical. Do you even know how rare that is?"
The rest of the G-Force crew turned their heads, listening intently.
Walter, standing with his arms crossed, murmured, "He's right. It's not normal for someone to adapt that quickly."
Ryusei leaned in closer to Izamuri, his eyes narrowing. "Don't waste it. Drivers like you come once in a generation. If you stay focused, you'll rise far above this little series."
He straightened up, drained the last of his water, and glanced at Daichi. "You've got something special here. Protect it."
Daichi gave a curt nod. "I know."
With that, Ryusei turned and walked back to his crew, leaving Izamuri standing frozen, still processing the words.
The silence that followed was thick. Finally, Takamori broke it with a grin. "See, Izamuri? Even your rivals are scared of you."
"Scared?" Izamuri repeated, shaking his head. "I don't know about that."
Haruka stepped closer. "Arai doesn't give praise lightly. For him to admit you broke his defense, he means it. Don't take it as a compliment. Take it as a warning. The higher you climb, the more people will try to stop you."
Rin slapped Izamuri on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him forward. "Still, not bad for a rookie burrito we had to drag out of bed a few days ago."
Even Ayaka cracked a smile. "From blanket burrito to breaking Arai's wall. Quite the upgrade."
Izamuri's face flushed. "You're all exaggerating…"
But inside, he couldn't deny the fire Ryusei's words lit within him. He had fought hard, harder than he ever thought possible. And now, to be recognized, even grudgingly, by one of the strongest defenders in the series, it meant something. It meant he wasn't dreaming. He belonged here.
The crew continued packing. The Hiace's rear door shut with a final slam as Nikolai secured the latch. Walter double-checked his estate's trunk, making sure the telemetry equipment was strapped down. Haruka locked up the Corolla, while the twins wrestled with a crate of spare brake pads, nearly dropping it before Daichi barked at them to focus.
By now the paddock had grown quieter. The sun climbed higher, the shadows shortening, and a faint breeze swept across Fuji Speedway, carrying with it the distant smell of grilled food from the vendors still lingering outside the main gate.
Daichi glanced at his watch. 12:15 PM.
"One hour," he said aloud. "One hour until the RWC broadcast. Let's take a break, grab some water, and be ready. We're not missing this."
Everyone nodded, and since everything is done. They might as well go to the Hugo Speed pit and spend some time there..
The Hugo Speed pit was quieter than usual, only filled with the hum of mechanics finishing off minor adjustments and the faint shuffle of tools being put away. Daichi, Walter, Simon, Nikolai, Haruka, and Izamuri sat together at a long folding table in the corner of the garage. Hugo had promised them something special, an introduction to the series he considered the pinnacle of modern motorsport outside Formula One and WEC.
"Here," Hugo said as he placed a thick binder on the table in front of Daichi. Its dark blue cover was stamped with three bold letters: RWC. He tapped the binder with two fingers. "Regulations book. FIA-approved. A friend slipped it to me earlier this year. You'll want to study this if you're serious about the future."
Daichi picked it up carefully, flipping open the first pages. Even the smell of fresh ink suggested this wasn't some fan-made printout, it was official. The others leaned in.
"RWC?" Walter asked, brows furrowed. "I've heard the name tossed around in Europe. Third biggest in the world, right? Behind WEC and Formula One."
"Exactly," Hugo confirmed. "Started in 2015. It's… different. They run cars anyone could technically buy off the showroom floor, not prototypes or hyper-limited GT monsters. That's the hook."
Daichi raised a brow. "Normal road cars?"
"Yes," Hugo replied. "Anything, so long as it was legally registered once in its life. Paperwork has to be spotless. No loopholes with Group C conversions, no prototypes disguised as production models. They want real cars people recognize. Civics, Supras, Corvettes, 911s, you name it."
Haruka leaned forward, curious. "So, what's stopping someone from bringing an all-wheel-drive monster? A Skyline GT-R, for example?"
Hugo smirked. "Funny you ask. AWD systems aren't allowed. If your car came AWD, you must convert it to RWD or FWD, or run twin engines front and back under strict handicap rules. Thin tires, weight ballast, and an even more capped power. No one dares to try it seriously."
Simon whistled low. "That's brutal. They've designed it so money can't buy dominance."
Nikolai snorted. "Still, money always finds a way." He crossed his arms, muttering in Russian under his breath. "Regulations or not, people cheat."
Daichi ignored the cynicism and kept flipping through the binder. His eyes widened at the section marked Engine Regulations. "Any configuration? Inline, V, rotary, boxer, even H layouts? Up to twelve cylinders, max displacement 4.6 liters?"
"Correct," Hugo said, arms folded. "And capped at 500 horsepower. No exceptions. That cap keeps the racing close. Doesn't matter if you're running a Ferrari V12 or a tuned Honda four-banger, the ceiling's the same."
"Rotaries allowed?" Rin suddenly spoke up from where he was leaning against a stack of tires, arms crossed.
"Yes, but limited to three rotors," Hugo answered.
Walter leaned over Daichi's shoulder, scanning the words. "Power cap… minimum weight 1100 kilograms… And look here, no twin turbos, no NOS, no hybrid systems. They even banned active suspension and all aero trickery beyond DRS. Hell, ABS is the only driver aid you're allowed to keep."
Haruka chuckled. "So basically, pure driving. Whoever has the best setup and the best driver wins."
"Exactly." Hugo's eyes sparkled with excitement. "That's why it's respected. Every car is different, every strategy unique. It's chaos on four wheels, but real racing."
Izamuri, who had been quiet the whole time, finally asked, "What about the event format?"
Hugo tapped the book. "Standard three-day weekends. Friday free practice, Saturday qualifying, Sunday race. But here's the kicker, after qualifying, the top eight duel for pole position."
"Duel?" Simon repeated.
"Head-to-head," Hugo explained. "Two cars, ten laps, first across the line wins. It's knockout rounds until the final two fight for pole. No one gets pole by luck, you earn it."
Walter let out a low laugh. "That's brilliant. Pressure cooker environment. Forces drivers to show who's really fastest."
Daichi skimmed further down. "Points system is different too. First place gets 30 points, second 25, third 22… Fastest lap nets 6, most laps led 4. But this—" he jabbed his finger at the bottom of the page 'The Fighter' award?"
"Ah," Hugo smiled. "My favorite. Worth 14 points. If you start from the back or pit lane, or spin on lap one and drop to last, but somehow fight your way back and win—those fourteen points are yours. They reward guts."
"That's…" Haruka shook his head in disbelief. "That's insane. But I love it."
Daichi nodded slowly, absorbing it all. "This isn't just another series. This… this could be the future."
Simon, however, wasn't convinced. He folded his arms, a shadow crossing his expression. "It all sounds good on paper. But rules are one thing, enforcement another. If the FIA's behind it, then politics are too."
Hugo didn't deny it. "Of course. Politics are everywhere. But the racing… it's raw. It's why so many manufacturers quietly scout it. Why so many teams want in."
Nikolai leaned back in his chair, eyeing the book. "So… anyone could build a team, so long as they stick with one manufacturer all year?"
"Yes," Hugo confirmed. "That's the 'Fixed Manufacturers' rule. If you start the year with Toyota, you stay with Toyota. No mid-season shopping. You can only change after the season ends, or if your manufacturer collapses."
Daichi closed the binder with a soft thump, sitting back in his chair. His mind was already racing with possibilities. He could see why Hugo wanted them to study it.
The garage grew momentarily quiet, broken only by the sound of Takamori and a couple Hugo Speed crew members wrestling with the smart TV mount. One of them cursed when the HDMI cable slipped loose, drawing laughter from Rin.
"You'll have it working by one o'clock?" Hugo asked over his shoulder.
"Don't worry, boss," Takamori replied with a grin. "We'll have it set before the green light."
Izamuri leaned forward, eyes sharp with curiosity. "So… if this is the third biggest series in the world… what's the prize?"
Hugo's expression turned almost sly. "For normal races? Millions. First place gets 10 Mil. Second, 5 Mil. Even down to tenth you still walk away with a quarter-million or 250.000 USD. But the season finale at the Nürburgring…" He let the suspense hang. "100 Million dollars. Plus a custom bespoke Porsche."
The garage went silent.
Haruka nearly choked. "One hundred million—?"
Walter's jaw dropped. "That's absurd."
Simon shook his head slowly. "Now I see why the politics run deep. That kind of money changes everything."
Daichi rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing with thought. "And we're sitting here, watching from a TV in Fuji Speedway pits, while the biggest stage in motorsport just behind F1 and WEC is unfolding. Hugo…" He looked at the Finnish driver intently. "You brought this to us for a reason, didn't you?"
Hugo smiled faintly, almost secretively. "You'll understand soon enough."
The pit fell into silence again, broken only by the faint hum of the smart TV finally coming to life, its screen glowing blue. The regulations binder sat in the middle of the table like a heavy promise, every page filled with opportunities and dangers.
And as the crew leaned back in their chairs, each lost in their own thoughts, one truth became clear. RWC wasn't just a curiosity. It was a door.
A door Hugo had just opened for them.