The Dunlop chicane loomed like a guillotine.
Izamuri's heart thundered in his chest as the meters screamed past: 150… 100…
At the very edge of his nerve, he stabbed the brake pedal, just before the 100-meter mark. The Civic's nose dipped hard, ABS hammering as the tires wailed in protest. He felt the g-force crush him into the belts, the vibration shaking every bone in his body.
For a heartbeat, he thought he had braked too early. But then—
Beside him, Arai waited a fraction longer. Too long.
The scarlet #180 Civic shot forward like a missile, its front tires locked solid. A puff of smoke burst from under the car as the overheated rotors glowed cherry-red. Arai had no grip left, no stopping power.
His foot buried the pedal, but nothing answered. The car plowed through the first set of cones, skipped across the grass, and blasted straight into the bypass track, the layout where the chicane was skipped.
Izamuri whipped his head sideways, eyes wide. "No way…"
From the pits, Walter's voice came sharp and urgent over the radio. "Ryusei's brakes! He's cooked them!"
Daichi's tone followed, quick and measured. "Stay focused, Izamuri! The position's yours. Exit clean."
Izamuri yanked the Civic through the right-hander, threading between the apex cones, then flicked it hard left, letting the chassis dance as the tires clawed for grip. His breathing steadied as the car straightened out. When he punched the throttle again, the white Civic screamed forward, leaving the chaos of Arai's demise behind.
Behind him, Ryusei Arai's race was unraveling in real time.
The scarlet machine rattled down the bypass section, wobbling under its own momentum, brake fluid gushing from an overheated line. He wrestled the wheel, trying to rejoin safely, but when he pressed the pedal again, it sank uselessly to the floor.
"No brakes… damn it!" Arai cursed, his voice raw in his helmet. He managed to coast into a run-off lane, waving one hand furiously out the window to signal marshals. His race was done.
The crowd gasped, then erupted. The duel that had been the centerpiece of the middle field ended not with a pass, but with mechanical heartbreak.
In the Arai Speed pit, mechanics slammed their fists on the railings, heads falling into their hands. Their driver, their team owner, had defended like a champion, but Fuji's brutal demands on braking had broken even him.
Back on track, Izamuri surged through Turn 13 with new fire in his veins. Ahead of him, the battle for the podium loomed: Hugo's blue-and-yellow Civic in P3, and the two black-and-gold Naka GP cars leading the field.
His steering wheel vibrated with the raw fury of the engine as he charged uphill through Netz, every muscle in his arms taut, every nerve alight. He flicked his eyes to the display on his dash. Tire temps steady. Brakes hot, but alive. Fuel right where it needed to be.
"Position four," Daichi reported over comms. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "Arai's out. Now it's you against the front three."
Izamuri exhaled once, deep and sharp. The duel with Arai had tested every ounce of his will, but it had also sharpened him. He had survived the wall, and the wall had crumbled.
Now came the climb.
Down in the G-Force garage, the crew were a blur of movement and emotion. Haruka leaned against the pit rail, arms crossed, eyes locked on the white #98 Civic.
"He made it," Takamori muttered, relief flooding his voice. "I thought they'd both end up in the gravel."
Simon, however, was already looking ahead, jaw tight. "The Naka GP cars. They've got the pace on the straights, and they're running together. It won't be easy."
Walter smirked faintly, though his eyes betrayed his concern. "Good. Let's see the kid dig."
Even Nikolai, standing a little further back, folded his arms with a sharp grin. "Arai was tough. But those two in front? They won't play clean. He'll need more than speed now."
Izamuri powered down the main straight, his engine howling as the speedometer crept past 210 km/h. The grandstands blurred past, a mosaic of banners, flags, and faces pressed against the rails.
In the distance, he spotted Hugo's car, blue and yellow against the gray tarmac. Just ahead of Hugo, the two black-and-gold Naka GP Civics ran nose-to-tail, James Ronald Hawthorn leading, Mike Hunt shadowing him like a wingman. Their cars cut sharp, authoritative lines, black paint glistening under the Fuji sun.
Izamuri narrowed his eyes. They looked untouchable, but he remembered Daichi's words from the briefing. No car is untouchable. Every machine, every driver, has a weakness. Find it.
Through Turn 1, his Civic braked late, diving deep toward the apex. The tires screamed, but the car obeyed. He wasn't chasing shadows anymore, he could see the podium right in front of him.
Every corner, every shift, every snap of the wheel was sharper now, more deliberate. The duel with Arai had taken a toll, but it had also unlocked something in him: a clarity that cut through the exhaustion, leaving only focus.
In his helmet, Izamuri's breathing was steady, almost rhythmic. Each inhale timed with the straights, each exhale during the corners. He replayed the battle with Arai in his head, not as a distraction, but as fuel.
He remembered the side-by-side clash at 100R, the near disaster at the Hairpin, the desperate braking into Dunlop. He remembered how Arai refused to crack, until the brakes gave out.
He was a wall. But even walls collapse.
Izamuri's grip on the wheel tightened. The Naka GP cars might have their tricks, their straight-line speed, but they weren't walls. They were just men in machines.
And men could be beaten.
As the race ticked into its middle stages, the commentary box above Fuji Speedway came alive.
"Ladies and gentlemen, what a dramatic turn of events! Ryusei Arai is OUT of the race with complete brake failure after an incredible duel with rookie Izamuri Sakuta!"
The crowd roared at the announcement, some cheering wildly for Izamuri's survival, others stunned silent at the exit of one of the race favorites.
"And now, look at this! Sakuta's #98 car is in fourth, hunting down Hugo Vatanen in third place! This battle is far from over!"
Cameras zoomed in on the white Civic as it barreled through 100R, close enough now that the blue-and-yellow rear wing of Hugo's car filled his vision.
The atmosphere was electric. What had started as a mid-field clash had become the story of the race.
Izamuri braked hard into the Dunlop chicane once again, this time without Arai's shadow beside him. The white Civic snapped through the right-hander, then flicked into the left, tires biting, suspension groaning as it clawed for traction.
His exit was clean, crisp, the kind of precision lap that sent shivers through his pit crew watching from the monitors.
The car straightened, power flowing back into the wheels. Ahead, Hugo's Civic waited, less than a second away now. And just beyond him, the two black-and-gold machines of Naka GP lurked, prowling like predators at the head of the field.
Izamuri punched the throttle, the roar of his engine echoing down Fuji's long back stretch. His chase was on.
The roar of engines echoed through the mountains around Fuji Speedway, each lap bringing the white Civic #98 closer to the blue-and-yellow car just ahead. Izamuri's eyes locked onto the back of Hugo's bumper as he carved through the turns with surgical focus.
For the next two laps, the tension wound tighter and tighter. Every sector Izamuri clawed away a tenth, sometimes two, sometimes three. Through 100R his line was smoother, his throttle application earlier, his car snapping out of the curve like an arrow. Through Dunlop, his braking points were razor-sharp, keeping the gap shrinking like a noose tightening around Hugo's neck.
By Lap 24, the hunt had reached its end. The white Civic was now right on Hugo's tail, so close that the turbulence of the slipstream buffeted his front bumper. Hugo flicked his mirror once and saw it, Izamuri was there, refusing to give him breathing space.
The crowd noticed too. The commentary box erupted.
"And here comes Sakuta! After dispatching Arai in that incredible duel, he's clawed his way up to fourth place and now he's on the tail of Hugo Vatanen! This is shaping up to be a four-car showdown for the win!"
The camera feed zoomed out, showing the train forming at the front: James Ronald Hawthorn's black-and-gold #9 Civic leading, Mike Hunt's #7 glued just behind him, Hugo's #11 pressing on their rear bumper, and Izamuri's white #98 tucked inches behind the Swede.
Four cars. Three teams. Two factions.
Lap 25. The long straight at Fuji was a battlefield of air resistance and speed. All four cars blasted down the tarmac in single file, the slipstream linking them like an invisible chain.
James led the charge, his car's straight-line pace still suspiciously strong, the gold-accented paint shimmering in the morning light. Behind him, Mike stayed tucked in, defending his teammate's rear. Hugo was third in line, his blue-and-yellow machine bouncing slightly in the turbulence, but it was Izamuri who made the biggest gains.
The draft pulled at his car like a magnet, his revs climbing higher than anywhere else on the circuit. He felt the white Civic surge forward, the roar of the B18C echoing inside his helmet.
"Stay calm, Izamuri," Daichi's voice crackled through the radio. "You're in the fight now. Watch Hugo, work with him if you can."
Izamuri didn't answer. His focus tunneled, eyes darting between Hugo's rear wing and the looming Turn 1.
Down the straight, Hugo moved first. He edged out of Mike's slipstream, his blue Civic snapping to the right to make the slingshot. Izamuri reacted instantly, keeping his car glued to Hugo's bumper and following the same line.
Two cars burst out of the train in unison, Hugo leading the charge, Izamuri shadowing him like a white ghost. The roar from the crowd doubled, a wave of noise crashing over the straight as the four cars barreled toward the braking zone.
James held his line on the racing groove, cool and controlled. Mike twitched nervously in the mirrors, seeing not one, but two cars bearing down on him.
"Here they come!" the commentator's voice cracked with excitement. "Vatanen on the inside! Sakuta right behind him! Hawthorn stays in front, but Hunt is under siege!"
The braking zone for Fuji's first corner was one of the most violent on the circuit. Speeds dropped from 240 km/h to nearly 80 in a heartbeat, and this time four cars dove into it together.
Hugo braked late, his car jittering but stable as he dove to the inside line. Izamuri mirrored him, slamming the pedal at the very edge of his nerve, his Civic squirming under the force but refusing to lock.
Mike was caught in the squeeze. He turned in from the middle, but Hugo had already stolen the inside. To his right, Izamuri's nose poked in, white paint gleaming under the braking smoke.
For a heartbeat, all four cars were side by side. James turned in early, clearing the chaos, but the other three tangled in a storm of angles and brake dust.
Mike squeezed down, but Hugo muscled past, his Civic's rear tires clawing for grip as he exited the apex. Izamuri stayed tucked in behind Hugo, choosing control over desperation. The white car wiggled slightly under throttle, but Izamuri caught it, keeping his nose right on Mike's bumper.
When the dust cleared, the order had shifted.
James still led.
Hugo was now second.
Mike, shuffled wide, dropped to third.
And Izamuri, patient but relentless, remained in fourth, close enough to pounce.
The pit lanes exploded with noise as mechanics and engineers shouted into radios.
In the Hugo Speed pit, Fumihiro punched the air, grinning wide. "Yes! That's it, Hugo! Keep the pressure on Hawthorn!"
Over in the G-Force pit, Walter leaned forward with a wicked grin. "He's playing it smart. That's good. Stay in Mike's mirrors, Izamuri, make him sweat."
Simon's eyes, however, were fixed on the Naka GP pit down the lane. Bellasconi stood at the front, arms folded, an unreadable smirk painted on his face. He didn't flinch, didn't scowl, didn't even blink as one of his drivers lost position. It was as if he had already expected this.
Simon muttered under his breath. "What are you planning, Giancarlo?"
As the cars roared into Coca-Cola Corner, the split was clear.
Hugo attacked James, pushing the Naka GP leader harder than anyone had all race. He darted left, then right, filling the Briton's mirrors with flashes of blue and yellow. James defended cleanly, but for the first time, he was on the back foot.
Behind them, Izamuri harassed Mike. Every braking zone, every apex, he filled the black-and-gold car's mirrors with the white nose of the #98. Mike twitched defensively, his lines tightening, his rhythm faltering under the pressure.
Two battles were unfolding within one train of cars. The factions had drawn their lines, Hugo and Izamuri VS James and Mike.
The crowd loved it. The grandstands thundered with chants, flags whipping in the cold Fuji air. Every lap the four-car train stormed down the straight, every lap the slipstream pulled them tighter together.
Seven laps remained. Seven laps to decide everything.
Izamuri stayed calm, his breathing steady. He knew his role… let Hugo crack James while he broke Mike. Then, when the moment came, he would strike for the podium, or even more.
He eyed Mike's rear bumper as they accelerated through 300R. The black-and-gold car twitched slightly, unsettled by the relentless pressure. Izamuri tightened his grip on the wheel, waiting, watching, hunting.
Ahead, Hugo lunged once more at James into Dunlop, the two cars side by side under braking, sparks flying from the underbodies as they clattered over the curbs.
Izamuri smiled faintly under his helmet. This isn't just a battle. This is war.
And he was right in the middle of it.
The white Civic #98 of Izamuri Sakuta thundered down the main straight, the roar of his B18C engine harmonizing with the three cars ahead of him. It was the start of Lap 26, and he was locked into the tightest battle of the race so far. Ahead of him, the black-and-gold #7 Civic of Mike Hunt was straining under the pressure, defending desperately against every lunge and feint that Izamuri threw at him.
Daichi's voice crackled in Izamuri's ear.
"Now's the time. He's sloppy under braking. Line him up and take him clean."
Izamuri's eyes narrowed behind his visor. The slipstream pulled him closer, the draft sucking his car into Mike's rear bumper. The braking boards flashed by, 200, 150, 100. Izamuri stayed tucked in until the very last second. At the 100-meter board, he twitched his wheel left, jinked out of the slipstream, and slammed the brake pedal as late as his courage would allow.
The white Civic darted down the inside, tires howling, suspension squirming under the load. Mike, caught flat-footed, braked earlier and left just enough of a gap. The #98 surged through, clearing Mike cleanly at the apex of Turn 1.
The crowd erupted, the grandstands shaking with cheers as Izamuri claimed third place. Hugo and James were still locked in their duel up front, but now the G-Force driver was officially in podium contention.
But Mike wasn't finished. The Briton's pride burned hotter than his tires. Out of Turn 1 he tucked in behind Izamuri, drafting back into contention. By the time they reached Coca-Cola Corner, Mike dove back inside, his car's nose nearly clipping Izamuri's side panel. The two Civics brushed shoulders, sparks flying as Izamuri was forced slightly wide.
Izamuri caught the slide, powered through, and tucked back behind. By Turn 3, he retaliated, throwing his car to the inside of the tight right-hander and muscling Mike aside.
The two swapped positions again. And again. And again.
For the next five laps, from Lap 26 to Lap 30, the two drivers fought like men possessed. Every braking zone was an ambush, every corner exit a counterattack.
At one point, in Lap 27, they traded positions no fewer than ten times in a single lap. The crowd could hardly keep track of who was where, first Mike edged ahead, then Izamuri clawed it back through the Hairpin, only for Mike to retaliate at 300R with the benefit of the slipstream. By Dunlop Chicane, they were side by side, tires screeching, almost locking wheels.
Izamuri's precision kept him alive. Mike's aggression kept him dangerous. The commentators lost their voices trying to capture the insanity.
"Back and forth, back and forth! Hunt and Sakuta are locked in an absolute war! Neither one is giving an inch, this is a battle for survival as much as for position!"
During Lap 28, the chaos reached a boiling point.
The slipstream train compressed into Turn 1, with James still leading, Hugo hounding him, and Izamuri and Mike storming in right behind. Izamuri braked late, darting inside Hugo and Mike in one breathtaking move. Four cars entered the corner nearly side by side.
For a brief, glorious moment, Izamuri exited Turn 1 in first place. The crowd went wild, a thunderous roar echoing across Fuji Speedway. The white #98 led the train, its nose finally clear of the suspiciously fast Naka GP machines.
But the triumph didn't last.
As they barreled through 100R, James refused to yield. He edged closer and closer until his front bumper kissed Izamuri's rear quarter-panel. It wasn't hard, it looked accidental. But the effect was immediate.
The contact unsettled Izamuri's car mid-corner. The white Civic snapped sideways, tires screeching as Izamuri fought to hold it. For a split second, his car danced on the knife's edge of disaster. He caught the slide with a flick of opposite lock, but the momentum was gone.
By the time he regained control, both James and Hugo had swept past him, and Mike slammed the door shut behind them. In the space of two corners, Izamuri had fallen from first back to fourth.
On the pit wall, Walter slammed his fist against the barrier. "Verdammt! That was no accident, he tapped him on purpose!"
Simon growled, watching Bellasconi in the Naka GP pit. The Italian team boss wore the same smug smirk as ever. He didn't need to say a word; his drivers were doing the dirty work for him.
Izamuri gritted his teeth inside his helmet. Rage flared, but he forced it down. Anger wouldn't help him now, precision would.
He stayed glued to Mike's bumper for Lap 29, harassing him at every braking point, every apex. Mike's defensive driving grew sloppier with each lap, his tires degrading faster under the constant stress. Hugo, meanwhile, was still locked in combat with James at the front, the two exchanging blows for the lead lap after lap.
By the time Lap 30 began, the four-car train had stretched thin but not broken. James still held first, Hugo tucked in at second, Izamuri recovered to third, and Mike was clinging to fourth by his fingernails.
The gap between them was measured in tenths of a second, the roar of their engines blending into a single, thunderous note as they blasted down the main straight once more.
Daichi's calm but urgent voice came over the radio.
"You're back in third. Don't lose focus. Six laps to go. You're still in this."
Izamuri nodded silently, even though no one could see. His hands tightened on the wheel. His breathing steadied. He knew he was still in the fight.
The war wasn't over, not by a long shot.
On the G-Force pit wall, tension was at its breaking point. Every mechanic, every engineer, every member of the crew was on their feet, eyes locked on the timing screens or the track itself.
Rin clutched her headset so tightly her knuckles turned white. "He almost had it. He did have it. If James hadn't—"
"He'll get another shot," Takamori cut her off, though his own voice was tight with nerves. "Izamuri doesn't crack. Not now."
Behind them, Haruka watched silently, his arms crossed. He wasn't one for words, but his jaw was clenched tight. He knew how much this meant, not just for Izamuri, but for Daichi, for G-Force, for everyone.
By the midpoint of Lap 30, the order was set: James first, Hugo second, Izamuri third, Mike fourth. But the gaps were so tight that any mistake, any hesitation, could reshuffle the deck in an instant.
Through 100R, the four cars swept in a perfect arc, their tires screaming, their engines howling. At the Hairpin, Hugo lunged again at James, forcing the Briton to defend harder than ever. Behind them, Izamuri feinted left, then right, trying to draw Mike into another mistake.
The tension in the air was palpable. The spectators leaned forward in their seats, unable to look away. The pit walls buzzed with nervous energy. Every heartbeat felt like it could decide the race.
And still, 2 laps remained.
Izamuri knew it. He could feel it in the vibration of the steering wheel, in the roar of the engine, in the sweat dripping down his brow. This battle wasn't just about third place anymore. It was about survival, about proving himself against giants, about showing the world what he could do.
The war for Fuji was far from over.