Leonhardt's lap time was impressive by F1 standards—eye-catching, even.
But in the world of Cyber Formula, where elite drivers gather and cutting-edge tech reigns supreme, that time carried pressure… yet was far from insurmountable.
And now, everyone was waiting to see what Leon, the so-called "American Racing King" and special guest for this event, could deliver.
The audience felt a mix of anticipation and disdain.
"Six minutes, I bet."
"Honestly, if he finishes the entire lap without crashing, that's already something."
"His first CF race and his first F1 race on top of that… the rules alone will break him."
"He definitely won't beat Leonhardt."
Mocking laughter spread through the stands—cold, dismissive.
No applause.
Just a stadium waiting to laugh at Leon.
Most of the crowd were locals, here to support their home teams.
To them, Leon was an outsider—no support, no welcome.
Practically a hostile away game.
But none of that affected Leon.
He was already seated inside the Tyrant, waiting calmly.
When the broadcast announced his name, he eased the car toward the starting line.
Countdown started.
Leon focused, tapped the throttle twice in neutral—
VRRROOOOM!!
The Formula engine unleashed a ferocious roar, like an enraged lion declaring its dominance.
The sound sent ripples of shock through the spectators.
A collective realization hit them—
Did their mockery just awaken a sleeping king?
The Tyrant—its chassis, wheels, every angle—looked perfectly tuned.
Not a single flaw.
Even before launching, the car radiated sharp, lethal momentum, like an arrow waiting to fly.
One more light…
5… 4… 3… 2…
BOOM!!!
The explosion of sound was like crashing waves, each surge more violent than the last—
a war horn calling a champion to charge.
GO!!
Tyrant!!
Under Leon's flawless control, the Tyrant blasted forward—
0–100 km/h in 1.71 seconds!
A new world record, beating the previous one by 1.89 seconds.
And he did it in an F1-type machine, making it even more unbelievable.
The Tyrant lives up to its name.
"GO!!" Leon roared, exhilarated.
A wide, open track—perfect for letting the beast run wild.
The Tyrant howled, drowning out applause, gasps, everything.
It didn't need approval.
This level of performance wasn't something worth bragging about.
For the Tyrant, it was only natural.
The speed climbed rapidly—
421 km/h
A monstrous number for normal racing cars, but merely upper-tier for high-tech CF machines.
Leonhardt held back his boosters.
Leon did the same.
Every racer would.
Showing your trump cards in Phase 1 qualifying was idiotic.
Taking first place in Phase 1 might actually be bad,
because it would force you to run last in the decisive second phase.
Everyone held back.
So did Leon.
But then—
At 434 km/h, he reached the first corner.
And he didn't turn.
He didn't slow down.
He just shot straight through.
He wasn't following the track's curve—
He was following Momo's calculated shortcut line.
He slid through two consecutive corners—
WITHOUT BRAKING.
Experience, technique, courage—
Leon had all three.
Enough to crush Leonhardt's time.
"Holy—he's cutting corners at that speed?!"
"I've never seen anyone take a double-curve without turning!"
"No way he's a rookie!"
"This is insane!"
The audience reeled in disbelief.
If Leon had been a veteran F1 driver, maybe they could accept it.
But he was a rookie.
And he was doing this?
A genius, perhaps?
People began recording with their phones—
This moment had to be captured.
Leon's speed kept rising.
The Tyrant's roar grew sharper.
500 km/h—
Fully achieved without using boosters.
The trackside sensors lit up with frenzied red numbers.
Racers and spectators alike stared, stunned.
This speed—
this control—
A record no one could break within ten years.
"Insane top speed!"
"Five hundred?! You'd vomit your organs braking from that!"
"What the hell is this monster?!"
"So fast!"
The Tyrant's charge stunned the crowd nonstop from the moment he launched.
Every second brought another shock.
Like climbing Everest—
some racers would step over Leon to claim glory.
Others would collapse halfway, becoming stepping stones for him.
Victory or defeat—
a difference of mere millimeters.
Cruel, but real.
Leon approached another corner.
He downshifted aggressively, slammed the brakes.
Speed plummeted to 150 km/h before he cut in from the outer line.
The violent downshift almost made him cough blood—
no wonder CF engines rarely survive two hours of racing.
If this were a normal sports car, he could just drift.
But CF tires had insane grip—
Drifting was impossible.
He could only muscle the car through.
Leon executed a beautiful outside-inside-outside line—smooth and fierce.
WHOOSH!
The Tyrant became a black streak again.
And then—
He crossed the finish line.
The entire stadium fell silent.
No cheers.
No shouts.
Just stunned disbelief.
Until the big screen flashed a massive number—
3:59.
Under four minutes.
A new record.
A legend officially born.
~~----------------------
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