By now, Leon's legend had spread all across the West Coast.
Every car enthusiast, every underground racer—everyone was replaying his videos on loop. Whether it was the Death Track run or the insane moment he went head-to-head with a plane, every frame was pure adrenaline.
If Leon so much as hinted at holding an exhibition race, tickets would sell out instantly. Some fans would probably try to buy out the entire venue just to watch him.
Of course, not everyone believed in him. For every hundred drivers, about thirty scoffed, saying Leon was just putting on a show. A stuntman, nothing more.
But now? After seeing the way his Diomas Nilo tore across the highways at impossible speeds, after witnessing his godlike control at the wheel—
No one dared question him anymore.
"Looked like he was about to crash, but he drifted perfectly!"
"I admit it—I'm nowhere near his level."
"I couldn't even see clearly before he was gone."
"Could he, uh, maybe drive a little slower?"
Highway drivers, both terrified and awestruck, realized they were witnessing something historic. At this speed alone, Leon had already surpassed 99.9% of racers alive. The remaining 0.1% didn't dare speak too boldly, because deep down, they knew the truth—no one could compare.
The West Coast Racing God had arrived.
Just by showing up, Leon crushed the competition in the only way that mattered: speed.
If this was a "normal race," then no car in existence could keep up. None.
The highway was in chaos, but Leon was euphoric.
"Ha ha ha! This is living!" he roared, laughter echoing inside the cockpit.
Chasing speed, feeling the crowd's awe—this was his joy. His fame was growing with every kilometer, and soon, he would be more than a legend of the streets. He'd be a national icon.
One day, Leon would conquer all of America with his car. And when that day came, he'd crush ridiculous ideas like white supremacy under his tires.
From Los Angeles to Las Vegas was about 400 kilometers—a trip that normally took four hours by car.
But Leon wasn't driving normally. His Nilo was cruising at nearly 900 km/h. Without even activating nitrous, they crossed the desert in under thirty minutes.
"That… that was so fast!!" Elena gasped, eyes wide as the 'Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas' sign flashed before them. She was completely shaken.
"It felt like we were on a plane," Hattie muttered, clutching her head. Her whole body was still reeling from the pressure.
What should have been a four-hour drive had just taken half an hour. Surviving that without a crash or incident felt like divine luck. If either of them had been driving instead, they wouldn't have even made it halfway. Forget New York—just reaching Vegas would have been impossible.
"Forget walls, I respect you the most!" Elena said, giving Leon a shaky thumbs up. Her face was pale, but her admiration was genuine.
In all her life, she'd never met a driver like him. Nobody else could tame a beast at 900 km/h. His skills were unreal.
"How do you even do it?" Hattie asked, her bright blue eyes curious.
Leon grinned. "Simple. Just press the gas pedal." He laughed, clearly teasing them.
But the truth was, at such insane speeds, there was no "technique" anyone could teach. It came down to instinct, reflexes, and mastery. When drifting at nine hundred, it wasn't about memorizing turns—it was about feeling the car's soul.
"Once you get your new cars, practice enough and you'll find the rhythm yourselves," Leon added casually.
What he didn't say out loud was that his system upgrades also boosted his teammates. Whenever he leveled up, their driving stats rose as well.
For example, if Elena's natural comfort zone was 200 km/h, then with +100 driving attribute, her limit would increase to 300. Within that range, she'd handle the car like a pro. Beyond it, though? Things got risky.
Hearing the words new cars lit up both women's eyes. Hope returned—they wouldn't give up on this mission so easily now.
Meanwhile, the Diomas Nilo blazed across the highway. America's roads had no speed cameras, so Leon drove without restraint.
But just because there weren't cameras didn't mean there weren't cops.
And unlucky for Leon, up ahead stood a lone traffic officer, radar gun in hand.
He'd been on shift all day and hadn't caught a single speeder. Bored out of his mind, he grumbled about how every driver seemed to suddenly obey the law whenever he was around.
"One more minute, then I'm off duty," he muttered, checking his watch.
That's when he heard it—the ferocious roar of a monster engine. His instincts told him instantly: someone was racing.
Excited, he raised his radar gun, ready to log an arrest-worthy number.
But the next second, his jaw dropped.
A black blur streaked past, faster than his eyes could process. One blink—gone.
"…What the hell?!"
His radar didn't even have time to register the speed.
What he saw wasn't a car.
It was a phantom.
~~----------------------
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