The sun hung lazily above the Quezon countryside, casting soft gold over the humble motorsport complex built behind an old sugarcane field. It wasn't a glamorous racetrack—just worn tarmac, hand-painted lines, and fences patched with wire. But for the small circle of karting families in the province, it was the center of their universe.
Inside the dusty administrative office, the air smelled like faded ink and sweat. A squeaky fan spun above a scratched-up wooden desk.
Julian stood beside his son, both holding paperwork in hand.
"Next," called the bored clerk.
They stepped forward.
The man behind the desk adjusted his thick glasses, squinted down at Coasta, then looked at Julian. "Your kid's the one, right? The one who's been training on the empty lot near the river?"
Julian nodded. "That's him."
The man gave a half-smile. "People been talking. Four years old, huh?"
"Turned four a few months ago."
"Ambitious."
Julian shrugged. "He's ready."
Coasta didn't speak. He simply watched, quiet and calm.
The man stamped the registration sheet.
"Alright. Coasta Fernandez. Officially licensed for entry-level kid karting. First practice day starts next week. He'll need medical clearance and a full kit. Helmet, suit, gloves."
Julian handed over a folder. "Done."
The man chuckled, impressed. "You're not joking around."
"We never were."
---
That Evening
At the dinner table, Elena served sinigang as her sons gathered around. The certificate sat in the center like a trophy. Even his older brothers—usually aloof—were impressed.
"You really signed up?" said Javier, the middle child, grinning. "Official?"
Coasta nodded with a shy smile.
The eldest brother, Lucas, leaned over and ruffled his hair. "You better be fast, little man."
"I will be," Coasta replied, then spooned rice into his mouth like it was a mission.
Julian watched him with a small smile but said nothing. Elena nudged him under the table.
"You're proud," she whispered.
"I'm focused," he muttered. "This is just the start."
---
Two Days Later – At the Karting Academy
The karting academy was just outside the city—a small enclosed facility run by a retired British karting coach named Mr. Alton.
He was tall, balding, and wore a stopwatch like a wristwatch. Stern face, always in polo and khakis. Most kids feared him. Not because he yelled—but because he expected excellence.
Julian and Coasta stood at the gate as Mr. Alton reviewed the papers.
"Four years old?" he said with a raised brow. His British accent was sharp. "We don't usually take them that early."
"He's not usual," Julian said plainly.
Mr. Alton turned his gaze to Coasta, who stared back with innocent, steady eyes.
"You. What's your name?"
"Coasta Fernandez."
"You understand what this place is?"
Coasta nodded. "It's where drivers are made."
Mr. Alton stared at him for a long moment… then cracked a rare smile.
"Fair enough. Tomorrow, 7 AM. Don't be late."
He looked at Julian. "I won't go easy."
Julian grinned. "He wouldn't want it any other way."
---
Later That Night
As Coasta lay in bed, helmet beside his pillow, he stared at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above him.
There was a sense of peace. A sense of purpose.
Not excitement—but clarity.
And somewhere within his subconscious—
[SYSTEM UPDATE COMPLETE]
[Tracking Performance Metrics: Activated]
[Progression Roadmap: Phase 1 – Academy Training]
A faint whisper echoed in his mind.
> "One signature… and the path begins."