Unlike back in China, the highways in America didn't have toll booths.
The United States had more than 100,000 kilometers of highways, and less than one-tenth of them charged tolls. Even when they did, it was cheap—usually between 2 to 20 dollars.
The reason was simple: once highways were built, most of their upkeep came directly from federal taxes. State governments only charged tolls on some old, deteriorating routes to cover maintenance.
Back when these roads were designed, the Americans believed toll booths would only slow down traffic and defeat the entire purpose of a "highway."
Of course, "no toll booths" didn't mean the roads were free. Every month, drivers still paid around 200 dollars in highway taxes—about 1,300 yuan.
But the benefit? Without toll booths, traffic jams on the highway were rare. For street racers, that was a blessing.
Now, three cars thundered down the highway, engines howling at their limits.
The Hennessey Venom looked like it might overtake the Silver Marauder. For a moment, it even gained on Leon.
But just as Leon had predicted, the Venom's engine couldn't handle it.
After pushing past its limits for only a short stretch, warning alarms began blaring inside the cockpit. The engine groaned in protest, the sound closer to a dying animal than a machine.
Its speed dropped sharply, no matter how hard Dominic stomped on the accelerator.
The mighty Venom had become like an exhausted runner—tongue out, gasping for breath, stumbling with smoke hissing from under its hood.
The truth was, the car's top speed was only around 600 km/h. Yet Dom had forced it up to nearly 700 km/h, without pause. That kind of overclocking was suicide for an engine.
It was no surprise it gave out after just a few minutes.
"Pathetic. Too fragile." Leon sneered as he smoothly twisted the wheel.
The Silver Marauder drifted with elegance, tail sliding in a perfect arc as it exited the highway. The maneuver was flawless—fluid, natural, without wasted motion.
With Dom's car crippled, Medusa suddenly came alive.
She roared past the smoking Venom, middle finger raised out the window at Dominic.
A vicious, defiant gesture. A true queen of the streets.
Now only Leon's Silver Marauder and Medusa's car remained at the top.
They weaved through traffic at impossible speeds, darting between stunned civilian drivers who slammed on horns in panic. Some scrambled to pull over, terrified at the blur of headlights that tore past.
No one could challenge them anymore.
"Up ahead is District Nine. We've got this." Leon's voice was calm, almost relaxed.
"Yeah… you're incredible." Letty said honestly, awe in her voice.
She hadn't seen Leon's performance earlier when they split routes. But now, watching him control the Marauder with godlike precision, weaving through chaos and surviving ambushes from convoys and even helicopters—she was stunned.
Never in her life had she seen someone drive like this.
It was like the car was an extension of his soul.
A god of speed had descended.
And who would have thought? The man who showed up driving what everyone mocked as a "delivery van" was actually the one to crush all expectations.
In the end, Leon seized the title of West Coast's number one racer.
Not even Dominic. Not even O'Neal.
He had blown them both off the road.
Even more shocking—Leon's crew had taken both first and second place.
The corporate sponsors who had poured money into O'Neal and Dominic were now choking on their losses. Their golden boys had been humiliated. Their investments shattered.
Leon had just stolen their cheese—and their pride.
District Nine was an abandoned industrial zone, full of crumbling factories and rusting machinery.
Once it had been the beating heart of the city, but as industries moved elsewhere, it became a ghost town. Developers avoided it. Citizens never came this far out. Even gangs didn't bother with it anymore.
But tonight?
It was alive.
The air throbbed with bass-heavy music. Colored lights strung across the skeletal buildings lit the night in electric hues.
On a wide-open plaza, crowds of young men and women danced wildly.
The guys were styled sharp—slicked hair, wax, dripping swagger. The girls were bold and fiery—crop tops, miniskirts, sizzling with energy.
They moved with the beat, laughing, shouting, drinking, all waiting for the champions to arrive.
Then came the sound.
Engines.
Roaring, powerful, unmistakable.
"They're here! The champions are here!"
"I can hear it! That sound—it makes my blood boil!"
"I heard O'Neal lost halfway through."
"What? No way."
"You guys didn't watch the live stream? The delivery van guy won!"
"What the hell!?"
The crowd buzzed with disbelief.
O'Neal losing was already unthinkable. He had set this whole race up to crown himself king—his grand "ascension." He had the sponsors, the prep, everything. Even if he lost, it should've been neck-and-neck at the finish line.
But losing in the middle of the race? Before even reaching the final checkpoint?
Impossible.
And worse—a so-called delivery van driver was the one who won?
Nobody understood. Nobody could believe it.
But then headlights tore through the night, silencing the crowd.
A silver beast surged into view. The Silver Marauder crossed the finish line with a sharp hiss of tires.
BOOM!
Fireworks erupted from the pillars on either side of the finish, flames bursting into the night sky in celebration.
The champion had arrived.
And it wasn't O'Neal.
It was Leon.
The new King of the West Coast.
~~----------------------
Patreon Advance Chapters:
[email protected] / Dreamer20