From the mountaintop to the road below, the drop wasn't more than fifty meters.
If a car jumped down and landed flat, the vehicle might be wrecked—but the driver could survive.
But in reality, cars weren't designed for perfect landings. The heavy nose almost always tilted forward first. The moment it slammed into the asphalt, the driver's head would whip violently against the steering wheel. The risk of serious injury—or worse—was almost guaranteed.
And yet, if there was a shortcut, Leon wasn't the type to ignore it.
"Can the Marauder handle a drop like this?" Leon gritted his teeth, seriously considering the gamble.
"As long as the nose doesn't strike vertically, it's absolutely safe," the onboard system replied without hesitation.
Moments later, the heads-up display projected a full simulation.
Thanks to the reinforced tires, the Silver Marauder now had even better shock absorption. Its reinforced glass wouldn't shatter under impact. Every internal component was built with system-grade technology—engineering from another civilization. Its structural integrity bordered on monstrous.
As long as the car didn't nosedive like a missile, it could survive the fall.
And as for the driver? He had even less to worry about.
The leather racing seats had been designed for maximum elasticity. They would absorb the impact with ease, sparing his body. And besides—Leon himself wasn't a normal man. His stats were freakishly high. He wouldn't break that easily.
"Based on comprehensive calculations," the system concluded, "the maneuver is fully viable."
Leon exhaled. "Alright then. I trust you."
With a sharp motion, he engaged the nitrous.
Flames roared out of the tailpipes. The Silver Marauder surged forward like a rocket.
"What the hell is he doing?"
"He's going to drive straight off!"
"Wait—he's really going to jump from halfway down the mountain?"
"This guy… he's about to attempt the impossible!"
Spectators across the world gasped, their hearts convulsing in shock.
If Leon really meant to leap off the mountain road… wasn't that suicide?
No one had ever dared attempt such a stunt.
The cliff edge loomed closer.
Then—with a thunderous BOOM—the Marauder's hydraulic system activated.
The car launched upward, its nose tilted high, as if a warhorse rearing proudly before battle.
It was magnificent.
"He's really doing it!!!" Trish shrieked into her microphone, her hand clamped over her mouth. The shock and awe in her voice couldn't be hidden.
Leon's move had stunned the entire world.
On every television screen, jaws dropped open. They weren't just watching a race anymore—they were witnessing history.
In that soaring, unstoppable arc, Leon had proven it. He wasn't just the best driver of the year.
He was the driver of the century.
The Silver Marauder was a silver arrow loosed from a bowstring—its posture proud, its path irreversible.
WHAM!
The car slammed down onto the asphalt with a bone-rattling crash.
But thanks to Leon's expert control, the landing was flawless. The Marauder's chassis struck the ground level and balanced—its nose not dipping an inch.
A perfect four-point touchdown.
The car didn't so much as skid off-line.
The crowd erupted.
"Woooooo!!"
"That's it! I don't bow to anyone's driving except his!"
"Who else can throw themselves fifty meters off a cliff and land clean?"
"It's like watching a blockbuster movie!"
"Insane! Absolutely insane driving!"
Living rooms, bars, and sports halls across the country went wild. The excitement even surpassed the earlier canyon jump.
Ratings spiked again—22%.
By sunrise, Leon would be a household name.
Trish was trembling with adrenaline, her voice caught in her throat. She wanted nothing more than to leap out of the helicopter and interview him on the spot.
Back on the track, the Silver Marauder finally revealed its true ferocity.
The initial shock of the landing faded in seconds. Leon steadied the beast and pushed harder.
The roar of the nuclear engine shook the road. Its wild snarl reverberated in the air, electrifying everyone who heard it.
The sound alone was enough to make souls ignite—it was pure, burning adrenaline.
The Marauder became a silver streak, a flash of light cutting across the winding asphalt. It was so fast that the broadcast cameras couldn't even keep up.
"Faster, faster—push it!" the cameraman in the helicopter barked. "You're too slow, I can't keep him in frame!"
"You think I'm not trying?" the pilot shouted back. "This is max speed! He's still pulling away from us!"
Unfortunately for them, the exchange was caught on live mic—broadcast to millions of viewers.
The ratings spiked again, hitting 25%.
The irony was absurd: helicopters were struggling to chase a car.
Viewers laughed, gasped, and shook their heads in disbelief. But deep down, they understood.
They had just witnessed the birth of a new automotive era.
The Silver Marauder wasn't just beating cars anymore.
It was leaving aircraft in the dust.
Normally, helicopters flew at 200–300 km/h for economic cruising. Even the fastest combat and transport models rarely exceeded 400.
The Osprey V-22 could top out at 650—but that was an exception.
And Leon? He had blasted far beyond that.
So much so that if not for the helicopter's straight-line path through open skies, it would have been left behind entirely.
"This is the most humiliating flight of my life!" the pilot groaned, his pride shredded.
Leon's car had destroyed his dignity as a flyer.
But Trish wasn't complaining. Her blue eyes gleamed as she leaned toward the camera.
"Don't feel bad, Rock. He's on another level entirely," she said, her voice glowing with excitement.
Her gaze locked onto Leon's driving. Every drift was controlled. Every corner was graceful yet perfect. His car never once strayed off-road.
It wasn't just talent. It was artistry.
In all her years, she had never seen anyone drive like this.
Why had no one heard of him until now?
Her curiosity about Leon grew stronger and stronger.
~~----------------------
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