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Chapter 100 - Chapter 100: Highway Racing

Chapter 100: Highway Racing** 

 

Wu Yifan had fond memories of Han Shishi, the girl he'd met only once. Her bright, lively personality was unforgettable, and her delicate,脱俗 beauty outshone even the biggest celebrities he'd encountered. Her desperate plea sent a jolt of panic through him. "Shishi? Is that you? Where are you? I'll come right away!" 

 

"I-I'm at… Oriental Coast…" 

 

The words cut off with a *clatter*—as if the phone had fallen. Then, only a busy tone remained. 

 

Wu Yifan's brow furrowed at "Oriental Coast." He knew it was Qian Baoqing's territory, a den of unspeakable crimes. Han Shishi had barely escaped once; now she was trapped there again. His mind raced, recalling her earlier warnings: Qian Baoqing forced young girls into prostitution to line his pockets. Shishi would suffer the same fate. Rage pulsed through him, his fists clenching until his knuckles cracked. "Shishi, I swear. Even if it's hell itself, I'll get you out." 

 

He flagged down a taxi, shoving 200 yuan at the driver. "Oriental Coast. Now!" His voice boomed, raw with urgency. 

 

The driver, though confused, hit the gas. The taxi shot forward like a bullet, weaving through traffic. Pedestrians gaped, muttering: 

 

"Crazy taxi drivers—they'll kill someone for money!" 

"It's just a Santana, not a Rolls-Royce. What's the rush?" 

"For cash, they'd race a rocket." 

 

But neither the driver nor Wu Yifan heard them. One gripped the wheel; the other stared ahead, willing the car to move faster. Then, gridlock. It was nearly 11 a.m., and the streets were choked with cars—slow, bumper-to-bumper, inching forward like snails. 

 

"Hurry!" Wu Yifan's forehead glistened with sweat. 

 

"Kid, I can't fly through traffic!" The driver threw up his hands, helpless. 

 

Images of Han Shishi being tormented by thugs seared Wu Yifan's mind, sharp as a knife. He felt sick, pounding the seat like a caged lion. After eight seconds of pure panic, he acted. He hauled the driver into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and slammed on the gas. 

 

"Hey! That's my car—!" The driver yelped, terrified. This guy looked deranged. What if he wrecked his only means of supporting his family? 

 

"Shut up. I'll add 200 more. Or give back the first 200." Wu Yifan's voice was icy, cold enough to freeze the air. 

 

The driver clamped his mouth shut. He'd never heard such a menacing tone. 

 

"6 enhancement points remaining. Activate technical precision?" 

 

"Yes." 

 

"Enhancing technical precision ×4. Durability: 1/1." 

 

"Enhancement successful. Technical precision ×4. 3 points consumed. 3 points remaining." 

 

Wu Yifan's driving skills skyrocketed. He wove the taxi through traffic, tires screeching against the pavement, leaving white streaks. It was a miracle—slipping between cars, moving faster than seemed possible. Few drivers could've pulled it off; fewer would've dared. 

 

The桑塔纳 became a acrobat. Once, it tilted 90 degrees, squeezing between two vehicles. Other drivers gaped, as if witnessing a ghost. 

 

"Is that a taxi or a circus act?" 

"My BMW can't do that! And he's in a *Santana*!" 

"That's not driving—that's witchcraft!" 

 

Wu Yifan's recklessness stunned everyone, even luxury sports car owners. A few hotheads tried to race him, only to crash into the car ahead, sparking arguments that kept traffic police busy. 

 

Meanwhile, Fu Junyao patrolled the streets in her police car. She'd volunteered for patrol out of boredom, and as luck would have it, she spotted a taxi weaving through traffic like a maniac—performing stunts worthy of a race track. The driver's face grew familiar… 

 

Fu Junyao seethed. The memory of their last encounter still irked her. She'd been itching to confront Wu Yifan, and here he was, practically begging for trouble. She floored it, tailing him, and radioed: "Alert! Black taxi, license plate XXXXXX, speeding and driving erratically. All units, intercept!" 

 

Traffic police usually handled such issues, but Fu Junyao had clout in Beitian. No one dared ignore her, even if this felt like overkill. 

 

Nearby officers abandoned their posts, converging to block the taxi. Rumors spread—was this a terrorist? Osama bin Laden in Beitian? The end times? 

 

Fu Junyao had resented losing their last race, convinced he'd only won because of his fancy car. Now, she drove a police cruiser; he drove a taxi. Equal ground. Her skills should outmatch his. But watching him weave through cars, defying physics—she was dumbfounded. 

 

*Is he driving a car or a rocket? How does he make a clunker move like that?* 

 

Part of her marveled. With skills like that, she'd catch every thief and biker gang in the city. 

 

Chaos erupted. Sirens wailed. Police cars swarmed the streets, turning the chase into a spectacle. 

 

Then—*crash!* 

 

Two police cars blocked the road. Wu Yifan didn't have time to brake. He swerved left, sending the taxi skidding five meters, colliding with Fu Junyao's cruiser. Both jolted, nearly flying out their seats. 

 

Fu Junyao screamed, enraged. *He crashed into a police car?* She'd lock him up for a decade. She stabilized her car, stepped out, and drew her gun. "Get out! Now! Or I shoot!" 

 

Wu Yifan's forehead had slammed into the windshield, blood streaming down his face, sharp and stinging. He barely noticed. The taxi driver beside him foamed at the mouth, unconscious. The car's front was crumpled, unrecognizable. He spotted Fu Junyao, gun raised, and scrambled out. "Lend me your car! It's an emergency!" 

 

"Wu Yifan! This is Beitian, not a playground—!" 

 

"Later!" He grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward the police cruiser. "Get in!" 

 

The chase wasn't over. Oriental Coast waited—and so did Han Shishi.

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