The morning sun crept through the wide glass windows of the Fuji Speedway Hotel buffet, painting the room in soft amber light. At 6:30 a.m., the smell of scrambled eggs, grilled fish, miso soup, and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the low murmur of drivers and crews getting their breakfasts before the long day ahead.
At one of the corner tables, the entirety of G-Force had gathered, some still groggy, others surprisingly lively given the absurd events of the previous night. Izamuri, Rin, Hana, and Ayaka had dragged themselves in, yawning, clearly wishing for another hour of sleep. Daichi sat upright, coffee in hand, his expression a mixture of fatigue and mischief. The twins, Hojo and Tojo, were unusually smug this morning, shoveling rice into their mouths like kings who had conquered a nation.
It was Walter who finally pulled out his phone, set it flat on the table, and tapped the screen. "Alright, everyone. Since half of you were not there last night, allow us to… share history." His German accent cut through the clatter of dishes.
The video played.
On the screen, shot through Haruka's slightly shaky phone camera, the twins waddled up to the shadow of the Naka GP motorhome. Their pajama pants sagged slightly, the image made more ridiculous by the deliberate seriousness of their posture. Then, the moment of truth, both bent slightly forward, the faint outline of the motorhome's AC unit visible in the corner of the frame. And then came the slow, silent horror.
No sound. Only the look of grim determination on their faces as they "armed the bomb."
Then the cut to chaos.
People in expensive shirts and team gear tumbling out of the motorhome like soldiers fleeing a battlefield. Mechanics vomiting into trash cans, PR staff collapsing against tire stacks, one man rolling down the steps only to heave onto the tarmac. The pièce de résistance came when Mike Hunt tripped, sprawling flat on the ground, while James Hawthorn clung to the railing, puking into gravel.
The table erupted.
Rin clutched his stomach, nearly tipping his bowl of rice. "I—I can't breathe! You two actually weaponized sweet potatoes!"
Ayaka was doubled over, face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Hana slapped the table repeatedly, gasping, "No way—no way this actually happened!"
Izamuri, however, could only bury his face in his hands, half laughing, half mortified. "I can't believe I missed this… why didn't anyone wake me up?!"
Haruka smirked. "Because you had qualifying to think about, and this was not exactly… driver-appropriate behavior."
Simon was grinning too, shaking his head in disbelief. "You boys are bloody insane. I've seen sabotage in F1, I've seen dirty tricks on pit walls, but this? This is on another level entirely."
Walter, still holding his phone, corrected him sharply, his voice calm but precise. "Not bloody. Verrückt. Absolutely insane." He looked pointedly at the twins. "I had to wash my clothes after that. The smell clung like death."
The twins sat taller in their chairs, basking in the praise, or at least the notoriety.
"Justice," Hojo said simply, stuffing another bite of salmon into his mouth.
"To balance the universe," Tojo added with a smirk.
Daichi finally set his coffee cup down with a deliberate clink. His gaze scanned the table, lingering on the twins. He didn't smile, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement.
"Last night," he said slowly, "was reckless. Immature. Disgraceful." He let the words hang in the air just long enough for the twins' smirks to falter. Then he leaned forward, his tone sharpening. "But it was also brilliant."
The table went silent.
"You two did what the rest of us could not, strike back. And while it was crude, it worked. You caused havoc without laying a single hand on them." He gestured to the video still frozen on Walter's phone, showing James doubled over in misery. "That was a victory, no matter how ridiculous."
The twins exchanged wide-eyed glances, their smirks returning like floodgates opening.
"So," Daichi continued, "from this morning onward, you're no longer just 'logistics.' Clearly, letting you carry boxes is a waste of… potential." His voice hardened, but there was pride behind it. "Your new role will be unconventional operations. Call it mischief, call it chaos, when we need an edge, you'll provide it. Controlled. Directed. No freelancing. Understood?"
The twins saluted in unison, their faces serious for once. "Sir, yes, sir!"
The rest of the crew groaned. Rin slapped his forehead. "Oh no, you've just unleashed demons."
Ayaka muttered, "Why would you encourage them…"
Hana whispered, "Unconventional operations? That's just Daichi-speak for 'professional troublemakers.'"
Haruka gave a weary sigh, already imagining the chaos this new promotion would cause. "They're going to be unbearable now."
Izamuri leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. "Great. Just great. As if I didn't have enough to worry about."
But the twins were glowing, their chests puffed out with pride. They high-fived each other across the table, then immediately went back to raiding their breakfast plates like conquering heroes.
Simon, watching them with a mixture of admiration and horror, muttered under his breath, "If I had them in F1, Bernie would have thrown us out within a week…"
The laughter continued for several minutes, the tension of yesterday's confrontation with James and Mike temporarily lifted. For once, the G-Force crew wasn't just a ragtag privateer team trying to survivethey felt like a family, bonded by insanity, resilience, and a shared sense of humor in the face of overwhelming odds.
Eventually, as plates were cleared and coffee cups refilled, Daichi stood again. His voice returned to its steady, pragmatic tone.
"Enjoy the laugh, but remember, today is critical. Qualifying sets the tone for everything. Izamuri, you need to keep your head clear. No distractions. Walter, Haruka, Simon, you know the drill with strategy and setup. Rin, Hana, Ayaka, be ready on the tires. And you two…" he pointed to the twins, "…save your stomachs. We may need you again."
The twins saluted again, their mouths full of rice.
The crew collectively groaned once more.
But beneath it all, there was a strange comfort in knowing that, after everything, the fights, the sabotage, the humiliation, they still had moments like this, absurd and chaotic, that kept them sane.
The video had done more than provide entertainment. It had reminded them all why they were here, together, against teams with endless money and power: because they had grit, heart, and just enough madness to level the playing field.
And as they rose from the buffet table and began heading toward the track once more, the twins trailing proudly behind. By late morning, the team had made the conscious decision to travel light. Instead of bringing all their personal cars to the circuit, they agreed on three, Haruka's trusty Corolla, Walter's Mercedes 190E estate, and the Hiace van. It wasn't just about saving parking space, it was about moving like a unit, showing up as a team with purpose. The 3000GT, Niva, Civic, and the rest stayed behind at the hotel, lined up neatly in the parking lot under the watchful gaze of Fuji's looming mountains.
The short convoy rolled out just after 10 a.m., the Corolla leading, Walter's estate steady in the middle, and the Hiace lumbering behind, crammed with tools, spares, and the twins wedged between stacks of tires. The ride was quiet at first, everyone lost in thought about the coming qualifying session. The track wasn't going to open until late morning, and Daichi's strategy was clear, wait. Most teams would be eager to set their times early, burning rubber when the sun was still high and the air hot. But the G-Force plan was different, they'd strike in the final 45 minutes before qualifying closed, when the air cooled, the circuit rubbered in, and the crowds leaned forward expecting drama.
When they arrived at the circuit, the paddock was already buzzing with noise. Air guns hissed, engines barked to life, radios crackled, and the metallic clatter of wrenches echoed under the canopies. Massive haulers and motorhomes stood like fortresses, crews in matching uniforms scurrying in and out like ants. Compared to the likes of Hugo Speed and the ominous Naka GP setup, the G-Force pit looked modest, even humble. But it carried a quiet, gritty determination money couldn't buy.
As the team unloaded their gear, Hugo himself strolled over from his side of the paddock. Dressed casually but with the kind of presence that drew attention, he carried a bottle of water in one hand, his other tucked in his jacket pocket.
"Morning, friends," he greeted warmly, his Swedish accent cutting through the din. "I've been thinking… why fight each other during qualifying? We both want good starting positions, ja? So perhaps… we help each other."
Walter, skeptical as always, raised an eyebrow. "Help? We're competitors."
Hugo nodded. "Of course. But qualifying is not the race. You know as well as I do, slipstream matters here. That long Fuji straight, it's everything. Alone, you lose time. Together, we gain. You take my tow, then I take yours. We push each other forward."
Daichi thought for a moment, arms crossed, gaze locked on the white EK9 sitting under its canopy. It made sense. Fuji's front straight was over a kilometer long, and a slipstream could shave tenths off a lap, tenths that could decide pole.
"Fine," Daichi said at last. "But we coordinate. Clean. No games."
Hugo grinned. "Good. Then we both win."
With the deal made, the plan was set: G-Force would wait, run late, and time their push with Hugo's team. For now, however, every competitor had to undergo scrutineering.
One by one, all twenty-four cars rolled into the scrutineering pit, where officials and stewards in FIA-style polos and caps carried clipboards, calipers, and gauges. Cars were weighed, ride heights checked, safety systems inspected, restrictors measured. It was meticulous but straightforward, done in full view of the other teams to keep everything transparent.
Until it was Naka GP's turn.
The black-and-gold EK9s of James Hawthorn and Mike Hunt rolled up, their bodies polished to perfection, the NEIT logo gleaming under the fluorescent lights. But instead of continuing the open process like everyone else, the officials pulled the roll-up doors closed.
A ripple of murmurs passed through the paddock. Mechanics leaned on toolboxes, engineers exchanged puzzled glances. Why the secrecy? Scrutineering was supposed to be public.
Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Still the doors remained closed. From the outside, muffled voices rose and fell, the clank of tools echoing faintly.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the doors opened again. James's car rolled out, the driver strutting behind it with his PR team snapping pictures like he'd just won a trophy. The officials announced it had "passed." No details. Just that.
The same thing happened with Mike. Another twenty minutes behind closed doors, then his EK9 emerged, passed without explanation.
Daichi's eyes narrowed. Simon muttered something sharp under his breath, while Walter crossed his arms and frowned. Nikolai simply scoffed, shaking his head. "Shady. Very shady."
"Why them?" Rin asked quietly, clearly unnerved.
Daichi didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on the Naka GP pit.
Then came their turn.
Izamuri rolled the Championship White EK9 up to the scrutineering line, its fresh Advan A050s squeaking slightly on the polished concrete. The car gleamed under the fluorescent lights, a mixture of sweat, late nights, and meticulous love poured into every bolt.
Izamuri sat in the driver's seat, helmet resting on his lap, with Daichi, Simon, and Takamori standing nearby. The officials approached, calm and professional. They measured the ride height, legal. Checked the restrictor, perfect. Harnesses, extinguisher, roll cage, all up to standard. The car weighed in at 1102 kilograms, just above the 1100 minimum, exactly as they'd prepared.
It was efficient. Smooth. Transparent.
The final step was installing the timing transmitter, a small, sealed device that would be mounted on the dashboard, linked to the circuit's timing loops. One of the stewards carefully fixed it in place, pressed a button, and waited for the green light to blink.
"Transmitter active," the steward confirmed. "You're good to go."
Izamuri nodded, feeling a strange mixture of relief and excitement. Unlike James and Mike, there were no secrets here. Their car was clean. Their record straight.
As they pushed the car out of the scrutineering bay, Daichi clapped Izamuri on the shoulder. "Good work. No surprises. Exactly how it should be."
But as they passed the Naka GP pit, Izamuri couldn't help glancing over. James and Mike stood there posing for photos again, smug smiles plastered across their faces. Behind them, mechanics hovered nervously, their eyes darting toward anyone who lingered too long.
Something wasn't right.
Daichi saw it too. He didn't say anything, but the tension in his jaw spoke louder than words.
By the time they rolled the EK9 back to their pit, the plan was clearer than ever: play it smart, play it late, and let performance, not politics, decide.
Qualifying wasn't until the afternoon, but already the pressure was mounting. And as Izamuri looked down at the glowing green light of the timing transmitter on his dash, he knew this was the calm before the storm.
The clean, honest work of G-Force versus the shadowed, secretive might of Naka GP.
And soon, the stopwatch would reveal the truth.
As engines screamed in the background. One by one, the cars thundered out of their boxes, each team eager to lay down their markers in the first qualifying session. From the G-Force pit, the crew stood behind the pit wall monitors and timing screens, their eyes locked on the numbers ticking across the screen as the first batch of cars set off.
"Studie Racing's cars are out first," Simon said, adjusting his glasses as the timing feed updated. "Car #33, Sota Fujimoto, just crossed the start-finish line. Let's see what he can do."
The sound of the Civic's B16 screamed into the distance. Everyone leaned toward the TV monitor as the first sector flashed green.
"Not bad," Walter muttered, arms folded. "Clean entry, but he braked too early into Coca-Cola. He'll lose half a second easy."
True enough, the sector two timing showed him behind by nearly seven-tenths compared to the ideal pace. The rest of the crew scribbled notes. Even though Izamuri wouldn't be out until later, watching these laps was just as important, it gave them a gauge of the competition.
Next came Kaito Yamazaki in the sister #56 Civic. He looked smoother, less aggressive on the corners.
"2:07.221," Takamori read aloud when the lap time appeared.
Rin whistled. "That's decent. Probably top five if conditions stay like this."
"Still a full second slower than Izamuri's practice runs," Daichi reminded them, his voice steady, almost teacher-like. "Pay attention to their lines, though. Look at how he exits 100R, that's the kind of cornering stability we'll need."
More cars went out. Akina Speed's pair, Itsuki Takashi and Iketani Sato, pushed hard but struggled with traction on the exits. Their best efforts hovered around the 2:07.9 mark. Behind them, Riku Kawamoto of Kitsune R produced a surprise with a tidy 2:06.988, just dipping under the 2:07 barrier.
"That's the first sub-2:07 today," Simon said, jotting it on the clipboard.
"Hmm. Tires will be key this afternoon," Walter added. "Air temperature is rising. If the track gets hotter, anyone pushing too early will lose grip."
They kept watching. The Tsubuka Jets and Hayato Racing cars did their runs, while privateers filled the mid-table. Their times ranged from 2:08 to 2:10, a respectable pace but nowhere near threatening the front.
When the #180 Arai Speed Civic roared down the main straight, Haruka leaned forward. "Ryusei Arai. He's quick when he's on it. Watch him."
The lap was aggressive. Too aggressive. The car twitched under braking into the hairpin, and he barely caught it. Still, the raw pace was clear, 2:06.740. His teammate, Kazuma Nishikawa, followed with a slightly tidier lap: 2:06.813.
"Two solid ones back-to-back," Daichi said calmly, eyes narrowing at the screen. "Those cars look planted. Somebody set them up right."
"They're still four-tenths slower than Izamuri's practice runs," Rin said with a grin.
Simon raised a finger. "Yes, but remember, Izamuri hasn't run on official timing today. Pressure changes things. Keep your heads level."
Around 10:00 AM, the timing board showed the top times clustering just under 2:07, with the best being 2:06.602 from Shunpei Maeda's #16. The commentators on the circuit's loudspeakers praised the lap, calling it the provisional pole.
Inside the G-Force pit, nobody flinched. Daichi simply crossed his arms. "That's solid, but not unbeatable. Not by a long shot."
Walter checked his watch. "Track temperature's climbing, now at twenty-eight degrees Celsius. By afternoon, it might peak at thirty-one. That's when tire preservation becomes tricky."
"Which plays to Izamuri's strengths," Haruka said, leaning back in his chair. "He's been training on longer stints, saving his tires. If he can keep them alive over the run, his laps will come together at the end."
Simon tapped the weather radar on the monitor. "Good news is no rain for the rest of the day. Light cloud cover in the afternoon, which will cool the track slightly. That's our window."
They all nodded. Everything was unfolding just as planned.
At 10:30 AM, the rumble in the paddock shifted. The Naka GP team rolled out their pair of Civics, followed by the echoing chatter of their PR photographers. James Hawthorn and Mike Hunt strutted along the pit wall in their spotless suits, waving at cameras before climbing in. Their showboating made half the mechanics roll their eyes.
"They look like they're about to film a perfume commercial," Rin muttered, earning chuckles.
The cars screamed out of pit lane. On track, though, their pace told a different story. Mike Hunt's #7 car twitched through Coca-Cola, braked erratically into Dunlop, and missed the apex at Panasonic by a mile. James wasn't much better, cleaner on entries but lazy on exits, scrubbing speed.
Their times popped up. 2:08.555 for Mike. 2:08.112 for James.
"Pathetic," Walter growled, his German accent cutting through. "For all their money and fame, they cannot even break 2:08?"
Daichi didn't answer immediately. He simply narrowed his eyes at the timing screen, watching both cars pull in after only two timed laps. "They're hiding something," he said at last. "Nobody brings in their cars that quickly unless they don't care about times. Or unless they're planning something else."
The rest of the morning session played out with a few more privateers making their attempts. By 11:30 AM, most of the grid had completed their laps. The provisional top five stood as.
1. Shunpei Maeda (#16) – 2:06.602
2. Riku Kawamoto (#29) – 2:06.988
3. Ryusei Arai (#180) – 2:06.740
4. Kazuma Nishikawa (#445) – 2:06.813
5. Kaito Yamazaki (#56) – 2:07.221
The Hugo Speed crew, positioned next to G-Force, shared nods across the pit wall. Hugo himself leaned on the railing, arms folded. When Izamuri glanced at him, he offered a calm smile and mouthed: This afternoon.
Back in the G-Force garage, Simon gathered everyone around. "We've got what we need from this morning. The gaps, the sector deltas, the tire degradation curves—it's all in line with expectations. Our time to strike will be later, just as we planned. Save your energy. Keep focused."
Izamuri sat on the folding chair, still in his undershirt and fireproof pants, helmet on the table beside him. He listened quietly, nodding now and then, his expression calm but determined.
Daichi looked at him across the room. "Remember, this is chess, not boxing. Let them show their cards now. You'll show yours when the sun dips and the track cools."
The young driver simply nodded again. He didn't need more words. He was ready.
By noon, the morning qualifying session ended. Engines shut down, the pit lane grew quiet, and teams began wheeling cars back inside. Lunch was called over the PA. G-Force and Hugo Speed stayed put for a while, continuing their observations while everyone else scattered.