The #98 G-Force Civic howled out of Panasonic, its tires straining under the weight of Izamuri's commitment as the car surged onto the main straight. Ahead, barely three car lengths away, the scarlet-and-white machine of Ryusei Arai (#180) cut a clean line down the track. Its presence was sharp, composed, almost regal under the noon sun, like a banner waving in defiance.
Arai was no amateur. He wasn't just another driver, he was the owner of Arai Speed, his own team. Years of experience and a reputation for building bulletproof cars gave him a level of pride in defending his position that few could match. If someone wanted his place on the track, they had to pry it away from him corner by corner, tooth by tooth.
And now, Izamuri had to do just that.
Daichi's calm voice came across the radio. "Gap is closed. You're in his draft. Don't force it, make him work."
"Copy," Izamuri replied, his voice steady, but his grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened.
Lap 6. The G-Force Civic tucked neatly into the slipstream, the B18C engine screaming at the limiter. The scarlet-and-white tail of Arai's #180 grew larger, closer. At 220 km/h, the aerodynamic draft pulled Izamuri in like a magnet. He darted left, then right, feinting a move toward the inside of Turn 1.
Arai defended instantly. The scarlet Civic swung to cover the inside line, forcing Izamuri to stay on the outside.
Brake markers flashed by. Izamuri braked late, his car twitching as the ABS shuddered, and he hurled his machine around the outside. For a moment, their doors were side by side, both cars screaming in protest as the weight shifted hard into the corner.
The crowd roared, two cars running side by side at the edge of adhesion, neither yielding.
But Arai had the inside. As the turn unwound, he squeezed Izamuri wide toward the outer curb, forcing the G-Force Civic to back out. Izamuri slotted back in line, the frustration boiling inside his helmet.
No pass… Yet.
Lap 7. Through Coca-Cola, Izamuri stayed glued to Arai's bumper, his lines crisp, his throttle application precise. The pressure mounted on the scarlet machine, but Arai was unshaken. He carried his Civic through 100R with almost surgical precision, hugging the apex so tightly that Izamuri couldn't even think of a move.
At the Hairpin, Izamuri lunged late, diving for the inside. His white Civic slid alongside the scarlet nose, their side mirrors almost brushing. But Arai rotated his car perfectly mid-corner, squaring off the exit earlier and blasting out with superior traction.
"Damn!" Izamuri hissed under his breath, countersteering slightly as he lost ground.
From the pit wall, Haruka's voice cut in. "You almost had him there. Keep the rhythm."
Izamuri didn't answer. His eyes were locked on Arai's rear, the bold ARAI SPEED lettering taunting him at every straight.
Lap 8. The 300R tested courage. At over 170 km/h, both cars swung through the long right-hander, the g-forces pressing them against their seats. Izamuri inched closer, inch by inch, pulling alongside halfway through the curve. For a terrifying moment, they ran side by side through 300R, tires shrieking in unison.
The scarlet Civic twitched, sliding toward him. Izamuri gritted his teeth, refusing to lift, his own car dancing on the edge of control.
The Dunlop Chicane loomed. Neither braked early.
Two cars, two braking points, one apex.
Izamuri went for the inside. Arai held the middle line, daring him. At the very last second, Izamuri braked harder, his tires locking briefly as the Civic wobbled. He just managed to keep it straight, darting inside, but too deep.
The G-Force Civic skidded across the apex curb, bouncing harshly. He corrected, barely avoiding a collision. Arai cut back with clinical precision, reclaiming the position as they powered into Turn 13.
Izamuri's heart pounded in his chest. He'd nearly thrown the car away.
Daichi's voice crackled sternly. "Patience, Izamuri. Don't ruin the tires this early."
Izamuri exhaled sharply, forcing his grip to loosen. "Understood."
Lap 9. By now, the battle had drawn eyes from the pit lane. Even Hugo, sitting in third, kept glancing at his mirrors, knowing the duel behind him was intense. The timing screens showed the constant back-and-forth in sectors, sometimes Izamuri faster, sometimes Arai.
Turn 1 again. Izamuri feinted inside. Arai defended. Izamuri swung wide, carrying more speed into the exit. The white Civic drew alongside through Coca-Cola, their doors just inches apart.
The grandstands erupted as the two machines thundered wheel-to-wheel, sparks flying from the undertrays scraping curbs. But once again, Arai positioned himself perfectly for 100R, shutting the door and forcing Izamuri to yield.
Every attack, every maneuver, Arai had an answer. He wasn't faster, just cleverer, more disciplined. Where Izamuri relied on raw aggression, Arai wielded defense like a weapon forged over years.
Lap 10. By the time they reached the Hairpin again, Izamuri's frustration had peaked. He braked impossibly late, diving so deep inside that his Civic nearly touched the grass. For a heartbeat, he was ahead. For a heartbeat, he thought he'd done it.
But Arai rotated his Civic with astonishing finesse. His scarlet machine pivoted tighter, cutting across Izamuri's nose as though anticipating the move. The two cars nearly collided, paint almost traded, but Arai emerged ahead once more, his exit speed flawless.
"Damn it!" Izamuri barked into his helmet, slamming the wheel with his palm.
From the pit wall, Walter's measured voice came. "He's defending like his life depends on it. Stay calm. You're faster overall."
Izamuri sucked in a deep breath, steadying his pulse. He couldn't let rage dictate his driving. Arai thrived on mistakes, on hot-headed charges that left openings.
Through 300R, Izamuri stayed tucked behind, learning, observing. He was beginning to see the pattern. Arai's defense was ironclad, but it cost him. His lines were tighter, slower, his tires straining harder with every lap.
The battle wasn't just speed. It was endurance.
By the end of Lap 10, the two cars thundered past the main straight once more, scarlet and white locked together like magnets that refused to separate. Izamuri hadn't taken the position yet, but every lap, every corner, he was learning. And though Arai's defense seemed unbreakable, cracks were beginning to show.
The scarlet-and-white #180 Arai Speed Civic clung to its position like a fortress under siege. Lap after lap, Izamuri Sakuta's white #98 hounded it, darting left, right, applying pressure at every braking zone. The duel had stretched into a relentless dance, their cars so close they might as well have been tethered by an invisible cord.
Lap 11. As they surged down the main straight, Izamuri tucked in tight to Arai's rear bumper, so close that the heat from the scarlet car's exhaust shimmered across his windscreen. The draft pulled him in, amplifying the B18C's scream as the tach needle kissed the limiter.
He darted right, faking for the inside of Turn 1. Arai moved to cover. At the very last heartbeat, Izamuri yanked his wheel left, sweeping to the outside. The two Civics dove into the braking zone almost side by side, tires howling, suspension compressing under the load.
For a moment, it looked like Izamuri might hang on the outside, but Arai's experience showed. He hugged the inside curb and eased Izamuri wide, forcing him back into line before Coca-Cola.
"Keep it tight, Izamuri," Daichi urged on the radio. "He's overworking his fronts every time he defends. Don't let him breathe."
Izamuri gritted his teeth. He wasn't just attacking, he was wearing Arai down.
Lap 12. Through Coca-Cola and 100R, Izamuri mirrored Arai's every movement, studying his lines like a predator waiting for weakness. The G-Force Civic darted close at the Hairpin, nose practically under Arai's bumper. The scarlet Civic twitched, its rear tires clawing for grip under the strain of the tight defense.
Exiting 300R, Izamuri feinted again, lunging toward the inside of Dunlop. Arai didn't flinch, holding the middle line. Izamuri braked even later, locking his fronts for a terrifying instant before releasing the pressure. His car wriggled, threatening to snap loose.
He just barely gathered it up. The white Civic jolted across the curb, landing hard but keeping its nose pointed forward. Arai was already gone, reclaiming the exit cleanly.
"Push him harder!" Rin shouted over the pit wall, pounding his fists on the rail.
Izamuri didn't need the encouragement. His blood was already boiling.
Lap 13. They barreled into Turn 1 again, the crowd on their feet as the two Civics locked horns. This time Izamuri went for it, he braked impossibly late, diving inside. The cars nearly touched, side mirrors inches apart as the corner tightened.
For three glorious seconds, they ran side by side, scarlet and white slicing through the corner like twin blades. But Arai rotated his car with impeccable timing, squeezing Izamuri toward the outer curb.
The G-Force Civic wobbled, sparks flying as the undertray scraped. Izamuri had to lift, the momentum slipping back to Arai.
But now, the duel was no longer a chess match. It was a bare-knuckle brawl at 200 km/h.
Lap 14. Izamuri wasn't backing down. Through Coca-Cola, he nudged closer, his left fender brushing Arai's rear quarter panel. The light tap sent a shudder through both cars, but neither lifted.
Down 100R, Izamuri pulled alongside, forcing Arai to defend the inside into the Hairpin. The scarlet Civic braked early, hugging the apex. Izamuri dove deep, cutting across with a daring late apex.
For a heartbeat, his nose was ahead. But Arai powered out, their tires spinning in unison, the scarlet car holding the advantage by sheer traction.
The pit wall erupted with noise. Simon muttered under his breath, "This is insane. He's driving like it's the final lap."
Walter simply adjusted his stopwatch, calm as ever. "Good. That's how you crack Arai."
Lap 15. The G-Force Civic thundered down the straight once more. Izamuri, drenched in sweat, refused to blink. His helmet bobbed with every vibration, every curb strike. He was in the zone, his breathing sharp and rhythmic.
He faked right. Arai covered. Izamuri switched left. Arai shifted again.
At the very last moment, Izamuri jinked back right, braked hard, and jammed his Civic into the inside line.
The scarlet car slammed the door. Their wheels kissed, just enough to leave black scuffs on the sidewalls. The contact jolted through Izamuri's arms, but he didn't lift.
Through Coca-Cola, the two cars rubbed doors again. The crowd gasped, cameras flashing as sparks flew. It was war.
"Easy, Izamuri!" Daichi barked over the radio. "Bring the car home!"
But Izamuri's voice came back low and firm. "I'm not backing down."
Lap 16. By now, the top three cars, James Hawthorn, Mike Hunt, and Hugo Vatanen, were starting to appear faintly in the distance. Their advantage had been nearly six seconds, but with every lap of this duel, the gap had shrunk. The relentless pace of Izamuri and Arai was dragging them closer, even as they battered each other.
Turn 1. Izamuri braked later than ever before, wheels locking, smoke puffing from his tires. He forced his Civic into the inside, bumping Arai's door. The scarlet car twitched, nearly spinning, but Arai caught it, countersteering perfectly.
The two cars blasted through Coca-Cola still side by side. At 100R, they were inches apart, g-forces pinning them as their tires squealed in agony. Izamuri held the outside, Arai the inside. Neither lifted.
They thundered into the Hairpin. Izamuri lunged. Arai defended. The scarlet Civic braked earlier, the white car diving deep again.
For a brief, glorious instant, Izamuri edged ahead. But Arai countered once more, cutting across his nose with surgical precision, reclaiming the line.
The pit wall erupted with shouts and gasps. Haruka turned to Daichi. "They're going to kill each other at this rate."
Daichi didn't blink, eyes locked on the two cars. "No. This is exactly what Izamuri needs. He has to learn how to fight men like Arai."
Down 300R, they were still locked together, engines screaming, exhaust flames spitting with every gear change. Izamuri tucked in, refusing to yield. The Dunlop Chicane loomed, the crowd bracing for impact.
But this time, both braked hard, clean, disciplined, side by side but not colliding. They exited in unison, cars weaving through Turn 13 like dancers locked in perfect synchronization.
By the end of Lap 16, the gap to the leaders had shrunk to under four seconds. Their relentless duel wasn't just entertainment, it was dragging them back into contention.
As they blasted down the main straight again, Izamuri's chest heaved with exhaustion. Sweat dripped into his gloves, his arms trembling from the constant corrections. Yet his focus never wavered.
Ahead, Arai's driving was still flawless, but his tires were beginning to show strain. Tiny wiggles on corner exits, slight understeer into high-speed bends, the signs were there. Izamuri sensed it. He just needed to keep pushing, keep pressing until the scarlet wall finally cracked.
For five laps, the two had battled with everything they had. They traded paint, exchanged blows, danced inches from disaster, yet neither gave an inch.
The duel was no longer just about position. It was about pride. It was about proving who could bend the other man's will without breaking their own.
And as Lap 16 ended, the G-Force Civic still shadowing the scarlet machine, one truth was clear: this fight was far from over.
The crowd loved it. The pit lane was electric. And the leaders, for the first time, were beginning to glance nervously at their mirrors. The duel had already spanned ten laps, and by now the crowd understood: this was no ordinary battle. Izamuri Sakuta's #98 G-Force Civic hounded Ryusei Arai's scarlet-and-white #180 Arai Speed Civic with relentless fury. But Arai, team owner and seasoned racer, had turned his machine into an impenetrable fortress.
Every feint, every lunge, every slingshot down the straight, Arai had an answer. His defense was masterful, measured, and cruelly efficient. Where Izamuri sought an opening, Arai sealed it. Where Izamuri tried to pressure him into error, Arai answered with calm precision.
Still, the rookie refused to yield.
Lap 17. Down the main straight, Izamuri tucked into Arai's slipstream again, pulling hard toward the inside of Turn 1. The braking markers flashed past, 150 meters, 100 meters, 50.
He braked impossibly late, diving into the inside line. For an instant, it looked like he had it. But Arai pivoted the scarlet car around the apex like it was on rails, hugging the curb and forcing Izamuri wide.
The rookie had no choice but to back off. The white Civic wobbled over the outer curb, sparks flying as the chassis scraped.
"Damn it!" Izamuri hissed, thumping his steering wheel.
"Stay calm," Daichi's voice cut through the radio. "Every time you attack, he's burning his fronts. Make him pay later."
But Izamuri wasn't interested in later. He wanted blood now.
Lap 18. Into Coca-Cola corner, Izamuri pulled alongside on the outside. Arai gave him just enough room, their mirrors brushing at 160 km/h. The rookie tried to hang around the outside into 100R, but the scarlet Civic squeezed him mercilessly, forcing him to lift.
At the Hairpin, Izamuri switched tactics. He darted right, then left, forcing Arai to move twice to defend. The scarlet car braked early, hugging the apex. Izamuri dove deep, trying a late apex slingshot.
Their bumpers nearly touched on the exit. Izamuri's nose was inside, just enough to spook Arai. The scarlet Civic twitched, rear wheels spinning. For a heartbeat, the rookie had the advantage.
But once again, Arai's experience showed. He straightened his car, stomped the throttle, and surged back ahead down 300R.
Walter exhaled through clenched teeth in the pit lane. "That man doesn't crack easily."
Lap 19. By now, the stands were alive with noise. The duel between #98 and #180 was the talk of the paddock, even stealing attention from the leaders up front. Fans waved banners, shouting with every near pass, gasping with every door-to-door scrape.
Down the main straight, Izamuri tried again. He darted left, then right, then slammed his Civic into the slipstream. The white car shook with the turbulence, nose barely inches from Arai's bumper.
At Turn 1, he braked even later, so late the car squirmed under him, ABS chattering. He forced his way to the inside, rubbing doors. The crowd erupted as the two Civics powered out side by side.
But Arai, impossibly calm, refused to blink. Through Coca-Cola, he kept his nose ahead, elbows out, shoving Izamuri wide just enough to reclaim the racing line.
Simon muttered from the pit wall, "If he keeps this up, one of them isn't going to finish."
Daichi, however, was grinning. "No. Izamuri's learning. Every lap, he's figuring Arai out."
Lap 20. The battle intensified. Izamuri, tired but burning with determination, launched another assault through 100R. He ran a tighter line, forcing more speed into the corner, his front tires screaming in protest.
For a split second, he was alongside. Arai countered with a brutal block at the Hairpin, chopping across his nose. The rookie had to slam the brakes, smoke puffing from his front tires.
The white Civic twitched, nearly spinning, but Izamuri caught it, muscles straining as he corrected the slide.
Gasps echoed from the grandstands. Mechanics leaned over the pit wall, hands gripping their radios. This wasn't just a battle for position anymore. It was a war of willpower, and neither side was yielding.
"Hold your line!" Walter snapped. "Don't waste your car!"
But Izamuri's reply came through heavy breathing. "I'm. not. letting. him. go."
By the time they reached Lap 21, the duel had reached boiling point. Both cars bore the scars of combatpa, int traded on fenders, tire marks streaking the doors, brake rotors glowing cherry red from the constant punishment.
Izamuri knew he couldn't let this drag on forever. His tires were holding, but his arms felt like lead, his concentration stretched razor thin. He needed to end it now.
Down the main straight, he tucked into the scarlet Civic's slipstream once more. The crowd stood, sensing something was about to happen.
Through Turn 1, they ran in formation. Through Coca-Cola, Izamuri stayed glued to his bumper. Into 100R, he made his move.
The rookie lunged to the outside, foot welded to the throttle. Arai hugged the inside, trying to force him wide. But Izamuri didn't flinch.
Side by side, they tore through the long sweeping bend at over 140 km/h, their wheels inches apart, the g-forces crushing them into their seats. The roar of their engines blended into a single scream as sparks spat from their undertrays.
At the Hairpin, neither backed down. Izamuri dove for the outside, Arai defending the inside. Their bumpers kissed again, the scarlet car twitching under pressure.
Down 300R, they were still locked together. White and scarlet, door to door, the gap to the leaders shrinking with every heartbeat.
And then, the Dunlop Chicane loomed.
Two cars. One braking zone. One chance.
The crowd held its breath. The pit crews froze, eyes locked on the timing screens.
It was a game of chicken now. Who would brake last? Who would yield?
Inside the cockpit, Izamuri's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, sweat dripping into his visor. His heart pounded like a war drum.
Arai's scarlet Civic loomed beside him, its driver calm, unshaken, eyes fixed on the braking markers rushing toward them.
The meters ticked down… 200… 150…
Neither lifted.
Both cars hurtled toward the chicane at impossible speed, locked in a duel that could end in glory, or disaster.
And as they plunged into the braking zone, the crowd roared.