"And here we are, guys! We have reached the final stage of the Pacific Coast Highway, also the very last moments of the world motorcycle racing championship finals. This is the most intense, most dramatic stage, the moment that will decide this year's world champion, the tyrant of the professional motorcycle world!"
The MC's voice rang out through the microphone, echoing across the vast grandstands.
On those stands, thousands of spectators remained silent, eyes glued to the giant electronic screen at the center, where the race track was being broadcast live.
In those eyes, there was no nervousness, no doubt.
There was only anticipation and overwhelming excitement.
As if, to them, the title of champion had never been a mystery.
From beginning to end, it was one, and only one.
VROOOOM—!
Suddenly, the roar of an engine thundered through the sound system. That sound was fierce and wild, as if it shattered the screen between the track and the stands.
For an instant, time seemed to freeze. Everyone held their breath, their heartbeats spiking wildly, like drums pounding across the arena.
And then, from the corner of the screen, a figure tore through space and shot forward. It moved so fast that, through the screen, people could only see a streak of light, like a lightning bolt, swift and ruthless.
"And there he is, everyone! The competitor we have all been waiting for, with absolute power and skill, he has taken the championship nine years in a row and is now far ahead of every other racer on the track. He is number one, the only emperor of the motorcycle world! This year's world champion is undoubtedly him, The Godslayer Of The Track, Jawed Lupus!!!"
The MC gripped the microphone tightly, shouting in excitement like a crazed drake.
This time, his voice was drowned out by the explosive cheers erupting across the stands.
"There it is! The emperor climbs the throne once again! Aaaaaa—!!!"
"Do we even need to say it? The moment he appeared on the track, the result was already decided! The others are only fighting for second and third!"
"Any race he enters, we win so much that the bookmakers nearly go bankrupt! Hahaha!"
"Truly deserving of the title, number one in the motorcycle world!"
"Nine years! And you still question the king's skill?!"
"The Undefeated Emperor, peerless! Go, Godslayer!!!"
The chatter surged nonstop, shattering the silence that had existed moments before.
In those blazing eyes now, there was fanatical admiration, reverence, and worship toward a sovereign.
No one doubted, no one refused to acknowledge. All bowed, before the absolute skill of that king.
"Godslayer! Godslayer! Godslayer!!!"
"Jawed! Jawed! Jawed!"
The entire sea of people leapt to their feet, their hoarse, thunderous shouts merging into a raging wave.
Everyone was lost in the peak of ecstasy, in this blazing, blood-boiling moment.
***
On the Track
In the middle of the vast racetrack, the rider pressed his body close to the motorcycle, like a wolf baring its sharp fangs, ripping through the wind as he shot forward through air and dust.
All around, there was not a single other vehicle, only an endless, open space.
Even behind the tail of the motor, there was nothing but a thick trail of exhaust and dust.
All of his opponents had been left far behind, didn't even have the chance to see his taillight.
It was as if the entire road now was his domain, and no one dared to trespass. Just like the way people hailed him as an emperor, lofty and proudly unyielding.
Yet, also lonely and solitary.
His face was completely hidden beneath the full-face helmet, unreadable to anyone. But in everyone's imagination, he must be ecstatic, or perhaps wearing a smug smile after leaving all rivals behind.
But, beneath that pitch-black visor, for unknown reason, his face carried a chilling, emotionless calm.
It was neither sorrow nor anger.
Only a cold indifference, paired with vacant eyes, where a trace of exhaustion lingered.
There was even a faint glimmer of despair flickering within.
In contrast to the roaring cheers surging across the stands, in his ears right the moment, there was only an eerie silence.
Even the engine's roar, the echoing bursts of exhaust, seemed to blur and fade away into an endless quiet.
Then, the man's gaze turned back to the track.
The racecourse clung along the coastline, nailed into towering cliffs. The road was extremely narrow, tight enough to make one's breath hitch.
On one side was a sheer cliff face, jagged with loose stones. On the other side rose another cliff hundreds of meters high, and below it was the crashing sea, the abyssal depths of the ocean.
Though there were guardrails, at the speed of hundreds of kilometers per hour, those thin barriers looked no stronger than child's toys.
He sped along that road, sea wind slapping his face, carrying the salty tang of the ocean and making the motorcycle tremble violently.
In this situation, anyone else would either tremble unconsciously or feel a surge of exhilaration as their senses were pushed to the limit.
But for him, this suffocating moment felt utterly dull.
He was not afraid, nor did he feel excited. Every emotion seemed worn away, leaving only a dull, ashen tone.
Even this world championship, a dream stage for countless racers, appeared meaningless in his eyes.
Everything felt empty and lifeless.
"Haah....."
A soft sigh escaped his lips, carrying with it years of pent-up weariness.
Ahead of him now was a long uphill straight, and at the crest lay an extremely sharp corner, curved to its very limit, like a scythe of death, waiting for those bold enough to challenge it.
It was the final corner before the finish line, and also a life-or-death trial for anyone chasing the dream of glory.
Just one mistake, and what awaited them would be the cold, deadly ocean beneath the cliffs.
Yet, with less than a hundred meters left until the turn, the man's face remained calm to the point of apathy.
Even when the speed-reduction sign entered his view, his right hand still gripped the throttle tightly, showing no intention of slowing down.
He only leaned slightly toward the inside of the corner, downshifted with his left foot, and pressed gently on the peg. His cold eyes locked on the exit line of the curve.
And then, the moment of reaching the apex, which was also the gate of death...
Had come!
At that very moment, he pushed the handlebars toward the inside of the curve, executing a sharp counter‑steer. His whole body leaned hard, the center of gravity collapsing toward the inside of the turn, his foot pressing firmly on the peg.
The tachometer needle hovered right at the edge of the redline.
The wind hissed past his shoulders, the world seemed to rear upright.
The motorcycle leaned deeply, sketching a line that fit the corner perfectly. The tires clung to the asphalt, squeezed until they warped out of shape.
His body was almost lying flat against the track, the arm guard scraping along the surface, showering bright sparks.
A flawless hang‑off, without a single mistake, as if it had been performed thousand times.
A sight both dramatic and magnificent.
Yet, in his eyes, it was ordinary, trivial.
He shifted his gaze to the corner's exit, where the straight toward the finish line lay not far ahead.
In just a few more minutes, he would cross that line again, becoming world champion once more.
Once more, once again.... and again.
This emptiness would simply continue.
This nightmare would never end….
In that moment, suddenly, everything around him blurred.
The track before his eye vanished, replaced by a thick, white fog.
And within that fog, a silhouette slowly emerged.
The silhouette of a girl.
"If you could choose again..... would you still throw yourself onto the track, Partner?"
A voice suddenly echoed through the silence.
A gentle, warm voice of a young woman, resonating inside his mind.
Then, almost unconsciously, he suddenly replied:
".... I won't."
The very moment the word ended was when his consciousness snapped back to reality, back to the race.
Still stunned, not understanding what had just happened, his eyes slowly turned forward.
In that instant, they widened, his pupils contracting sharply.
Right in front of him, directly in the path of his speeding motor—
Was the guardrail!
His mind snapped clear, he instinctively pushed the handlebars to turn the motor away.
But in that instant, the echo of that voice from earlier brushed across his thoughts.
His movement briefly stalled, as if hesitating.
The motorcycle, like a runaway horse, kept charging straight toward the guardrail.
CRASH—!
The crash of metal shrieked with a bone-chilling pitch, like the Reaper's strike echoing across the cliffs.
....