"Marcus."
"Yeah?"
"In him... I see myself at sixteen."
Justin's voice was barely a whisper. Marcus, whose eyes had been glued to the red-and-black MoTeC telemetry interface, felt his hand freeze on the mouse. He looked up, glancing at the boy currently liquidated into a beanbag chair in the rest area, then back at Justin.
As friends of over a decade, Marcus knew Justin better than anyone. The "Second Young Master of the Xu Family" was a man who navigated the shark-infested waters of high finance with ease, but at his core, he was a terminal idealist. Years ago, Justin had nearly severed ties with his family to pursue professional racing. In the end, his talent had hit a ceiling just inches below the professional threshold, forcing him back into the family empire. It was his deepest scar.
"You're wrong," Marcus said. He didn't do "polite" when it came to racing. "If you had half his talent at sixteen, I'd be in an F1 paddock right now tightening the wheel nuts on your car, not playing babysitter at a local kart track."
Justin laughed—a dry, self-deprecating sound, but one flavored with relief. "You're right. I didn't have it."
"And because I didn't have it," Justin continued, his eyes glowing with a sharp, terrifying intensity in the dim paddock light, "I want to push him more than anyone. I want to build a World Champion with my own hands. Not for the money—for the dream."
Marcus was silent for a moment, returning to his helmet visor. Clang. He set the helmet on the table. "I want to push him, too. But you don't sharpen a legendary blade with a soft whetstone. The 4-strokes are a cage for him. If he's a shark, we need deeper water."
In the rest area, Roan was slowly emerging from his "Sage Mode."
The lethargy was being replaced by a gnawing, visceral hunger. Playing on a G29 wheel was like eating discounted supermarket beef. The high-end motion rig had been a taste of M4 Wagyu. But the raw, vibrating G-forces of the real 4-stroke kart? That was a M6 Ribeye—thick, bloody, and full of flavor.
But Roan wasn't satisfied.
Once you know M6 exists, you don't think "this is enough." You wonder if there's an M9. Or the legendary M12 that melts on the tongue. For most people, contentment is a virtue. For a driver, insatiable greed is the primary survival instinct.
As Roan's muscles stopped twitching and his mind began calculating the trajectory of a 2-stroke shifter kart, a hand appeared in his field of vision. Between two fingers sat a matte black-and-gold card.
Roan looked up. Justin stood there, the sun at his back. The arrogance was gone. The businessman's glint had been filed away. There was only raw sincerity.
"Roan," Justin said, his voice low and heavy. "I know you don't take handouts. Earlier... I was out of line."
Roan opened his mouth to respond, but Justin cut him off. "But if you want to win—to keep winning—you need a track. You need a team. You need top-tier resources."
Justin had done his homework. He knew Roan came from a middle-class academic family—a professor father and a teacher mother. He was a merit-based scholarship student, an "academic mercenary" hired by the school to boost their rankings. In the world of elite motorsport, Roan was essentially invisible.
"This isn't a gift," Justin said, placing the card on the table. "It's an entry ticket. I provide the capital; I stay out of your cockpit. I just want to be able to say I was there when the World Champion started his engine."
Roan stared at the card.
Twenty minutes ago, he would have pushed it back. It would have felt like a condescending tip. But now, he saw something else in Justin's eyes. He wasn't looking at a "project" or a younger brother's friend. He was looking at a teammate.
Moreover, the real world had ruined him. The taste of actual asphalt, the zero-latency physics, the bone-shaking reality of the track—he could never go back to just a screen.
But he knew the math. A season of competitive karting cost as much as a luxury SUV. Moving into F4 meant a budget of at least $300,000 a year. F3 and F2? You were looking at millions of dollars—enough to buy penthouses in the heart of any major city. Racing speed wasn't just built on talent; it was built on a foundation of gold.
Roan's finger touched the edge of the card. He was caught in the friction between his pride and the sheer, agonizing cost of his ambition.
"Deal!"
The word didn't come from Roan. It was Zack, shouting from the side.
Zack knew Roan better than anyone. He knew the boy's pride was a fortress. He'd kept that RTX 3090 in his closet for six months, afraid to give it to Roan because he didn't want to insult his friend's "Keyboard Legend" dignity. But today was different. This wasn't a toy; it was a lifeblood.
"I'm the official manager!" Zack declared, stepping between them. He looked at Roan, then back to his brother. "Any business talk involving more than fifty bucks goes through me. Roan drives the car; I count the money."
Roan looked at Zack, his finger still on the card. The "manager" gave him a goofy, supportive grin. The choice was made.