O'Neal's sudden crash left everyone stunned.
Even Trish in the helicopter was frozen, along with the millions of viewers watching from their TVs.
Dominic and the other racers couldn't believe it either.
The ratings skyrocketed—straight up to 27%!
Such a catastrophic wreck drew massive attention. Cameras clicked nonstop as quick-witted spectators whipped out their phones, recording every angle of the chaos.
This was the essence of a real street race.
If no cars were smashed, could you even call it a street race?
It was like watching a blockbuster action flick unfold in real time—audiences were ecstatic.
"Hell yeah! More crashes!"
"This is what I came for!"
"That guy's gonna win for sure. If he can handle the Death Track, this is child's play!"
All eyes were now on Leon.
Meanwhile, O'Neal—eliminated in humiliating fashion—was roasted mercilessly.
"Idiot drives like a pig!"
"What a joke, can't believe he thought he stood a chance."
The tide had turned.
Leon just smiled faintly. Shifting gears smoothly, he slammed on the throttle.
The Silver Marauder roared like a beast unleashed, shooting out of the bend flawlessly.
The speed was insane—so fast that Dominic nearly lost control of his own steering wheel.
Too fast.
He'd never seen anyone push a car this far before.
This wasn't just modification anymore… it was reinvention.
The Juggernaut wasn't tuned—it was reborn with a brand-new heart, stronger and more refined than anything before it.
The engineering was terrifying.
And Leon's driving? Equally monstrous.
Dominic frowned. Why hadn't he heard of this guy before?
The racing world was small—every up-and-comer made ripples before reaching this level. No one just popped up out of nowhere… and yet Leon had shattered the unspoken rule, rising like a comet, slapping every veteran racer across the face in the process.
Who the hell was this guy?
Dominic stared at the Silver Marauder, but the more he watched, the less he understood. Leon was cloaked in mystery, like a fog no one could pierce.
Meanwhile, Leon himself didn't care. He kept laser-focused—because his real opponents had finally arrived.
"Warning, warning. Hostile convoy approaching. Defensive measures recommended," the onboard system blared.
Leon's lips curled into a grin.
"Finally."
Slamming the clutch, shifting up, and flooring the accelerator—he was ready.
Bright lights flared ahead.
A column of four-wheel off-roaders blocked the center lane, lined up like a barricade.
Flanking them were ten black Kawasaki H2Rs—five on each side—charging forward like predators.
The rumble of engines echoed like thunder. The bikes had been heavily modified—extra floodlights bolted on, mufflers stripped out, the roar deafening and violent.
The moment they spotted the Silver Marauder, they twisted their throttles to the max, the H2Rs howling as they surged ahead like lightning.
They weren't racers.
They were killers.
Their formation was clean, surgical—like petals of a deadly flower unfolding.
In perfect sync, they circled Leon, every headlight converging on his car.
A smart move.
The blinding high beams could disorient any driver, leaving them half-blind and unable to see the road. Most would panic, slam the brakes, and be sitting ducks.
But Leon's machine wasn't "most cars."
"High-intensity light detected. Activating anti-glare filter."
With a soft mechanical hum, the Juggernaut's smart glass tinted instantly, cutting glare while maintaining full night-vision mode.
Perfect clarity.
Leon smirked. "Sorry, boys. Wrong target."
His speed didn't drop a single notch.
The bikers flinched in surprise—he was supposed to falter, yet he kept charging like nothing happened.
So they escalated.
As the H2Rs closed in, riders whipped out submachine guns.
The night lit up with muzzle flashes.
Ratatatatata—!
Bullets tore into the dirt road, kicking up sprays of sand and dust, sparks flying against the Juggernaut's armor-plated chassis.
Behind them, Dominic's eyes went wide. He slammed his brakes, jerking the wheel into the desert to avoid getting shredded in the crossfire.
Anyone could see it now—this wasn't racing anymore. Leon had been targeted.
In the helicopter, Trish clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.
Good God. A live news broadcast had just turned into an urban warzone.
Ten armored bikes, five off-road trucks, and all of them gunning for Leon.
Could he possibly make it out alive?
The cameramen leaned in, filming every frame, adrenaline pumping.
The attackers wore black helmets, their identities hidden—but their weapons? Every detail was captured in sharp focus.
"What the hell? A street race turned full-on gang shootout?!"
"Is this real life or a movie?!"
"Reverse! Get out of there!!"
"He's done for. Too many guns—no way he survives this."
The crowd was split—some horrified, some giddy with schadenfreude.
But one thing was clear:
Everyone thought Leon was finished.
The hero who had just risen… might die before his legend could even begin.
~~----------------------
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