Starting Grid:
P1 – James Ronald Hawthorn (Naka GP) #9
P2 – Mike Francis Hunt (Naka GP) #7
P3 – Ryusei Arai (Arai Speed) #180
P4 – Izamuri Sakuta (G-Force) #98
P5 – Hugo Vatanen (Hugo Speed) #11
P6 – Kazuma Nishikawa (Arai Speed) #445
P7 – Riku Kawamoto (Kitsune R) #29
P8 – Shunpei Maeda (Maeda Moto) #16
P9 – Kaito Yamazaki (Studie Racing) #56
P10 – Itsuki Takashi (Akina Speed) #85
P11 – Tsubasa Endo (Tsubuka Jets) #59
P12 – Haruto Takahashi (Privateer) #55
P13 – Hayato Matsuda (Hayato Racing) #21
P14 – Taiga Okabe (Privateer) #69
P15 – Kei Ishikawa (Kei Racing) #75
P16 – Itsuki Hoshino (Privateer) #67
P17 – Sota Fujimoto (Studie Racing) #33
P18 – Ren Nakamura (Kei Racing) #90
P19 – Masaki Kitagawa (Privateer) #47
P20 – Yuuto Oshima (Privateer) #83
P21 – Haruki Sakamoto (Privateer) #44
P22 – Kengo Hirata (Privateer) #420
P23 – Iketani Sato (Akina Speed) #13
P24 – Keisuke Ando (Privateer) #95
The roar of engines echoed across Fuji Speedway, a mechanical symphony vibrating through the tarmac, through the grandstands, through the very bones of those standing on the main straight. But inside grid box number four, Izamuri Sakuta sat still, helmet tilted slightly down, visor fogged faintly from his uneven breath.
For the first time since stepping into a racing car, he wasn't thinking about apexes, braking points, or tire pressures. His mind was somewhere else entirely, ripped open by a stranger's words.
"I know where your real parents are."
The phrase repeated itself like a curse. He had always known he was adopted. The Sakutas never lied to him about that, never pretended he was theirs by blood. They had given him a good home, a stable childhood, opportunities that many kids never got. And yet… the hole was always there. A quiet, unanswered question.
Now, Akagi Nakamura had torn that hole wider than ever before.
Memories came back, not sharp or detailed, but blurred like photographs left too long in the sun.
A small room. White curtains swaying gently. A woman's voice, singing something in a language he didn't understand back then. The faint aroma of something cooking, spices, stronger than Japanese flavors, sharp and earthy. The sound of rain against a tiled roof.
And then another image, a tall man kneeling down, speaking in Japanese, telling him something he couldn't quite remember. A warm hand on his shoulder, a reassuring smile. And after that… nothing. Just the world tilting into unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar voices, until he woke up in Japan, with the Sakuta name.
He shook his head inside the helmet, trying to focus, but his pulse only rose faster.
"Jakarta…" he whispered to himself. That one word burned in his chest. He didn't know how or why, but deep down he felt it, his roots were there, on the other side of the sea. A mother he never knew. A father whose face he couldn't recall. Were they alive? Dead? Why had he been sent away?
The roar of engines swelled louder. One by one, cars began to roll from their grid boxes. James Hawthorn's black-and-gold #9 Civic lurched forward, then Mike Hunt's #7. Ryusei Arai followed in the #180, and then Hugo in his blue-and-yellow #11 pulled from the fifth slot.
The formation lap had begun.
And Izamuri didn't notice.
He sat there, hands limp on the steering wheel, eyes lost in a fog of memory and doubt. Around him, marshals shouted, motioning him forward, but their voices were drowned beneath the cacophony of machines. Fans in the stands waved, pointing, confused, why wasn't car #98 moving?
Inside the helmet, Izamuri was far away. He saw flashes of a playground, a soccer ball at his feet. He remembered being scolded in two different languages, one softer, one sharper. He recalled the loneliness of standing in a foreign schoolyard in Japan, not understanding why he felt like he didn't belong.
The Sakutas had loved him, yes. But sometimes he caught neighbors whispering. Sometimes teachers looked at him a second too long when roll call came. Half Japanese. Half something else.
And now, he knew the name of that something else… Indonesian.
He didn't even realize he was holding his breath until his lungs burned. He gasped inside the helmet, and that sudden shock dragged him back into the present.
His eyes snapped up to the mirrors.
Empty.
The grid was deserted. Every single car had pulled away, disappearing into Turn 1 and beyond. The warm-up lap had started without him.
"Shit!" Izamuri cursed, slamming his hand on the wheel. He scrambled, fumbling with the gear lever, dropping the clutch with a violent jerk. The Civic shot forward, tires chirping against the asphalt.
From the pit wall, Daichi's eyes widened. "Finally…" he muttered under his breath, exhaling hard. Walter, beside him, shook his head. "He nearly missed it…"
The #98 Civic sped down the straight, chasing shadows of taillights that were already halfway across the circuit.
Izamuri's heart hammered. For a second, he wasn't the calm, precise driver Daichi molded during practice. He was a kid again, running late to class, sprinting through empty hallways, terrified of being left behind.
But the track was his domain. And as the first corner approached, instinct finally overpowered doubt. He braked late, turned in sharp, apexed with clean precision. The car settled. His hands steadied. His breathing found rhythm.
He could see them ahead now, the faint blur of cars snaking through the circuit. He caught up through the high-speed sweepers, tires gripping the cool morning asphalt.
Still, his mind wouldn't quiet.
Half Japanese. Half Indonesian. Parents unknown. Adopted by the Sakutas. Why him? Why had he been chosen, handed over, raised thousands of kilometers away from his birthplace?
He had always thought his talent behind the wheel was something he built himself, through practice, through Daichi's mentoring, through his own determination. But now… what if it was something else? Something inherited, something deeper in his blood?
He clenched his jaw. No. It didn't matter. Racing was his now. Whatever ghosts lay in Jakarta, whatever truths Akagi Nakamura thought he could use, they didn't define the man behind this wheel.
And yet, the doubt lingered like a shadow.
By the time he reached the long straight, Izamuri had reeled in the pack. The line of 23 cars was weaving, heating their tires, preparing for the start. He slipped into formation, slotting neatly back into P4. No one seemed to notice his delay, at least, not yet.
Daichi exhaled in relief from the pit wall. "He made it."
But Takamori, arms crossed, frowned. "Something's wrong. He never loses focus like that."
Walter grunted. "Whatever it is, he'd better lock it away. Once the lights go out, there's no room for ghosts."
Inside the #98 Civic, Izamuri tightened his grip on the wheel. Ahead, the two black-and-gold Naka GP cars gleamed under the sun, their exhausts coughing smoke, their presence like predators. Behind him, Hugo's blue-and-yellow machine loomed, steady and unshaken.
The twenty-four cars thundered back onto the main straight to reform for the start. Engines snarled in unison, lined up nose-to-tail in perfect order, each slot filled, each driver wound tight like a spring about to snap. The trackside lights hung above them like the hand of fate itself, glowing red one by one.
Izamuri's Civic #98 sat in grid slot four, directly behind Ryusei Arai's #180 machine. Ahead of him, the two black-and-gold Naka GP Civics crouched like predators waiting to pounce, James Hawthorn in P1, Mike Hunt beside him in P2. To his left, Hugo's blue-and-yellow #11 idled in P5, exhaust popping gently with each blip of throttle.
Inside his helmet, Izamuri's mind was finally still. The doubts, the ghosts of Jakarta, the weight of Akagi's words, they were still there, but the start line had a way of burning everything away. All that remained was the machine around him, the rumble of the engine, and the light above.
Five red dots glared across the circuit.
Engines screamed to their limits. The grid quivered under the violence of revs. Izamuri's left foot pressed hard on the clutch, his right holding steady on the throttle, engine locked at 7,000 rpm, ready to explode.
And then—
The lights went out.
The track came alive with fury.
Every car lunged forward at once, tires shrieking, engines clawing for grip. Izamuri's start was clean, no wheelspin, no bogging down. The #98 Civic surged forward like a bullet, instantly pulling even with Ryusei Arai's #180.
Ahead, the two Naka GP cars launched well, side-by-side into the long sprint down to Turn 1. Behind them, Hugo in the #11 latched onto Izamuri's slipstream, riding the vacuum of air with surgical precision.
The pack roared down the main straight, a wall of noise and color. Izamuri had momentum, and by the braking zone into Turn 1 he nosed ahead of Arai, slotting cleanly into third place. For a moment, everything felt perfect, Daichi's plan unfolding just as they'd hoped.
But racing is never that simple.
Into Turn 1, Izamuri saw an opening. James and Mike were side by side, fighting for the inside. Their duel left a gap—narrow, dangerous, but tempting. His instincts screamed… TAKE IT.
He dove for the inside, braking late, threading the needle. For a heartbeat it seemed he'd pulled it off, until the car twitched. He'd braked half a meter too late. The Civic understeered wide, the tires squealing in protest as the front end refused to bite.
"Damn it!" he cursed, wrestling the wheel.
The car skated past the apex, momentum bleeding away. By the time he gathered it, he was off line, crawling back to speed.
And in racing, mistakes are fatal.
Shunpei Maeda in the #16 shot past, followed by Riku Kawamoto's #29, then Kaito Yamazaki's #56. In seconds, Izamuri plummeted from 3rd to 7th, then 8th as Itsuki Takashi in the #85 snuck by on the outside into Coca-Cola Corner.
By the time he exited Turn 2, Izamuri's jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. One mistake. One miscalculation. That was all it took. Ahead, Hugo now sat securely in 3rd, glued to the rear bumper of Mike Hunt's #7. Arai trailed Hugo in 4th, his #180 harrying the blue-and-yellow Civic with relentless pressure.
Behind Izamuri, the midfield was a storm. Cars fanned out, swapping positions corner after corner—Sota Fujimoto, Taiga Okabe, and Hayato Matsuda trading paint, their Civics scrapping like street racers rather than professionals. Mirrors were knocked loose, bumpers scraped, but Izamuri blocked it out. His focus locked forward.
Shunpei Maeda and Riku Kawamoto were directly ahead, their machines practically welded together in battle. Maeda's white #16 twitched under braking into Coca-Cola, Kawamoto's red #29 glued to his tail. Izamuri knew if he stayed close enough, he could pick off both.
By Lap 2, the order began to settle. James and Mike ran in tandem at the front, their black-and-gold Civics stretching a small gap. Hugo followed, Ryusei Arai breathing down his neck. Maeda, Kawamoto, and Yamazaki formed a train behind them. And at the back of that line, Izamuri, simmering with fury, waiting for the crack to show.
"Stay calm," Daichi's voice crackled through the radio. "It's a long race. Let them make the mistakes."
Izamuri didn't answer. He didn't need to. His actions would speak.
Lap 3. The pack thundered into the sweeping arc of 100R, the long right-hander that punished understeer and rewarded patience. Izamuri held steady, conserving his front tires, keeping just enough distance to avoid dirty air but close enough to pounce.
Up ahead, Maeda and Kawamoto's duel intensified. Into the Hairpin, Kawamoto lunged to the inside, brakes glowing. Maeda defended late, shutting the door hard. Their cars banged doors, both wobbling on exit. Izamuri tucked in tighter, his headlights flashing as if to say, I'm here too.
Out of the Hairpin, onto the short sprint to 300R, the trio ran nose-to-tail. Izamuri could practically feel the heat off their exhausts. The air was thick with burnt rubber and fuel.
Lap 4. The moment came at 100R.
Izamuri noticed it first, a hesitation, subtle but there. Maeda's #16 Civic wasn't turning in as sharply as before. His line widened, his steering corrections more violent. The car looked unwilling to commit, like it had lost front-end bite.
Something was wrong.
Tire pressure? Suspension issue? Brake fade? Whatever it was, Maeda was losing grip. And Izamuri knew exactly where the weakness would break.
"Car #16 struggling," Izamuri muttered to himself. His eyes narrowed.
The Dunlop Chicane. Tight left-right, brutal on understeering cars. Maeda wouldn't survive it at full speed. If Izamuri timed it right, he could slip by clean, maybe even catch Kawamoto in the same breath.
He stalked them through 100R, keeping his distance calculated. Maeda wobbled again mid-corner, his rear almost snapping loose. Kawamoto closed in aggressively, but Izamuri held back just enough. He wanted them both committed before he struck.
Into the Hairpin, Maeda defended hard again, parking his car on the apex. Kawamoto braked too late, nearly rear-ending him, forced to swing wide on exit. Izamuri tightened his line, hugging the inside curb, exiting neatly behind both.
Now came the sprint to 300R. Izamuri's foot pressed down, the B18C engine screaming. His Civic surged, draft pulling him closer. Ahead, Maeda and Kawamoto were side-by-side, locked in their own battle.
Izamuri grinned inside his helmet. "Perfect. Keep fighting. The chicane will be mine."
As he exited the Hairpin and approached 300R, the tension in the pack was electric. Three cars, less than a second apart, barreling toward the most technical sector of Fuji Speedway.
The rush of speed through 300R pressed Izamuri back into his seat, his Civic trembling as its tires clawed against the wide, sweeping arc. The air was thick with the roar of three engines. Maeda's #16 in front, Kawamoto's #29 beside him, and Izamuri's own white #98 tucked tightly behind, biding its time like a wolf stalking prey.
At 170 kilometers an hour, every twitch of the wheel demanded trust, trust in the tires, in the suspension, in the car's balance, and in himself. He could see Maeda's Civic struggling, understeering mid-corner, its nose washing wide and rear wobbling to correct. Kawamoto seized the weakness, shoving his nose deeper along the inside, desperate to claim the line.
Izamuri knew this was it.
He stayed latched onto Maeda's bumper, pulling deeper into the slipstream, his revs climbing higher, higher, and higher. Until he had to breathe off the throttle just enough to prevent tagging the rear. The chicane loomed ahead like a trap waiting to be sprung, its first sharp right-hander ready to punish hesitation.
"Come on… come on…" he muttered, eyes locked on Maeda's rear wing.
As they barreled toward the braking zone, Izamuri yanked his Civic to the right, his tires screaming in protest as he broke free of the draft. The nose pointed sharp and true, lining him square on the inside line.
He hit the brakes hard, late, but not too late. The ABS rattled beneath his foot, the steering wheel vibrating as the front end fought to stay planted. Beside him, Maeda dove deep into the corner, but his compromised grip betrayed him.
Izamuri swung into the apex first.
The first bend, the sharp right-hander, was his.
Maeda, desperate, tried to hold the outside, his #16 twitching violently under braking. But his front tires gave up, washing him wide across the curb. Izamuri cut cleanly through, stealing the inside line.
Then came the second bend, the left-hand flick to exit the chicane.
Kawamoto had tucked behind Maeda, hoping to capitalize on the duel. But Izamuri anticipated it. As Maeda faltered mid-corner, Izamuri snapped the wheel left with precision. The car darted across the narrow exit line, cutting off Maeda's slower exit speed.
And in that single flick, he stole Kawamoto's momentum too.
"Two birds, one stone," Izamuri breathed, the words tight with adrenaline.
Maeda, forced wide, bounced across the curb with sparks flying from his undertray. Kawamoto, trapped with nowhere to go, was boxed in behind, his #29 losing all momentum. Izamuri surged out of the chicane clean and fast, both rivals falling behind him in the mirrors.
Position gained… No… two positions gained.
He was now sixth.
The rush of triumph hit like nitrous. His hands gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. Ahead, just a few car lengths away, Kazuma Nishikawa's #445 Arai Speed Civic climbed uphill toward Turn 13. The machine was a familiar rival, steady but beatable.
"Good move," Daichi's voice crackled over the radio, steady but carrying a hint of satisfaction. "You're in sixth now. Eyes forward. Nishikawa's next."
"Copy," Izamuri replied, voice taut with focus.
Behind him, Maeda and Kawamoto were still sorting themselves out, their battle disrupted, their rhythm shattered. Izamuri didn't look back again. The war was only forward now.
The run up toward Turn 13 was steep, the circuit rising like a challenge. Izamuri felt the gradient in the engine's strain, every gear change hitting harder under the uphill load. The crowd that had gathered in the grandstands leaned forward, some pointing at the #98 flashing past, others shouting above the thunder of engines.
Kazuma's #445 was visibly smoother than Maeda's struggling car. He carried steady lines, braking early but safely, a driver who relied on consistency. He was no pushover, but he lacked the daring that defined racers like Izamuri or Hugo.
As the climb steepened, Izamuri adjusted his line, aiming his Civic's nose tighter, drawing closer to Kazuma's rear bumper. The uphill favored bravery, those willing to brake later, to push harder into the blind entry of Turn 13.
Kazuma hugged the racing line, cautious but clean. Izamuri saw his chance not in aggression but in timing.
He braked a half-beat later, diving closer as they swung through the corner. The Civic's suspension compressed violently, the car squatting hard as the g-forces piled on. Izamuri's teeth rattled, but the grip held. His tires clung to the tarmac, squealing but steady.
Kazuma's rear wing filled his view.
Exiting Turn 13, Izamuri shifted up, the engine roaring as he planted the throttle. The two cars shot down the short chute toward Netz Corner, the track curling up hill to the left and then sweeping into the long, challenging Panasonic turn beyond.
Izamuri could feel the pull of Kazuma's slipstream, the draft tugging his car forward, drawing him ever closer. He positioned himself half a lane to the right, feinting for an inside line.
Kazuma reacted, twitching defensively, hugging the apex tighter.
Exactly what Izamuri wanted.
He stayed behind through the right kink, saving his move for later. The Netz was a tricky corner, not as sharp as the chicane but demanding commitment. Drivers who entered too tight often ruined their exit, and Izamuri planned to exploit that.
"Sixth and closing," Walter's voice came faintly through the radio. He was tracking the lap times from pit wall, his tone clipped and efficient. "Front runners still two seconds ahead. Keep chipping."
Izamuri didn't answer. His focus narrowed to a single point. Kazuma's rear bumper, weaving just slightly as the pressure mounted.
The #445 Civic dove into Netz Corner, braking early, clinging desperately to the inside. Izamuri shadowed his line, tighter, closer, his headlights almost kissing the bumper. The draft pulled harder, the exhaust fumes stinging his nose even through the helmet.
Then, at the exit, Kazuma's mistake came.
Too tight, too cautious, his exit speed died instantly.
Izamuri pounced.
He flicked the wheel left, powering past on the outside, his Civic's B18C engine screaming with joy. The tires gripped, the car shot forward, and Kazuma's shrinking figure fell into the mirrors.
Now he was fifth.
The Panasonic corner loomed ahead, the last great bend of the lap, a wide, sweeping right-hander that demanded courage and precision in equal measure. Izamuri leaned into it with confidence, the G-forces pressing him into the seat, his tires skimming the edge of adhesion.
Ahead, the battlefield shifted.
Hugo's blue-and-yellow #11 still sat in third, Ryusei Arai's #180 in fourth glued to his tail. But the real threat remained up front: the two Naka GP machines, James and Mike, running almost in formation, their black-and-gold Civics eating up the straight with unnatural speed.
Izamuri's jaw tightened inside his helmet. He hadn't forgotten Thursday's incident, nor Friday's arrogance, nor James's smug smile when they collided. Seeing those cars still leading the field made his blood boil.
But for now, he had one mission, close the gap, lap by lap, and tear them down one by one.
As he crossed the line to start Lap 5, the pit board flashed at the side of the track.
P5 – GAP +1.2
One point two seconds to Arai.
Izamuri narrowed his eyes. That gap wouldn't last.
Through Turn 1, Coca-Cola, and back into the rhythm of Fuji's brutal curves, he pressed harder, pushing the Civic to its edge. The earlier mistake at Lap 1 was burned into his mind, a wound he refused to repeat. His lines sharpened, his throttle application smoothed. With every apex clipped perfectly, every gearshift nailed, he clawed back tenths.
Arai's white-and-red #180 loomed closer. Hugo was still ahead of him, the two locked in a private duel. If Izamuri could reach them, he could insert himself into the fight, turn their battle into his opportunity.
Behind him, Maeda and Kawamoto still wrestled with each other, their lap times dropping as they tripped over one another. They were no longer a threat. The midfield chaos swallowed them whole, leaving Izamuri free to hunt the front.
And hunt he would.
Thehe weight of Akagi's taunts, the injustice of the penalties, they all blended into fuel. Every ounce of doubt became speed, every fragment of anger became precision.
By the time he swept through 100R again, the gap had halved.
Daichi's voice returned, steady but charged: "Good work. You're faster. Stay clean. Arai's next."
"Understood," Izamuri replied, his tone calm but his heart blazing.
He wasn't just driving anymore. He was fighting… Fighting the Naka GP's arrogance, fighting his own doubts, fighting for the name on his windshield.
And with Kazuma left behind, and Maeda and Kawamoto broken in his mirrors, Izamuri Sakuta was far from finished.