The sky was still gray when the old van pulled up outside the academy gates. The sun hadn't yet risen, but the lights inside the facility were already on. Floodlamps lit the karting track like a stage waiting for its actors.
Julian parked. Coasta stepped out silently, dressed in a slightly oversized racing suit. It smelled of fresh polyester and ambition.
He adjusted his helmet strap, looked up at his dad, who knelt beside him.
"Remember," Julian said. "You're not here to be the best on day one. You're here to learn. Pay attention. Respect the kart. Respect the track. And most of all, respect the work."
Coasta nodded. "I will."
---
The Academy: A New World
Inside the pit garage, other kids were already preparing. Most were between ages six and nine, chatting, stretching, or nervously glancing around.
"Hey," a boy said, walking up to Coasta. "You're new?"
He was skinny, taller than Coasta by a head, and had a friendly grin. "I'm Ram. Ramiro Santos."
"Coasta," he replied simply.
Another boy joined in—short, muscular, with big hands for a kid. "You Filipino?"
"Yeah."
"Nice. Me too. I'm Denver."
Ram clapped both their backs. "Let's not die today."
From across the garage, a kid in a sharp black-and-orange suit watched them with arms crossed. His name tag read Luis Morales.
He was older—maybe seven—and already had that quiet aura of competitiveness. He didn't smile. Didn't introduce himself. Just observed.
When Mr. Alton entered, all conversations stopped.
He clapped once. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"Good morning, drivers. For the new faces—welcome. This is not your backyard. This is your proving ground."
He walked past each kid like a soldier inspecting recruits.
"You will drive. You will fall. You will make mistakes. That's fine. What's not fine is not learning. Understand?"
"Yes, coach," the kids said.
Coasta remained quiet but alert.
---
Training Begins
That morning, the first session was simple: kart handling basics, braking points, throttle balance, turning lines.
Each kid took turns in a slow loop—guided by cones and marked chalk lines.
When it was Coasta's turn, he slid into the kart like he belonged there. The engine buzzed to life, and the moment his foot touched the pedal—
> [System Active]
Minor Assist: Traction Feedback Adjustment
Reaction Delay: Reduced by 2%
The world slowed just slightly. Not enough to feel strange. Just enough to feel natural.
He didn't jerk the wheel like others. Didn't overcorrect on turns. Just smooth—measured—quiet.
Mr. Alton narrowed his eyes.
"That one… what's his name again?"
"Coasta Fernandez," said the assistant coach.
"Hm."
---
Lunchtime
The kids sat under a canopy with their packed lunches. Coasta's mom had included banana bread in his bento box, which he quietly offered to Ram and Denver.
"You don't talk much," said Denver, mouth full.
"You don't stop talking," Coasta replied flatly.
Ram laughed. "He got you there."
Nearby, Luis Morales sat alone, sipping water and watching Coasta.
Not with anger. But calculation.
---
End of the Day
The sun was sinking when the last engine shut down. Kids packed up their suits, exhausted but smiling.
Mr. Alton gathered them in a semicircle.
"Good work. Some of you impressed me. Some of you disappointed me. I won't say names today. But tomorrow… I will."
He turned to leave, but stopped.
Then, almost as an afterthought, said aloud:
"Coasta. You did well. Don't get comfortable."
Julian, waiting at the edge of the track, raised a brow when he heard it.
Coasta simply nodded. "Yes, coach."
---
That Night
Coasta lay in bed again, mind cycling through the day's laps. His arms were sore. His palms ached. But he didn't mind.
> [System Log: Progress Noted]
[Skill Curve Stable – Early Adaptation Confirmed]
[Observation: Rival Detected – Luis Morales]
> "The first lap is done. The track awaits."