THE REAL PROTEGE

Fatty reached the curve first — too fast.

The moment his front tires hit the angled portion of the track, he felt the pull — the sudden, sharp drag trying to yank him outward. Instinct screamed at him to jerk the wheel away from the angle, but Pharsa's voice cut through his panic.

"Do NOT overcorrect!" Pharsa yelled over the radio.

Fatty clenched his jaw. He forced himself to do the exact opposite of what his instincts demanded — he trusted the angle, letting his car slide into the banked turn at the right trajectory.

The wheels held. No spin-out.

Fatty let out a shaky breath. "Hell!!! That was terrifying!"

Four Eyes, approaching the turn, did the opposite — he slowed too much.

Pharsa sighed. "Young Master, you can't hesitate!" Her voice was firm but not harsh. "If you go too slow, the bank won't carry you properly, and you'll lose all momentum."

Four Eyes pressed the gas harder — and the car jerked. The sudden acceleration made his tires skid slightly against the curve.

"Relax," Pharsa coached. "Smooth input. Don't slam anything — gradual movements."

Four Eyes adjusted, taking the turn, gripping the wheel so tightly that his hands ached — but he made it.

Back onto the straightaway.

After an hour, Pharsa smirked. "Alright," she murmured, "now we pick up speed."

The radio crackled as Fatty scoffed. "You sure? We're barely hanging on here."

"You wanted the challenge, didn't you?" Pharsa teased. "Let's see who adapts faster."

Their eyes narrowed — competitive instincts kicking in.

Fatty slammed the throttle.

Four Eyes followed.

And the real race began.

The thunderous roar of engines filled the racetrack as Fatty and Four Eyes pushed their NASCARs harder, the vibrations rattling their bones. The straightaway stretched ahead — open, inviting them to seize every ounce of speed their machines could muster.

Fatty gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on the wheel. "No way I'm losing to Chu Yan," he muttered under his breath, pushing the throttle.

The instant power surge slammed him against his seat, the force threatening to suffocate him. The car rocketed forward, tires gripping the asphalt like claws, wind whipping past in violent bursts.

Four Eyes, though not as reckless, wasn't about to back down. Four Eyes' focus sharpened — heart hammering against his ribs as he matched the acceleration. His car glided in near-perfect alignment with Fatty's, a testament to his careful control.

Pharsa's voice crackled through the radio. "Watch your trajectory — don't just think about speed!"

Fatty barely heard her — his mind was locked onto victory.

The next turn approached — fast.

Four Eyes stole a glance at Fatty, seeing the wild glint in his eyes. "He's going too fast," he realized. "If he doesn't slow before the curve — "

Fatty made a split-second decision — he wouldn't slow down.

The tires screeched violently as Fatty hit the banked turn, the centrifugal force shoving him outward like a slingshot. His car tilted, threatening to lose traction.

Pharsa's voice barked into the radio. "Quan Ye! Adjust!"

Four Eyes took the turn smoothly, keeping his angle sharp, his control unwavering.

Fatty fought for dominance — gritting his teeth, yanking the wheel slightly just enough to regain control. The back end wobbled for a terrifying moment — then caught traction again.

He was still in the race.

But Four Eyes had gained an advantage.

They shot out of the curve, wheels hugging the ground, the stadium lights flashing like blinding streaks against the darkening sky.

Fatty narrowed his eyes. "Not over yet."

He activated the draft — sliding behind Four Eyes, using the air displacement to slingshot forward.

Four Eyes saw it happening — felt it — and immediately adjusted his position, trying to shake Fatty off his tail.

"Fatty's drafting," Pharsa observed, watching with keen interest. "If Four Eyes doesn't block him now, he's losing the lead."

Fatty surged forward.

Four Eyes veered slightly, attempting to cut him off — but Fatty anticipated it, shifting lanes in perfect precision.

Their front bumpers aligned—

Their speeds matched—

The final stretch loomed.

It was now or never.

Pharsa, arms crossed, smirked. "Let's see who really learned something today."

During the Race's final moments. The thunderous roar of engines filled the racetrack, reverberating through the metal grandstands and rattling the very air. Fatty and Four Eyes were locked in a merciless battle — two machines pushed to their absolute limits, their drivers threading the needle between dominance and disaster.

Their NASCARs tore across the track, the world dissolving into streaks of color and blurred motion. The tires screamed against the pavement, scraping the limits of adhesion as their vehicles clawed their way forward, neither giving an inch.

Four Eyes was calculated — cold precision guiding his every move. His grip on the wheel was iron-tight, his mind tuned to the minute vibrations of the car beneath him. He could feel everything — the pressure shifts, the balance adjustments, the exact moments to throttle forward and when to ease off.

Fatty was chaos. A beast barely restrained, riding the razor's edge of recklessness. He had no patience for caution, no tolerance for hesitation. He wanted victory — needed it — and he was willing to gamble every fiber of his being to grasp it.

From the sidelines, Pharsa stood with arms crossed, her expression unreadable, but inside, her instincts screamed. 'Something was wrong.'

Then — it happened.

Fatty yanked his wheel a fraction too hard, pushing into the final turn like a man possessed. His tires bit deep, gripping for dear life, but the angle was too sharp, the force too raw.

A horrible —

SNAP !!!

BOOM !!!

Fatty's rear tires lost traction. The NASCAR lurched violently, fishtailing in an unforgiving whip of momentum.

Four Eyes shot past the finish line, his breath ragged, heart hammering against his ribs. His mind was still flooded with the rush, the sheer electricity of winning — until he realized 'something was wrong.'

No Fatty. No second car crossed the finish line behind him.

Confusion clouded his thoughts for half a second — then the sound hit him.

A screech of bending metal. The gut-wrenching crunch of impact.

Four Eyes' head snapped toward the far end of the track, where a fireball had bloomed — violent orange and searing hot.

Fatty's car had overshot the railing.

And it was burning.

There was a rush to save Fatty.