The race started with a deafening roar.
The engines screamed as the motorcycles exploded off the starting grid, rocketing out of the compound and disappearing into the sweeping boulevards of the city circuit.
Flandre and her companions remained near the starting line—which doubled as the finish line—glued to the massive overhead broadcast screens. To accommodate the sprawling length of the urban track, the feed used a dynamic multi-split setup: the leading pack enjoyed dedicated tracking cameras, while the chaotic mid-pack battle was captured through sweeping wide-angle lenses.
For the opening laps, every eye in the stadium stayed locked on the frontrunners. The riders' raw technical mastery and the finely tuned specs of their custom machines were on full display as they carved through the tight corners.
Once the race crossed the halfway mark, however, the audience's attention shifted entirely to the chaotic warzone that was the middle pack.
That was when the true spirit of the "Road Rash" rally bared its fangs.
Riders traded blows in broad daylight, with competitors periodically getting kicked right off their saddles or sideswiped into padded guardrails. Every wipeout drew a collective gasp from the grandstands. Marshals in heavy safety gear stood on standby, ready to rush fallen riders straight into the trailing ambulances if they failed to scramble back to their feet.
Flandre and her group, meanwhile, weren't wasting time on the midfield pile-ups. Their gaze remained fixed on the front of the pack.
Lady Fumizuki was cutting through the asphalt on her machine, tailing the rear edge of the leading group, while Hoshiguma sat comfortably right behind her, separated by barely a single bike length.
The two bikes moved in tandem, locked in an effortless rhythm. The gap between them and the absolute leaders was razor-thin—no more than a few meters. At the blistering speeds they were traveling, that distance amounted to a mere fraction of a second.
"Hmm, why aren't Sister Fumizuki and the others rushing up to take first place?" Flandre asked, her head tilting as she sensed that both Fumizuki and Hoshiguma were holding plenty of power in reserve, refusing to redline their engines just yet.
"Because sticking your neck out too early makes you a primary target for everyone behind you," Beatrice explained, leaning closer. "Plus, whoever leads the pack has to break the wind for the entire field. It's a terrible trade-off."
"Break the wind?"
"Yes. When you're flying across the ground at those speeds, the air in front of you acts like an invisible wall. The faster you go, the heavier that resistance gets," Beatrice said.
Flandre nodded thoughtfully. "Mm-hmm, I can feel that a bit."
Though Flandre possessed an extraordinary, otherworldly constitution, kinetic drag still applied to the physical world, making the aerodynamic pressure quite palpable.
"You can think of it as a solid wall of air," Beatrice continued. "If someone punches a hole through that air in front of you, they disrupt the airflow. You—riding directly in their slipstream—experience far less resistance. The person in front is 'breaking the wind,' taking the full brunt of the pressure so the riders tucked behind them can conserve fuel and stamina. It's just like when a strong wind blows and someone stands right in front of you to block the gale."
Beatrice's vivid explanation made the tactical reality click for Flandre.
Given the raw performance of Fumizuki and Hoshiguma's bikes, they could easily challenge for the lead right now, but there was zero strategic value in doing so. The leaders were burning through their physical stamina and drawing every hostile eye on the track. Waiting until the final stretch to unleash their true speed was the obvious play.
"In the meantime, let's watch the brawl in the middle. That's a rare spectacle," Beatrice chuckled.
As she spoke, a rider on screen—dressed in the flamboyant neon leather of a circus acrobat—suddenly stood up on his footpegs, launched himself into an impossible mid-air spin, and delivered a brutal flying kick directly into the helmet of a rival racer. Using the kinetic recoil of the strike, he gracefully bounced back down and landed squarely back in his saddle.
The entire sequence was buttery smooth and terrifyingly practiced. It was obvious this wasn't a desperate gamble, but a muscle-memory routine honed through years of practice.
"That's the Great Kicker, an absolute veteran of this rally," Beatrice introduced, pointing at the screen. "He's a professional circus acrobat, so he's had freakish balance and spatial coordination since childhood. That flying kick is his signature move—he's the only one on the circuit who can pull it off with such casual ease."
Flandre watched the chaos unfold, then looked back toward the front. "If the people up front have similar speeds, why don't they fight each other? If they knocked out the other leaders, wouldn't the first-place prize be guaranteed?"
"That sounds logical in theory, but look at the reality," Hong Meiling chimed in, having followed the strategic flow. "The frontrunners are matched in skill. More importantly, maintaining that velocity requires every ounce of their focus. A single millisecond of distraction would send them tumbling off the track. They simply don't have the spare attention or energy to throw punches."
Flandre understood. Not everyone possessed the reality-warping leisure of Gensokyo's youkai, who could casually sip tea while moving at supersonic speeds.
At the velocities the leading pack was maintaining, the riders' nervous systems were maxed out. Furthermore, a full circuit around Lungmen's sprawling districts took a punishing amount of time. Physical endurance was stretched to its absolute limit, and with two separate races scheduled for a single day, stamina management was the ultimate key to survival.
Moments later, the leading pack crossed the finish line of the qualifying stage.
Fumizuki and Hoshiguma secured fifth and sixth place respectively, cruising through with energy to spare.
As soon as the frontrunners cleared the line, the battle in the midfield descended into absolute, bloody anarchy.
Operating on the cold mathematical logic that as long as everyone else crashed out, even a sluggish rider could sneak into the top thirty, the trailing competitors abandoned all pretense of racing. They lunged at each other with wild abandon. Any rider who tried to break away and accelerate was instantly swarmed by a mob of aggressive pursuers.
For a few frantic minutes, the track turned into a gladiatorial mosh pit.
"Hee hee hee! Look at them go, that looks so fun!" Flandre squealed, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned forward in her seat.
Before she could get any ideas, Beatrice firmly grabbed her shoulders and pressed her back down. "Don't get any funny ideas just because they look wild out there. There are strict ground rules. No Originium-related weaponry, and Arts manipulation is strictly banned. That's the baseline."
Beatrice gestured toward the screen. "All tactical gear has to be close-range blunt instruments, and weapon length cannot exceed two meters. No edged blades, no spiked surfaces, and absolutely no tripwires. This is an athletic motor rally, not a slaughterhouse."
Flandre squinted at the monitor and realized Beatrice was right. Every weapon being swung out on the tarmac was a blunt implement—reinforced baseball bats, padded clubs, and heavy batons. There wasn't a single sword, spear, or halberd in sight.
She had initially assumed the riders simply had an eccentric preference for baseball bats; it turned out lethal gear was banned outright.
Still, it made practical sense. At those speeds, introducing sharp edges or heavy bladed arms would turn the asphalt into a massacre. Even with Terra's hyper-resilient human biology, a public sporting event had to draw the line somewhere.