Catching speeders was simple.
Morin checked a map, asked someone for confirmation, and immediately knew where they usually raced.
The timing was right too.
The venue wasn't hard to find.
Judging by how much of a headache this had become for the police station, the place had to be remote, easy to escape from, and suitable for racing.
There weren't many locations like that.
That was why Morin could guess their usual racing venue just by looking at a map.
He could also roughly tell why the police station had been stuck with this problem.
First, the venue was large and full of escape routes.
Deploying manpower and resources for a group of speeders who weren't robbing, killing, or committing arson...
It wasn't worth it.
Second, the speeders likely had better skills and equipment, and the station couldn't find a suitable officer on short notice.
The only volunteer was Duke.
A problematic rookie.
So the issue dragged on.
After all, this was a small police station.
They only had three motorcycles.
They probably had more cars, but Morin didn't bother to ask.
He just went by what Duke said.
It wasn't worth digging deeper.
Morin was lazy about useless details.
Anyway, his real money-making plan wasn't here.
It was focused on the great devil Mephisto.
A traffic cop's salary was far too slow.
Morin planned to use the system's gray-income judgment to farm experience points.
Catch them.
Release them.
Repeat.
He would catch Johnny-the Ghost Rider Mephisto relied on-then demand ransom.
If Mephisto didn't pay, the Rider stayed locked up.
If he paid, Morin would release him and wait to catch him again.
Maybe he could max out his experience in one go.
After all, he'd be blackmailing the Lord of Hell.
A billion-dollar treasure or two shouldn't be a problem.
Morin refined the details in his head as he rode.
He was already preparing a surprise for the legendary Lord of Hell.
Then-
The roar of another motorcycle caught up to him.
A whistle followed.
"Hey, man! You heading to the race this afternoon too?"
"That bike's sick! Is it a Kawasaki?"
"Yes," Morin replied calmly.
He glanced at the helmeted teenager riding beside him.
Then at the motorcycle.
He couldn't tell the exact model.
The exterior had clearly been modified.
But it was obvious-
This was modification for looks only.
No aerodynamics.
Just style.
Morin wasn't riding fast, so getting caught up was easy.
"How about it?" the teenager lifted his visor, winked, and patted his bike.
"Wanna race a bit?"
"Mine's not a big brand, but it's pretty good!"
"Is yours..." Morin asked.
"A modified bike?"
"Of course!" the teenager laughed.
"I don't have much money. I saved up forever and rebuilt it from scrap!"
"I see," Morin nodded.
"Is it registered?"
"Huh?" The teenager froze, then burst out laughing.
"Are you serious? It's a scrap bike. If I took this to get registered, I might as well take it straight to the junkyard-and pay a fine on top of that!"
"So you know exactly what you're doing," Morin smiled.
"What's your name?"
"Watson!" he said readily.
"And you?"
"Morin," Morin replied.
"You can call me Morin."
"Of course, if you prefer 'Officer Morin,' that's fine too."
"That's my job, after all."
Now that I know your face and your name-
"Would you mind voluntarily scrapping the bike and heading to the station to pay the fine?"
"...Are you joking?" Watson stared.
"I don't think so," Morin said.
He pulled out a badge and flashed it.
"Motherf*cker!" Watson yelled.
He reacted instantly.
Visor down.
Body low.
Throttle twisted.
The bike shot forward.
"You're Watson, not Fury," Morin muttered while accelerating.
"Why are you yelling that?"
"You should be calling Doctor Strange... or Detective Sherlock."
He flipped the switch.
Patrol mode activated.
The police light snapped on.
The siren wailed.
A Police Universal Vehicle having lights and sirens was perfectly reasonable.
As for the motorcycle the station had issued-
Morin had casually disposed of it earlier.
With the siren blaring, Morin accelerated and followed Watson.
Not too close.
Not too far.
He could go faster.
Much faster.
But this road only led one place.
The racing venue.
Morin planned to catch them all in one go.
He wasn't in a hurry.
A modified bike raced ahead.
Ten meters behind it-
A blue-and-white Kawasaki with a flashing police light gave chase.
And Morin wasn't even crouching.
He clearly wasn't taking it seriously.
They quickly reached the venue.
The race track.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
"The 10th City Motorcycle Race-five seconds to start!"
A bikini-clad woman stood at the starting line, microphone in hand.
Her voice was full of excitement.
Music blared.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Whistles.
Applause.
Energy surged.
Motorcycles lined up at the start.
Every one of them was a professionally modified race bike.
The Kawasaki H2R Morin rode was track-only.
Technically illegal on public roads.
But the system had adjusted its appearance and documents.
Perfectly legal.
No problems.
The riders looked tense.
At least, that was the atmosphere.
"Five... four... three... two-"
At "one," the woman yanked off the cloth on her chest and waved it.
"Boom!"
The engines roared.
The bikes launched forward.
Within seconds, they were over a hundred kilometers per hour.
The air filled with the burnt smell of rubber.
The crowd went wild.
People rushed to the big screens.
"...What?"
The woman had just tossed the cloth into the crowd when her headset crackled.
She froze.
"Two bikes went up the mountain?"
Her microphone was still on.
The speakers broadcast everything.
"And one has a police light?"
"What?"
"A Kawasaki H2R?"
"Are you kidding me?"
"Our police station is broke! Since when were they this rich?!"
"Even if that's true-who's riding it?"
"That bald guy again?"
"What? An Asian guy?"
"How handsome?"
"How do you know-he's not wearing a helmet?"
"He really isn't?"
"But you said they're going insanely fast!"
"Okay, okay-race already started. We can't stop now."
"It's just one cop, it shouldn't be-"
"...Wait."
"I can already hear the engine."
"How fast are they going?!"
Her words pulled everyone's attention away from the screens.
All eyes turned to the mountain road.
They couldn't see anything.
Only hear it.
Two engines.
Rapidly approaching.
And-
A siren.
Seconds later-
The motorcycles flew.
The steep slope and insane speed launched them airborne.
If they could hit escape velocity and keep it-
They'd go straight into space.
They landed almost simultaneously.
Then-
The H2R with the police light blasted past the other bike.
Crushing speed.
Straight onto the track.
Gone.
"Three hundred and fifty kilometers per hour!"
Everyone there knew bikes.
They understood speed.
And this-
This was absurd.
Some people checked the speed sensor.
The number confirmed it.
The fastest bike in the world, the Dodge Tomahawk, could theoretically hit 678.
Under perfect conditions.
In reality?
Even half that was rare.
Three hundred and fifty-
That was a record.
In this circle, it was insane.
"Is that really a cop?!"
"Is he really a police officer?!"
The woman was losing her mind.
"He just set the best record this track has ever seen!"
Watson slowly stopped his bike.
He was confused.
He'd planned to hide in the crowd, then escape through side paths.
Instead-
Morin had accelerated uphill at a speed Watson couldn't even imagine.
Then flew.
And vanished.
Not arresting him.
Why?
Too fast to brake?
Or-
Was he fake?
Just messing with him?
Actually here to race?
Then Watson noticed the paper stuck to his bike.
He hadn't seen it before.
"What is this...?"
He tried to peel it off.
It wouldn't budge.
He twisted his neck to read it.
His face went pale.
A traffic ticket.
Filled out.
With his bike's information.
Pay the fine.
Or modify the bike again.
But one question stuck in his head.
When was this filled out?
Morin was already chasing the racers ahead.
He'd heard the race start before reaching the mountain.
That changed his mind.
It had been a long time since he raced.
Recently, he'd been racing people.
And himself.
So-
He accelerated.
Morin hadn't tested the Police Universal Vehicle's top speed yet.
But he knew one thing.
It was faster than a Dodge Tomahawk.
The speed kept climbing.
The racers ahead were doing two hundred.
A few hit three hundred.
That was enough to win.
Against that-
Morin closed the gap effortlessly.
One by one.
Each time he passed a bike, he scanned its info.
Filled out a ticket.
Slapped it on the front.
Installed a tiny GPS tracker.
All in a split second.
At that speed, it didn't affect his control at all.
Under the racers' horrified stares, Morin surged ahead.
The siren echoed.
They couldn't understand it.
What kind of police officer races like this?
With this kind of skill?
Was he trying to break their confidence?
Outrace them until they quit?
Wasn't it easier to just arrest them?
The racers were completely baffled.
Find Advance chapters
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