For the past forty-eight hours, Marco had been vibrating with a frequency that matched the idling NSR250. He had pestered Uncle Jiro about tire pressures, suspension sag, and jetting needles every time the poor man tried to drink his coffee. His plan was to wear his uncle down until the man simply agreed to everything just to get some peace and quiet.
Unfortunately, that plan hit a wall on Friday morning when Jiro sat him down at the small, oil-stained kitchen table for a very serious conversation.
"We need to talk about Sunday," Jiro said, his voice grave. He set down his mug, looking at Kai with a mixture of suspicion and concern. Although he knew Kai probably wouldn't understand the financial gravity of their situation, he felt it was better to be blunt than to let the kid ride into a wall of disappointment.
"We have the bike," Marco said, leaning forward, his eyes intense. "It runs. It sings. What's the problem?"
"Yes, the bike runs," Jiro affirmed, choosing his words carefully. "But running a bike in the garage and running a bike at a track day are two different universes. I've been looking at the accounts. The entry fee for the Tsukuba Short Course is 15,000 yen. The gas. The transponder rental. The transport."
He spoke slowly, ticking items off on his grease-stained fingers, ensuring Kai was focused on the reality.
To his constant surprise over the last week, raising Kai hadn't involved the usual dragging and shouting. Jiro often wondered if the kid had hit his head, or if puberty had finally kicked in like a turbocharger. Unlike the Kai of last month, who spent his days sighing and playing mobile games, this Kai didn't complain about grease under his fingernails. He didn't exhibit the typical teenage laziness. Instead, he listened to mechanical explanations intently, as if he were downloading the information. And, barring his weirdly weak physical strength, his mechanical intuition was scary. Jiro had even watched him tune the carburetor by ear yesterday. A professional mechanic takes years to learn that. Kai did it in ten minutes.
"I have savings," Marco lied effortlessly. He didn't, but he knew where Kai hid his emergency stash inside a hollowed-out manga volume in his room. It wasn't much, maybe 8,000 yen. "And I'll work overtime next week. I'll scrub the floors. I'll organize the scrap pile."
"It's not just the money, kid," Jiro sighed, rubbing his temples. The look on Kai's face was almost enough to make him cave immediately. "It's the gear. You can't ride in shorts and a hoodie. You need a leather suit, gauntlet gloves, race boots, and a helmet that isn't ten years old. Safety regulations."
"I... didn't think about the suit," Marco admitted. His voice was small. In his past life, sponsors threw custom-fitted kangaroo leather suits at him by the dozen. He had forgotten that normal people had to buy them.
A flicker of his usual determination returned. "You used to race, right?" Marco asked, sensing an opening. He needed to divert the topic from buying new gear to acquiring existing gear. "Back in the 90s? You have photos in the hallway."
Jiro looked at his nephew, a mix of sadness and amusement in his eyes. He had been a mediocre racer at best, a "backmarker" who filled the grid, but he had loved it. "I still have my old suit in the attic," he finally relented, "but only if you promise not to laugh. And if you crash in it, you're buying me a case of beer."
"I promise I won't crash!" Marco exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table. A leather suit, even an old one, was his ticket to the grid. "And I promise I won't laugh."
Ten minutes later, Marco broke his promise.
He stood in the middle of the living room, staring at himself in the mirror. He was trying very hard not to laugh, but a strangulated snort escaped his nose.
The suit was purple. Not a subtle, dark violet. It was Electric Neon Purple with bright yellow lightning bolts running down the legs. It looked like a bruised banana that had been struck by lightning.
"It was the style in 1998!" Jiro defended himself, crossing his arms defensively. "And it's top-quality cowhide. It will save your skin."
"It's... aerodynamic," Rin offered helpfully from the sofa, though she was shaking with suppressed giggles. "You look like a superhero. Or a grape."
Marco zipped it up. It was loose in the shoulders Kai's body was still scrawny compared to Jiro's prime but tight in the legs. He did a squat.
"It fits," Marco said, his face serious despite the ridiculous colors. He patted the chest patch that read 'JIRO - THE THUNDER'. "This will work. The helmet?"
Jiro tossed him a helmet bag. "Shoei. Only three years old. A customer left it and never paid his bill. It fits your big head."
Marco slid the helmet on. The smell of the interior padding was familiar. He closed the visor. The world muffled. His vision narrowed to the viewport.
Suddenly, the purple suit didn't matter. The money didn't matter. He was a rider again.
"Thank you, Uncle," Marco said, his voice muffled by the chin bar.
Jiro grunted, turning away to hide a small smile. "Don't thank me yet. We still have to get the bike into the van. And the van... well, the van is moody."
For the next two days, the trio Jiro, Rin, and Marco spent nearly every waking hour prepping. They raided the shop for spare bolts, zip-ties, and duct tape. They mixed fuel in the backyard. But inevitably, Saturday night arrived.
The NSR250 was loaded into the back of the battered Toyota HiAce van. The tools were packed. Rin had prepared a cooler with sandwiches.
Marco lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His body was aching from the week of intense physical conditioning, but his mind was wired. He couldn't sleep. The race was tomorrow.
He closed his eyes, trying to visualize the track. Tsukuba Short Course. It was a technical track. Tight corners. Not much room for the NSR to stretch its legs against the bigger 4-strokes, but perfect for corner speed.
Suddenly, the familiar blue glow illuminated the dark room.
[ SYSTEM ALERT! ]
Marco opened his eyes. The holographic window floated above his bed, casting a ghostly light on his 'Fast Lane' poster.
[ EVENT DETECTED: THE DEBUT - T MINUS 10 HOURS ]
The System had been quiet since the "Revival" quest. Marco sat up, intrigued.
[ OPTIONAL QUEST: MENTAL MAPPING ]
[ DESCRIPTION: A true legend wins the race before the engine even starts. Visualization is the key to consistency. ]
[ TASK: Complete a perfect mental lap of the Tsukuba Circuit within the Simulation. ]
[ TIME LIMIT: 1 Hour ]
[ REWARD: +2 Mental Focus / Minor Agility Boost ]
[ PUNISHMENT: None ]
[ (ACCEPT) / (DENY) ]
"Mental lap?" Marco whispered. "You want me to race in my sleep?"
He pressed [ACCEPT].
The room dissolved.
Marco found himself standing on the asphalt. The sun was high and bright. He looked down. He was wearing the Purple Suit, but it fit perfectly now. He looked at his hands. They were gloved.
He was sitting on the NSR250, idling on the starting line of Tsukuba. But there was no noise. It was eerie silence.
A figure appeared next to him. A translucent blue wireframe of a rider.
[ SYSTEM TUTORIAL: FOLLOW THE GHOST. ]
The blue rider took off instantly.
Marco didn't hesitate. He dumped the clutch. The bike shot forward but he didn't feel the G-force. It was purely visual.
"Whoa," Marco gasped. "It's like a video game, but... real."
He chased the ghost into Turn 1. The ghost braked late, flicking the bike in with surgical precision. Marco followed, his body reacting instinctively. He hit the apex. He rolled on the throttle.
[ CORNER 1: PERFECT ]
A green text popped up.
Marco grinned. This was incredible. He could practice the lines without wearing out the tires or risking a crash.
He spent the next hour in the simulation, turning lap after lap. He learned every bump in the asphalt. He memorized exactly where to shift from second to third gear. He found a tricky patch of imaginary oil on the outside of Turn 4.
By the time the simulation ended, Marco was sweating in his real bed.
[ QUEST COMPLETE ]
[ REWARD: +2 MENTAL FOCUS ]
[ AGILITY BOOST APPLIED ]
He fell back onto his pillow, his heart rate slowly returning to normal.
"I'm ready," he whispered to the darkness. "I'm actually ready."
Sunday morning. 6:00 AM.
The sky was a pale, washed-out blue. The air was crisp.
The Toyota HiAce rattled down the highway, its suspension groaning under the weight of the motorcycle and tools. Jiro was driving, clutching a cigarette that he wasn't smoking. Rin was asleep in the back seat, using a roll of paper towels as a pillow.
Marco sat in the passenger seat, watching the scenery blur by.
"Nervous?" Jiro asked, breaking the silence.
"No," Marco said. And he meant it.
"Listen, Kai," Jiro said, his voice softer than usual. "About today. Don't push it. You're in the Beginner Group. Just... feel the bike out. Don't try to be a hero. The guys out there, some of them have been riding for years. They have tire warmers. They have mechanics."
"We have a mechanic," Marco smiled, looking at his uncle. "The best one in Tokyo."
Jiro scoffed, but his ears turned a little pink. "Flattery won't make the van go faster."
"And about the competition," Jiro continued. "Ryu... that rich kid I told you about? I heard he's here today. He's in the Advanced Group, obviously. But don't look at him. Don't compare yourself to him. He's riding a brand new Yamaha R3 with full race kit. His shock absorber costs more than our entire van."
"Ryu," Marco tested the name. "Does he have a purple suit?"
"No," Jiro chuckled. "He wears pristine white Alpinestars."
"Then he has no style," Marco declared.
The van turned off the main road. A sign appeared: TSUKUBA CIRCUIT - ENTRANCE.
The sight of the gate sent a jolt of electricity through Marco's spine. It wasn't the Valencia GP. It wasn't Mugello. It was a small, dusty local track. But it had a control tower. It had curbs painted red and white.
As they rolled into the paddock, the atmosphere hit them. Generators were humming. Compressors were hissing. Riders were zipping up leathers. Bikes were being revved the deep brap-brap of four-strokes and the angry buzz of smaller engines.
Jiro parked the van in a free spot near the back, far away from the covered pit garages where the "rich teams" set up.
"Alright," Jiro said, killing the engine. "Showtime."
They hopped out. Jiro slid the side door open.
There she was. The NSR250.
As they unloaded the bike, Marco noticed people staring. They were staring with confusion. A beat-up van, a bald mechanic, a teenage girl yawning, and a skinny kid unloading a bike from the 1990s.
"Look at that relic," a voice floated over from the next pit spot. "Is that a museum piece?"
Marco ignored them. He put on his helmet.
"Looks like I need to make some friends," he murmured to himself, echoing the thought he'd had days ago. But his definition of "friends" was people he was about to overtake.
He looked at Jiro. "Fire it up?"
Jiro nodded. "Warm her up."
Marco kicked the starter.
BRAAAAAP! Ding-ding-ding-ding!
The sharp, aggressive sound of the two-stroke cut through the paddock noise like a chainsaw. Heads turned instantly. The blue smoke rose into the morning air.
Marco revved it once, a sharp snap of the wrist. The engine responded instantly, hungry for air.
[ SYSTEM QUEST UPDATE: THE DEBUT! ]
[ CURRENT OBJECTIVE: PASS TECHNICAL INSPECTION ]
Marco patted the tank.
"Let's go racing."