The white Civic #98 howled across the start-finish line as the digital lap counter above the main straight flickered: Lap 31 / 32.
The grandstands trembled from the roar of twenty-four cars, but all eyes were locked on the four-car train at the head of the pack. The leaders had broken free from the midfield chaos, stretching a gap of nearly four seconds to the fifth-place runner. This was no longer a race of the entire grid, it was a private war between four men and three teams.
James Ronald Hawthorn in the black-and-gold #9 Civic, still clinging to first place with everything he had.
Hugo Vatanen in the blue-and-yellow #11, tucked into his slipstream, harassing him relentlessly.
Izamuri Sakuta in the white #98, sitting in third, both predator and prey.
And Mike Hunt in the other black-and-gold #7, riding fourth, searching for any crack in Izamuri's defense.
The Fuji Speedway air buzzed with tension as the four cars dove into Turn 1.
James defended hard, braking just late enough to cover Hugo's inside lunge. The British driver's lines were aggressive, elbows-out, leaving barely a car's width between himself and the curbs. Hugo kept his nose tucked in, shadowing him through the corner apex.
"Stay on him," Fumihiro's voice urged through Hugo's radio. "You've got the pace. Keep the pressure."
Hugo responded with silence, only the sound of his tires shrieking as he carried more speed than James out of Turn 1. But James chopped across, cutting off the run down the short chute into Coca-Cola Corner. Their bumpers nearly touched. Sparks flew as Hugo clipped the inside curb, refusing to back down.
Behind them, Izamuri could see everything unfolding, like a movie reel framed by the cockpit of his Civic. James was overdriving. His defense was costing him speed. Hugo had the momentum, but James's ruthless blocking kept him in command, for now.
Izamuri had no time to admire the duel. Mike was glued to his rear bumper, black-and-gold paint flashing in his mirrors. Every straight, every braking zone, Mike threw his Civic into the smallest of gaps, desperate to force Izamuri into a mistake.
"Block the inside," Daichi commanded through the radio. "Don't let him dive-bomb you. He's reckless, make him pay for overdriving."
Mike's style was all aggression, no finesse. He braked late, twitched his car side to side, desperate to unnerve his rival. But Izamuri matched him blow for blow, defending the racing line with calm precision.
At Coca-Cola Corner, Mike dove inside, his tires locking in a cloud of smoke. Izamuri held the outside, perfectly balanced, carrying superior speed through the exit. The white #98 held position, leaving Mike fuming in his mirrors.
The four-car train barreled into 100R, the long, sweeping right-hander that tested both tires and nerve. James took the middle line, Hugo pressed wide, and Izamuri shadowed them with a tighter arc, conserving speed.
Mike tried again, slinging his car to Izamuri's outside, hoping to pinch him. But Izamuri hugged the inside curbing, forcing Mike to back off or risk running wide into the grass. The Brit cursed inside his helmet as his momentum bled away.
Into the Hairpin, Hugo attacked again. He braked late, darting inside James. For a heartbeat, the blue-and-yellow Civic nosed ahead. But James muscled him wide on exit, dragging both cars to the outer edge of the track.
Izamuri, watching from third, nearly seized the chance to capitalize. He braked later than both, swinging his Civic tight to the inside curb, his nose overlapping Hugo's rear quarter. For a split second, he considered going two-for-one. But Hugo cut back across, and Izamuri had to settle for tucking back in line.
Mike wasn't far behind, regaining ground under braking, his headlights flashing in Izamuri's mirrors like a taunt.
The pack slingshotted through 300R, the high-speed right curve that opened onto the run to the Dunlop Chicane. Engines screamed, slipstreams locked.
James weaved slightly, trying to shake Hugo's tow. Hugo stayed glued, his front bumper nearly kissing James's diffuser. Izamuri trailed half a car length back, caught in the vacuum of their duel, while Mike clung to his wake like a shadow.
Daichi's voice came over the radio again, calm but urgent. "Stay patient. You're in striking distance. Let Hugo keep the pressure up front, your fight is with Hunt. Hold him off."
Izamuri nodded silently. He could feel Mike's desperation radiating like heat. Every braking zone, Mike lunged. Every corner exit, Mike bumped. But the G-Force driver stayed calm, every defense measured, every counter precise.
Braking for Dunlop, Hugo feinted right, then cut left, throwing James off balance. For a moment it looked like the Swede had him. But James braked impossibly late, his tires screaming, and somehow made the corner. Hugo had to back out, losing momentum.
Izamuri nearly rammed into him, forced to slam his own brakes to avoid contact. Mike seized the opportunity, diving alongside Izamuri through the second bend of the chicane. The two Civics ran door-to-door, mirrors nearly scraping.
"Hold your line!" Daichi barked.
Izamuri did, and by Turn 13's climb, he had the inside advantage, muscling Mike back into fourth once again.
Through Turn 13 and into Netz Corner, the pack surged uphill. James still led, Hugo breathing down his neck. Izamuri shadowed them, his tires biting hard, while Mike flung his car at every opening like a battering ram.
At Netz, Hugo lunged again, this time on the outside. James shoved him wide, their wheels brushing, sending sparks into the air. Izamuri took the inside line, hoping to undercut them both. But James's block and Hugo's recovery left no room to capitalize.
Mike tried to cut back underneath Izamuri at Panasonic, but the Japanese-Indonesian driver slammed the door, forcing Mike to back out yet again.
The four cars blasted onto the main straight to complete Lap 31. The slipstream train was tighter than ever, the gaps between them measured in inches rather than seconds.
James's car wobbled under the strain of his defensive driving. Hugo tucked in close, setting up for another slingshot. Izamuri stayed locked to Hugo's bumper, using his draft to fend off Mike. And Mike, furious and desperate, weaved left and right, searching for any crack.
The digital lap counter loomed ahead: Lap 32 / 32.
The final lap was upon them.. The crowd roared, finally sensing the tension reaching its peak. Four cars. James Hawthorn, Hugo Vatanen, Izamuri Sakuta, and Mike Hunt, were locked in a knife fight for victory.
The black-and-gold of Naka GP led into Turn 1, with James blocking Hugo's every attempt. Izamuri held steady in third, the nose of his Championship White EK9 barely a meter off Hugo's diffuser. Mike was restless in fourth, darting left and right, headlights flashing as if intimidation alone would force Izamuri wide.
Daichi's voice cracked over the radio. "Final lap. Everything you've got, this is it!"
Hugo struck first. He swung out from James's slipstream, late-braking on the inside line into Turn 1. James, desperate to hold, cut across and the two nearly touched. For a moment, their Civics slid side by side, tires shrieking. Hugo's blue-and-yellow machine held steady, forced James just wide enough, and claimed the apex.
"YES!" Fumihiro shouted over Hugo's radio. "That's it, keep it clean, keep it tight!"
Behind them, Izamuri saw his chance to capitalize on James's compromised exit. He pulled wide to dive into Coca-Cola, but James slammed the door with a brutal block. The Brit's defense was uncompromising, almost violent, forcing Izamuri to brake harder than he wanted.
Mike tried to seize the opening on Izamuri's inside, but Izamuri cut back, snapping the door shut and holding third.
Hugo now led the pack, James glued to his bumper, Izamuri chasing both, and Mike still lurking like a predator.
The cars surged through Coca-Cola, into the endless sweep of 100R. Hugo's pace was smooth and controlled, his car balanced as he leaned on the tires with perfect precision. James, by contrast, pushed too hard, his car twitching as he tried to match Hugo's speed.
Izamuri tucked low, staying disciplined, conserving his tires for one last attack. Mike, however, had no such patience. He lunged for Izamuri's outside line, forcing his car door-to-door with the white Civic mid-corner. Their wheels almost kissed, but Izamuri held firm, his nose still ahead as they raced toward the Hairpin.
The Hairpin loomed, a sharp right turn that always decided battles. Hugo braked late, perfectly, planting his car on the inside apex. James tried to cover, but his overworked brakes betrayed him; the black-and-gold car slid slightly wide, just enough.
Hugo powered out, his Civic surging forward, seizing first place. The Swede finally had the lead, his car singing as he pulled ahead.
James snarled in frustration, slamming gears as he clawed back at the throttle. His Civic twitched, hunting for grip, but Hugo was gone. The blue-and-yellow machine thundered ahead, clean and steady, finally free of James's elbows-out defense.
Behind them, Izamuri had the run on James. He dove for the inside on corner exit, but James swerved down hard, forcing Izamuri into the curb. Sparks flew as the #98's chassis scraped the ripple strip. Izamuri had to lift, momentum killed.
Mike pounced.
Mike used Izamuri's lost speed to close the gap. Through 300R, the long left-hand curve, the black-and-gold #7 stayed tight on Izamuri's bumper.
Daichi's voice came through the radio, sharp and urgent.
"Hold the line, don't give him space!"
Izamuri focused, holding his Civic steady, eyes forward. But Mike had other ideas.
As they exited 300R and approached the braking zone for Panasonic, Mike tapped Izamuri's rear bumper, not once, but twice. A punt. The white Civic snapped sideways, its rear twitching violently. Izamuri fought the wheel, arms flailing, barely catching the slide. By the time he regained control, Mike had forced his way through.
"Bastard!" Rin shouted from the pit wall, slamming her headset against the barrier.
Izamuri growled inside his helmet, fury boiling. But there was no time to dwell. He tucked in behind Mike, slotting back into fourth place with just a few corners left.
Ahead, Hugo led, James fought to keep up, Mike now ran third, and Izamuri was hungry in fourth.
They blasted into Panasonic, the final long right-hander. James tried a desperate lunge at Hugo, but Hugo coolly defended, forcing James wide. The two drifted toward the outer edge, tires screaming in protest.
Izamuri lined up behind Mike, searching for a gap. But Mike swerved aggressively, blocking left, then right, refusing to let him through.
Izamuri bit his lip, resisting the urge to force a door that wasn't there. The white Civic followed Mike's tail through the corner exit, waiting for the straight.
And then, the last chance arrived.
All four cars rocketed out of Panasonic and onto Fuji's legendary main straight. The engines screamed at redline, each car clawing for every kilometer per hour it could muster.
Hugo led the pack, James tucked tight in his slipstream. Behind them, Mike and Izamuri were locked together, their headlights glaring like dueling swords.
The crowd rose to their feet, the roar of thousands echoing over the circuit.
The final drag race had begun.
The final straight at Fuji International Speedway thundered with the deafening scream of twenty-four B-series and K-series Honda engines at maximum attack. But all eyes were locked on the four-car train exploding out of Panasonic, charging toward the checkered flag.
Hugo Vatanen led in the blue-and-yellow Hugo Speed EK9, his lines smooth, his acceleration clean, his car perfectly balanced. Behind him, James Hawthorn's black-and-gold Naka GP Civic clung like a shadow, slipstreaming, waiting for his chance.
Mike Hunt sat in third, desperate and twitching at the wheel, his car lurching in and out of Hugo's draft like a predator testing its prey. And behind them, Izamuri Sakuta's Championship White #98 strained every sinew, the Advan tires screaming, the rev limiter crying as he tried to keep the trio in reach.
Then it happened.
The Naka GP cars surged.
It wasn't subtle. One moment James's Civic was barely clinging to Hugo's draft, the next it leapt forward as if yanked by an invisible slingshot. The acceleration was unnatural, a burst of power that no naturally aspirated 2.0-liter could possibly produce under the regulations.
The G-Force pit wall erupted in confusion.
"What the hell was that!?" Rin shouted, slamming her hand against the guardrail.
"They've got something… something illegal!" Walter barked, eyes wide on the timing monitor. "That's not engine tuning. That's… something else."
Simon's face went pale as his suspicion hardened. "It's too clean, too sudden. There's no way those cars gained ten kilometers an hour that fast."
But all Daichi could do was clench his fists and watch. "Ignore it. Focus on Hugo. Come on, Hugo…"
The surge launched James directly alongside Hugo. The two Civics screamed down the straight, side by side, front bumpers perfectly aligned as they hurtled past the pit wall at over 220 km/h.
"Come on, Hugo!" Fumihiro shouted into the Hugo Speed radio, voice cracking. "Hold the line! Keep it planted!"
Hugo gritted his teeth, his hands steady on the wheel. The Swede wasn't about to let a cheater steal the glory. "I've got him," he said calmly, even as James's gold-striped nose inched closer.
James, inside his helmet, was grinning. He could taste victory. "C'mon, you bloody Swede… just a little more…"
The black-and-gold Civic clawed at Hugo's flank, desperate to nudge ahead before the finish.
But for Izamuri, the surge was crushing.
He had been right there, ready to pounce, ready to fight for the podium. But as the Naka GP cars activated whatever dark secret lay under their hoods, the gap opened in an instant. He floored the throttle, engine screaming, but his car simply didn't have the legs.
Inside his helmet, he roared with frustration. "Damn it! Not now!"
On the pit wall, Daichi's expression softened as he watched his protégé fight. "Don't worry about them, Izamuri. Fourth is enough. More than enough."
Nikolai slammed his fist into the pit counter. "Enough!? He deserves better than fourth! He's driving his soul out there!"
But Simon shook his head, eyes never leaving the straight. "Watch carefully. He's shown them. Every lap, every corner, he's proven he belongs. Fourth place or not, everyone will remember his name after today."
The checkered flag waved, sunlight glinting off its fabric as it flapped over the line. The grandstands erupted with the roar of thousands of Honda fans on their feet, the tension unbearable as the two lead cars approached the finish.
Hugo and James crossed almost simultaneously, the naked eye unable to separate them. Their bumpers were aligned to the millimeter, both cars screaming in protest as if the very bolts wanted to tear apart.
Behind them, Mike crossed in third, Izamuri just a breath away in fourth, his car giving everything until the very last meter.
The track fell into stunned silence for a moment. Everyone craned to the timing screens, waiting for the official verdict.
The monitors flickered, numbers updating.
P1 – Hugo Vatanen, Hugo Speed.
P2 – James Hawthorn, Naka GP.
P3 – Mike Hunt, Naka GP.
P4 – Izamuri Sakuta, G-Force.
By 0.047 seconds, Hugo had beaten James.
The Hugo Speed pit erupted. Mechanics leapt into the air, shouting, hugging, tears streaming down faces. Fumihiro slammed his headset onto the counter and cheered, "YES! YES! We did it!"
In the G-Force pit, the mood was more complex. Relief and pride for Hugo, but also quiet fury at the obvious cheating from Naka GP. Yet above all, pride for Izamuri's fourth place finish. For a rookie, on debut, against veterans and billionaires, he had gone toe-to-toe with the best.
James slammed his steering wheel in frustration as his car coasted down the cooldown lap. "No way! That was mine!" he screamed, voice echoing inside his helmet. "That damn Swede stole it!"
Mike's laughter came over the Naka GP radio. "Cheer up, mate. We still embarrassed the rookie. Fourth place? He should've stayed in karting!"
But their pit was far less celebratory. Bellasconi, arms crossed, stared at the timing monitor with cold fury. He had expected domination, a crushing display of power. Instead, his golden boys had been beaten, barely, but beaten nonetheless. His jaw clenched as he muttered in Italian, "Unacceptable."
Meanwhile, Hugo rolled down the cooldown lap, raising a fist out the window to acknowledge the cheering crowd. "That one's for us," he radioed, his voice calm but filled with pride. "We fought fair. And we won fair."
Izamuri, still buzzing with adrenaline, let his head fall back against the seat. His hands shook on the wheel. Fourth place. Not a podium, not the win. But it felt monumental all the same.
Daichi's voice came through softly. "Izamuri… you did good. Better than good. You proved yourself today."
Izamuri closed his eyes for a brief moment, whispering to himself, "Next time… it'll be mine."
As the cars circled slowly back toward the pits, the grandstands continued their thunderous applause. Fans waved banners, cheered names, and clapped for the spectacle they had just witnessed.
The battle wasn't just about positions. It was about honor, about heart, about proving that even a rookie with no pedigree could stand tall among giants.
And though Hugo Vatanen would stand atop the podium, the story of the day was already being whispered through the paddock, through the garages, and across every Honda enthusiast forum online.
The rookie, Izamuri Sakuta, had arrived. And he was here to stay.