"Come on, I'll take you down to look around the paddock."
Beatrice patted Flandre on the shoulder and gestured toward the maintenance area sprawled out below the stands.
Down on the concrete tarmac, the racers who had just completed their qualifying runs were already knee-deep in tune-ups. Parked beside every machine stood the rider and a single designated assistant, wrenching frantically to prep the engines for the afternoon finals.
As she led the girls through the bustling service lanes, Beatrice explained the unwritten rules. "This is one of the core traditions of the rally: between the morning and afternoon heats, besides the rider themselves, only one designated mechanic is allowed to touch the machine."
"Of course, you could technically hire a whole crowd of people to stand around holding tools for you, so long as they don't physically touch the bike," Beatrice chuckled. "Though nobody actually does that—it's terribly tacky. Everyone in the industry is watching, and executing a clean mid-race repair is considered a vital part of the competition."
Glancing over, Flandre noticed that every racing stall featured a heavy-duty container packed with specialized tools, spare gaskets, and lubricants.
Flandre raised her hand, her crimson eyes curious. "Sister Beatrice, does that mean the repair work only counts if the mechanic does it all by hand?"
"That's right. Why?" Beatrice asked, tilting her head.
"Well... what if someone just kept a second, identical motorcycle hidden in their trailer? As soon as the morning heat ends, they secretly swap the beat-up bike for the brand-new one. Wouldn't that bypass the repair problem entirely?" Flandre smoothly pointed out a massive loophole in the race logic.
It boiled down to how the mechanics defined a "repair." Since the rider and the mechanic were effectively the same entity, nothing stopped a competitor from prepping two identical chassis. After finishing the morning lap on bike number one, they could simply wheel out bike number two.
They could easily claim the second bike was just the result of a "total overhaul" where every single bolt, piston, and panel of the original machine was replaced simultaneously. Technically, it would still fall within the literal boundaries of the rules.
Beatrice nodded, acknowledging Flandre's clever deduction, but offered a knowing smile. "You could certainly try, but what do you think the actual point of this race is?"
"Isn't it just to win?" Flandre blinked.
"Not even close. The Lungmen Rally wasn't founded as a speed contest—it was started decades ago by a group of grease-monkey mechanics. What they really wanted to prove was whether a motorcycle, after surviving a brutal high-speed lap around Lungmen's streets, could be torn down, repaired, and put back on the road entirely through their own engineering brilliance."
Over time, the event evolved from an informal garage bragging contest into the sprawling motorsport festival it was today. It remained a showcase not just for riding skill, but for the raw craftsmanship of the mechanics behind the scenes. Though it started as a local Lungmen pastime, it now drew elite riders and top-tier industrial engineers from half a dozen neighboring regions.
Winning the trophy wasn't the ultimate objective; displaying one's technical superiority was. Every year during the midday pit stops, legendary craftsmen rolled out cutting-edge black technology and proprietary repair techniques.
The wealthy investors and dignitaries who filled the stands came either to marvel at the mechanics' wizardry or to scout new engineering patents. For the artisans, a strong showing translated directly into lucrative industrial contracts and workshop funding—which was the sole reason the rally survived year after year.
"Otherwise, a few cheap medals and a modest cash prize wouldn't draw so many heavy hitters to risk their necks," Beatrice explained, illuminating the economic realities behind the roaring engines.
The pieces instantly clicked into place. If the goal were merely crossing the finish line first, swapping bikes behind a curtain would make sense. But because the pit stop repair was a critical judging category in its own right, nobody would ever choose such a cowardly, loophole-exploiting path. Glory on the track was fleeting, but industrial prestige paid the bills.
Arriving at the team stalls, the group spotted Lady Fumizuki deep in intense technical discourse with an older Cautus artisan. Beatrice leaned in to whisper the man's background.
He was a master mechanical engineer hailing straight from the capital of Rim Billiton, Ultimate Iron-Tunn. As a nation dominated by massive mining conglomerates and heavy industry, Rim Billiton boasted some of the most advanced manufacturing sectors on Terra, and their pit crews were legendary.
Lady Fumizuki and her Rim Billiton expert were huddled over the engine block, running a rapid-fire diagnostic on the micro-fractures accumulated during the sprint, their expressions entirely laser-focused. Choosing not to interrupt, Flandre and her group quietly bypassed their stall and walked over to Hoshiguma's bay.
If Fumizuki's pit was a symposium of high-end engineering academics, Hoshiguma's area was a masterclass in blue-collar grit.
They found a rugged mechanic with a fistful of spare nuts clamped between his teeth, pressing his ear directly against the cooling housing of Hoshiguma's heavily modified engine. Every few seconds, he would gesture for Hoshiguma to crank the starter, listening intently to the mechanical purr as the cylinders fired.
Spotting the trio approaching, Hoshiguma straightened up and raised a gauntleted hand. "Yo! What's up? Getting tired of the nosebleed seats up top, so you came down to check out the real action?"
"How's the bike holding up?" Beatrice asked, leaning against the steel barrier of the pit.
"Heh, the engine's got a tiny stutter in the third valve, but nothing we can't iron out. Luckily, I've got the finest wrench in all of Lungmen right here—don't I, Master Liao?" Hoshiguma grinned, patting the back of the grease-stained man working beside her.
The mechanic spat out a nut into his palm and shot Hoshiguma a dry look. "Alright, Officer Hoshiguma, stop laying it on thick. My workshop barely clears enough to keep the lights on down in the Slums. Calling me 'the finest in Lungmen' is a great way to give me a heart attack."
"Sister Hoshiguma, you were blazing out there!" Flandre piped up, giving the towering oni an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
"You really think so?" Hoshiguma beamed broadly, looking immensely proud. "Though to be fair, there were still quite a few lunatics ahead of me."
"But I could tell you weren't even close to pushing your full speed," Flandre noted shrewdly.
Hoshiguma chuckled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Hey, I'm not chasing down an armed cartel boss out here—no need to redline the engine in the qualifiers."
She gestured toward the chaotic mid-pack track out on the boulevard. "Speaking of which, why didn't you girls stay up in the stands to watch the midfield pile-ups? That's where the real entertainment is. Every year, the amateur division drags out a fresh batch of absolute characters."
"Characters?" Hong Meiling arched an eyebrow, sensing a hidden double meaning.
"Yeah. Every season, we keep plainclothes officers stationed out along the perimeter recording the driving styles and dirty tricks of these amateur riders," Hoshiguma laughed. "Once one of these speed-freaks inevitably catches a vandalism or street-racing charge later in the year, we can cross-reference their racing moves and trace right back to them. Saves us weeks of digging through paperwork."
Hoshiguma's blunt admission sent a wave of laughter through the group.
"Wait a minute—are you running a sting operation out of a public sports rally?" Hong Meiling stammered, half-amused and half-appalled.
"I wouldn't call it a sting," Hoshiguma grinned, tossing a wrench back to Master Liao. "But kids who buy sportbikes always love finding new ways to break the law. As senior officers, keeping these rebellious youths on the straight and narrow is just part of our community outreach!"
With a final round of chuckles, the group wrapped up their pit tour and wandered back up to their seats in the grandstands to catch the afternoon finals.