The following morning, Mt. Yougou Café, 6:32 AM
The air carried a crisp edge, the kind that clung to your lungs and made every breath feel just a little cleaner, a little more alive. Dew still clung to the leaves, glinting like tiny jewels under the soft, amber glow of the rising sun. The peaks of Mt. Yougou were just beginning to bask in that golden light, but none of the crew gathered on the overlook gave a damn about the scenery.
All eyes were locked on the machine parked in front of them—Collei's Eight-Six. But it wasn't the humble panda-colored street weapon they'd known for so long.
It was something else now. Something reborn.
The moment the doors had swung open, it was like revealing a shrine. Silence had dropped like a curtain the instant they'd seen the interior. Gone was the ragged, half-stripped cabin held together with duct tape and a prayer. In its place was raw, purpose-built aggression.
A gleaming, jet-black 7-point roll cage ran through the cabin like a skeleton of steel, bolted to the reinforced floor pan at every corner. The rear seats were gone—ruthlessly gutted—replaced with bare sheet metal and precision welds. Nestled in the driver's side was a single Alcantara-wrapped bucket seat—Recaro-spec, spine-gripping, no compromise. It was mated to a five-point harness that practically screamed get in, shut up, and hold on.
The dashboard had been pared down to the absolute essentials. No frills. Just a bare aluminum cluster mounting a race-spec tachometer with a redline that dared the needle to scream past 10,000. Lamco auxiliary gauges—oil temp, oil pressure, water temp, and voltage—were drilled neatly into a black panel just left of center. A digital speed readout was mounted where the factory gauge once sat, glowing a soft blue even in daylight.
The steering wheel was the final touch—a vintage Italvolanti Imola R, worn just enough to show it meant business. The black Alcantara was tight and coarse, matched with brushed aluminum spokes and a yellow dead-center marker at the 12 o'clock position. It was a racer's grip. No airbag, no bullshit. Just a direct conduit between human and machine.
For a few long seconds, nobody could say a word.
Then Seele, wide-eyed and visibly vibrating, broke the silence. "Holy shit, Collei!" she blurted, her violet eyes lit up like she'd just seen a deity descend from the clouds. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, gawking. "You turned this thing into a fucking fighter jet! Must feel insane in there!"
Beidou let out a low whistle, folding her arms across her chest, her tone respectful. "Damn straight. This isn't a car anymore—it's a rolling exosuit. Snug like a second skin, but armored like a tank."
Collei rested her palm on the roof, a crooked smile playing across her face. Her fingertips tapped lightly on the sheet metal. "It's solid now. Everything's tight, everything's honest. No flex, no give. When you hit a corner at the edge of adhesion, the car talks back. And this time…"—she looked over her shoulder at the roll cage—"…I listen."
March leaned forward, hands on her hips, grinning. "Okay, this has gotta be illegal somewhere. You have to register this thing as a fucking race car now!"
Collei laughed—really laughed, full-throated, eyes bright. "Wouldn't be surprised. And hey—good news, March. No more backseat flopping during test runs. That sofa's been evicted."
March's jaw dropped in mock horror. "Blasphemy! That's my throne! You can't just rip it out and pretend like nothing happened!"
Collei winked. "You can sit on the floor, princess."
Everyone chuckled, but the levity didn't last long. Beidou's tone turned more grounded, her gaze serious as she leaned back against the café table. "So… the next course. Tsurumi. That's no joke, is it?"
Collei's expression sobered. She nodded once. "It's a beast. After the last downhill, the frame had microfractures. I could feel it. The twist mid-corner, the vague response—it wasn't safe anymore. So they welded in the cage, swapped the harness, redid the mounts. This isn't just a tune-up—it's war prep."
She paused, voice dipping into a lower register. "Tsurumi's the second-to-last. After we finish the Chirai route, there's just one left. Autake."
Then, quieter still: "And after Autake… it's the Ace vs. Ace."
Amber, silent until now, jolted upright like she'd been electrocuted. Her cup of tea rattled against its saucer. "Wait, what? You mean—you and Clorinde?!"
Collei didn't flinch. "That's right. End of the line. One undefeated driver walks away from that mountain. One doesn't."
The tension hit like a brake lock at 120 kph. Pela looked visibly distressed, her hands fidgeting around her mug, fingertips ghosting over the porcelain rim. "That's… hard. You and Clorinde… we've all gotten so close. I don't know if I can root against either of you."
Beidou let out a scoff, jabbing a thumb toward Collei. "Bullshit. You can and you will. We've been riding with Collei since the damn beginning. Right, everyone?"
A few murmured affirmatives followed, though not everyone's eyes matched the words. A few cast sidelong glances—uncertain, conflicted.
Collei noticed. But she didn't react with anger. Just a small, knowing smile.
"I get it," she said softly, her gaze drifting up toward Mt. Yougou's crest, now bathed in daylight. "We've been through a lot. But this last race… it's different. Everyone will be there. Every rival. Every friend. Every ghost from the road. This isn't just a battle between drivers."
Her voice lowered, steeled with quiet fire.
"This is the final chapter of every run I've made since I first touched a gas pedal. It's the sum of every corner, every downshift, every time I screamed past my limit and came out the other side."
They fell into silence. The kind of silence that doesn't beg to be filled. Even the birds seemed to hold off their morning chatter. Somewhere in the café kitchen, a kettle whistled softly. No one moved.
And then, like the final exhale before a race begins, the tension loosened.
They knew. Everyone there knew—this was it.
The beginning of the end.
And from here on out, every run counted.
Days Later. At Chirai Pass.
The crisp mountain air was laced with the sharp tang of oil and scorched rubber. Faint at first—then growing louder—came the staccato snarl of a turbocharged four-cylinder engine reverberating off the mountain walls. That sound, aggressive yet controlled, belonged to a machine built to bite into asphalt with every rev and gear change.
Seconds later, a white blur crested the final corner of the summit road. The car's squat, broad silhouette shimmered under the fading sunlight—an immaculate Ford Sierra RS Cosworth, its flared arches and ducktail spoiler throwing off a vintage motorsport vibe wrapped around brutal Group A aggression. As it pulled into the parking area with the exhaust crackling under throttle lift, the twin headlights sliced through the dusk in piercing beams before dipping with a final flick of the stalk. The car rolled to a smooth, deliberate stop—nose slightly tilted toward the overlook—and the engine clattered into silence with the subdued hiss of the turbo spooling down.
The driver's door popped open, followed by the subtle creak of metal and the distinctive click of a harness being released. Yoimiya stepped out, her movements casual, but the quiet efficiency in the way she slid the door shut with a solid thunk revealed the habits of someone who lived and breathed behind the wheel. The warmth radiating off the Sierra's front brakes fogged the cool evening air, and the acrid scent of pad compound and cooked rubber still clung to her Nomex-lined jacket.
Parked nearby, leaning against the low-slung form of a silver Nissan S13 with an aggressive Rocket Bunny widebody kit and a blood-red tow hook dangling from the bumper, Chiori raised an eyebrow. Dressed in a tailored racing jacket with white stitch piping and a subtle team logo embroidered over the breast, she radiated a composed kind of authority—the cool silence of someone who didn't need to posture to be respected. Arms crossed, she lifted a hand in a lazy wave.
"Hey, Yoimiya! How're the new upgrades handling?" she called out, voice rising clearly over the mountaintop stillness.
Yoimiya cocked her head toward the Sierra, then gave a slow nod. Her lips curved into a confident grin, the kind earned through hours of wrenching and miles of hard testing. "Very well. Everything's dialed in perfectly—like a dream. It's holding on tight, and it's just what I need for the uphill race."
Chiori pushed herself upright from the S13's fender, her boots clicking faintly on the gravel. "Glad to hear it. How's the Sierra treating you otherwise?"
"Like a champ," Yoimiya said as she gave the Cosworth's hood a gentle tap—affectionate, like one would a faithful hound. "But what about your S13? Still behaving?"
Chiori's smirk widened. "Treating me nicely. Smooth on the straights, steady in the corners. All we've gotta do now is show Team Speed Stars who really owns this pass."
Yoimiya scoffed through her nose, her grin tilting into something sharper. "Yeah, well, I've got my sights set on Clorinde. She's been a thorn in my side long enough. This won't be the first time I've raced her."
Her voice softened, trailing off like smoke on the wind. Her amber gaze turned distant, unfocused. A memory flickered in her mind—one etched with frost and humiliation. Jakotsu Pass, dead of winter. Black ice glossing the pavement. The thunder of high-strung engines echoing through snow-draped trees. Her Sierra Cosworth, struggling to put down power, faced off against a machine that barely seemed tethered to the laws of physics.
She could still see it—Clorinde's Lancia 037, diving into a blind left-hander before launching into a mid-air hairpin jump. The car landed on all fours like a damn panther, suspension compressing perfectly as the Lancia transitioned without hesitation into the next braking zone. No lift. No correction. Just perfect, calculated aggression.
And then the tunnels—three of them in quick succession, barely any light, vision flickering in and out with each fluorescent strobe. The Lancia surged ahead. Its high-strung engine screamed as Clorinde wrung every ounce of torque from the rear-drive beast, leaving the Cosworth in her wake.
Yoimiya clenched her fists without realizing. The phantom sensation of being passed—of being outdriven—tightened across her shoulders.
"I lost that night," she muttered, barely loud enough for even herself to hear. "But at least now I know how Clorinde's 037 handles."
Chiori's brow knit, her eyes suddenly sharpening. "Wait… Clorinde drives a Lancia Rally 037? As in, the last rear-wheel-drive rally car to win a WRC title?"
Yoimiya nodded, her eyes fixed on the dimming skyline, now painted in burnished golds and purples. "Yeah. And it's not just some homologated street version, either. That car Clorinde's driving? It's the real deal—the actual rally-spec machine."
Chiori let out a long, low whistle and shook her head slowly. "Damn. That's serious hardware. No wonder she's tough competition."
"Yeah," Yoimiya echoed, voice quieter now, the edge of reverence coloring her tone. She tilted her head skyward, watching the first stars begin to punch through the haze. "So… did Team Speed Stars do their practice runs already?"
Chiori nodded, stretching her arms behind her back with a quiet pop of her shoulders. "Yeah. A few hours ago. They left not long after. The Eight-Six looked solid out there. It's fast."
Yoimiya's grin returned—more of a smirk this time, one brow rising. "Well, you've got it easy. I've never raced that Eight-Six myself, so I wouldn't know how it handles."
Chiori leaned back against her car, hands in her pockets now, exuding playful swagger. "Good thing I've got the Eight-Six, then. It's nothing I can't handle."
Yoimiya narrowed her eyes slightly, her voice taking on a calm but unmistakable weight. "Don't underestimate it, Chiori. That Eight-Six is no joke."
Chiori scoffed, flicking her hand through the air as if to bat away the warning. "Oh, come on. It's just a regular Eight-Six. What's so special about it?"
Yoimiya let out a slow breath, folding her arms across her chest. "If you'd seen that Eight-Six go up against Clorinde last year, you wouldn't be saying that. That car's not just special—it's a monster on the mountain."
Chiori opened her mouth to respond—some retort halfway formed—but the look in Yoimiya's eyes gave her pause. A flash of memory, maybe, of the Cosworth trailing behind in silence while the 037 howled into the darkness. She hesitated… then nodded, slowly, the playful edge in her posture melting into something more measured.
Silence settled between them, carried on the cold breeze sweeping in from the valley. The chill bit at the edges of their sleeves. Far below, the forest murmured softly in the wind.
Eventually, the two racers climbed back into their machines. The Sierra's ignition clicked, then roared to life in a bark of turbo-fed defiance. The S13 followed suit, its SR20DET engine burbling with impatient eagerness.
Headlights cut twin paths into the descending night as the two cars rolled away from the summit. The mountain echoed once more with the low growl of engines, vanishing into the black as they returned to base.
The stage was nearly set. The lines were drawn. And Chirai Pass would remember the names of those who dared to tame it.
Neither Yoimiya nor Chiori had any plans to back down.
Eventually. The Sun Rises Above the Mountains of Chirai Pass.
A golden haze crept over the ridgelines like liquid fire, bleeding warmth into the skeletal branches and evergreen silhouettes lining the valley floor. Morning arrived slow and stately, as if nature itself were holding its breath. The rugged peaks of Mount Kanna stood bathed in soft amber light, their jagged outlines glowing against the infinite blue of the sky. Wisps of cloud hung in the upper stratosphere like forgotten silk scarves, trailing the wake of the departing night.
The air was crisp—biting, almost medicinal—and carried with it the faint scent of pine needles, dew-damp stone, and distant ozone. Wind rustled across the wooden balcony of the mountain lodge, tugging gently at jackets and loose strands of hair.
There, Team Speed Stars stood together, silhouetted against the sprawling grandeur of the morning. Collei leaned forward on the rail, her expression unreadable but distant, her thoughts clearly still on the mountain's curves rather than its beauty. Navia had one hand on her hip, quiet for once, lost in the kind of awe that didn't require commentary. Albedo stood with a thermos of black coffee in one gloved hand, his breath forming faint plumes as he studied the landscape with a painter's eye.
Keqing rested casually against the wood post, her arms crossed and lavender eyes half-lidded in contemplation. She had the sharp look of someone who'd slept little but well enough, her mind already dissecting lines, memorizing asphalt. Beside her, Ganyu clasped the railing with both hands, her breath catching as the sun washed over the world in soft waves.
"Wow," Ganyu murmured, eyes wide, the sunlight gleaming off her azure irises. "Last night we couldn't see anything through the clouds, but… during the day…"
She trailed off, as if words didn't belong in a moment like this.
Then, with a playful glint in her eye, she turned to Keqing and nudged her gently. "I wonder… is it taller than Mount Narukami?"
Keqing turned slowly, shooting her a look of mock offense. "Seriously, Ganyu? Mt. Narukami is the highest mountain in all of Inazuma. That's not even up for debate."
Ganyu giggled, leaning over the railing in exaggerated defeat. "Of course it is! Obviously! Mt. Narukami reigns supreme!"
Her laughter was soft and airy, like wind chimes stirred by a gentle breeze—bright, harmless, and contagious.
But the easy moment was interrupted with the sharp clack of a sliding door thrown open with intent. The noise echoed across the empty lodge walls. Everyone turned.
Clorinde stepped out onto the deck, her tall frame outlined against the shadowed interior. Her coat fluttered slightly in the morning air, the weight of her presence arriving before she even spoke. Her expression was flat and vaguely annoyed, though her tone betrayed something more dry than hostile.
"For fuck's sake," she said evenly, cutting through the mountain stillness like a scalpel. "Are we here for a sightseeing tour, or are we going to race today?"
A ripple of muffled laughter passed through the group like a shared joke. Navia snorted quietly behind her glove. Keqing smirked. Albedo, to his credit, didn't react—just sipped his coffee, a faint smile in his eyes.
Clorinde didn't wait for a reply. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Breakfast is ready. Get your asses inside before it gets cold."
"Alright! Food time!" Ganyu chirped, already spinning toward the door, her cheer undiminished.
Keqing turned, lingering at the balcony's edge for a beat longer before glancing at Clorinde over her shoulder, her voice edged with amusement. "So what are you now, the team captain? Or just a street racer moonlighting as a Group B legend?"
Clorinde's lips twitched. She tried to keep the scowl, but a short, begrudging chuckle escaped. "You're all fucking insufferable."
Collei smirked behind her scarf. "Takes one to know one."
Inside the lodge, the warm glow of hanging lights cast golden hues over the long wooden table. The smell of fresh coffee, sizzling bacon, and syrup-drenched pancakes wrapped around them like a blanket. Scrambled eggs steamed in wide ceramic bowls. Toast piled high. There were no team meetings, no strategies exchanged—not yet. Just clinking forks, idle chatter, and the rare sound of street racers relaxing together without the stress of engines and corners weighing on them.
But beneath the laughter and the clatter of dishes, the tension was there—buried like a steel cable under snow. The kind that comes before a storm. The kind that coils in your chest and waits for the ignition key.
No one needed to say it aloud.
This wasn't just another run.
Chirai Pass was a proving ground. A place where reputations were built—and shattered. The margin for error was a razor's width, and the stakes were climbing with the sun.
By the time they finished breakfast, no one was smiling as easily anymore. The food disappeared. The dishes sat half-forgotten. Keqing stood first. Clorinde followed.
Collei's hands trembled faintly as she cradled her teacup. Not with fear—but with anticipation.
Engines would start soon. Rubber would kiss pavement. And by sunset, someone's chapter at Chirai Pass would be written in tire marks and memory.
No one said it, but everyone knew:
Today, the mountain would remember.