With Night Falling at Chirai Pass.
The last light of day bled out behind the jagged silhouette of the mountains, painting the sky in bruised purples and ember reds. A creeping dusk blanketed Chirai Pass, and with it came the pulse of energy unique to a night race. The air was electric—alive with tension, excitement, and the scent of rubber and pine. Spectators crowded the hillsides and cliffs, camped out under lanterns and LED rigging strapped to tripods, casting pale light across the course like a constellation mirrored on the ground. Every outcropping and shoulder was claimed, cameras and phones raised, voices buzzing, the whole mountain crackling like a live wire.
Then came the sound.
A low, steady rumble that grew into a thunderous growl—the kind of resonance that made hearts skip and pulses quicken. The unmistakable hum of tuned engines crested the summit, headlights cutting through the thickening mist that had begun to spill over the peaks like ghostly floodwater.
Team Speed Stars arrived not with fanfare, but with precision.
The AE86 emerged first, its high beams sweeping left and right as it crested the final bend, its bodywork shining under the harsh glow of the floodlights. Behind it, four blacked-out support vans followed in formation, the convoy rolling to a synchronized stop on the gravel shoulder with the mechanical hiss of brakes and the crunch of tires on loose stone.
A beat later, the silence was broken again—this time by the savage snarl of a turbocharged engine spooling with mechanical menace.
The Lancia Rally 037 nosed into view, its white body low and poised, a predator in motion. The lights cast its silhouette sharp and angular, every intake and vent a testament to its purpose. The exhaust barked as it coasted into position beside a deep blue Ford Sierra RS Cosworth already waiting on the far end of the lot. The Ford idled steadily, tailpipe pluming thin vapor into the night air.
Yoimiya leaned against the Cosworth's door like she owned the mountain, her fire-gold eyes gleaming with mischief in the half-light. A black bomber jacket hung off one shoulder, and her arms were folded across her chest, lithe frame relaxed but coiled with anticipation.
Clorinde sat in the Lancia's cockpit a moment longer than necessary, hands resting lightly on the Momo steering wheel, gaze locked straight ahead. Then she exhaled slowly and clicked the harness buckle free, the straps snapping back with a metallic rattle. The door creaked open on its rally-spec hinges, and she stepped out into the cold night.
Her long coat fluttered in the breeze, the hem brushing her boots as she moved. The air bit with alpine chill, but Clorinde barely seemed to notice. Her stare met Yoimiya's across the space between them—cold steel to wildfire.
"Miss me?" Yoimiya called out, the corner of her mouth twitching in a grin.
Clorinde's lips twitched in return—barely—but her silence said everything. A subtle nod. A greeting. An acknowledgement. This wasn't their first dance.
Before more could pass between them, Keqing approached from behind, her stride brisk and direct, violet eyes narrowed with purpose.
"We'd like to set the starting order," she said, skipping pleasantries, voice crisp like a team captain should be. "Since you're the locals, what's your call?"
Yoimiya's grin widened. "If you don't mind, I'll chase." She said it like a challenge, a flame tossed in a dry forest.
Keqing gave a short nod. No objections. She turned toward the waiting crowd, her voice rising like a command from on high.
"All right! The race is about to start!"
The mountains answered her with an eruption of cheers. Flares popped in the distance. The energy hit a new high.
Clorinde stepped forward and extended a hand. Yoimiya didn't hesitate—her grip was firm, heated, almost daring. Their handshake was more than formality. It was the opening bell.
"Nice to see you again, Yoimiya," Clorinde said coolly, her tone unreadable but grounded.
"Nice to see you too, rally racer," Yoimiya shot back, her grin all teeth and challenge.
Then they broke away, returning to their machines like gladiators to armor.
Inside the Lancia, Clorinde dropped into the bucket seat and shut the door with a dampened thunk. She pulled the harness over her shoulders in a practiced flow, locking the belts into the five-point buckle and cinching each strap tight. Her gloved hands tested the suede-covered wheel for give, then moved to adjust the shifter's position, verifying the throw.
A long breath escaped her lips, fogging the windshield. Then she inhaled sharply and opened her eyes.
Let's dance.
Whump-whump-whump. The twin electric fuel pumps primed. The engine barked to life with a high-strung roar, revving once before settling into a tense, guttural idle. The Cosworth followed suit, its twin-cam turbocharged four humming like a beast pacing in a cage.
Keqing raised one hand high above her head, fingers outstretched as the engines growled louder.
"FIVE!"
"FOUR!"
"THREE!"
"TWO!"
"ONE—!"
"GO!"
Her arm slashed downward like a blade, and the world exploded.
The Lancia surged forward in a snap-launch, rear wheels spinning up on the cold tarmac before finding grip and hurling the car toward the first corner. Yoimiya's Cosworth rocketed after it, turbo spool screaming, tires clawing at the mountain. Twin taillights burned red in the dark, shrinking rapidly as both machines carved into the opening hairpin—left-right-left in a blink, the dance already underway.
"Go get that Lancia, Yoimiya!" someone shouted from the roadside.
"Don't let her pull away!"
Keqing stepped back from the road, arms lowering as she tracked the red dots plunging into the descending curves of Chirai. The noise faded into the mist, the high-strung engines echoing like distant war cries.
Beside her, Ningguang remained silent, arms crossed, her white coat reflecting the floodlight's halo. A smirk played across her lips.
"You recognized that girl in the Cosworth, right?" Keqing asked, eyes still on the darkness below.
"I did," Ningguang said, voice low and calm. "Yoimiya. Haven't seen her since Jakotsu Pass."
Keqing glanced at her. "Think she's a threat?"
"Not to Clorinde." Ningguang's answer came without hesitation. "She raced that exact Cosworth last autumn. Knows every twitch of its suspension, every lag pocket in its boost curve. If Yoimiya pulls any stunts she tried at Jakotsu, Clorinde'll see it coming a mile away. She's got counters for all of it."
She paused, thoughtful. "But I didn't expect her to be here tonight."
Keqing exhaled through her nose, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah. And Collei's not gonna have it easy either. That Silvia S13 with the Rocket Bunny kit? That's a pro driver behind the wheel."
Ningguang scoffed. "Collei's already gone toe-to-toe with pros. Don't forget Shinobu. Feiyun High's finest, remember?"
"Right," Keqing said, nodding. "Turned pro right after she lost to Collei."
Ningguang's gaze shifted uphill now, toward the pre-grid area where the Eight Six was parked alone, hood propped open, engine ticking softly as it cooled. "Collei's grown since then. That new engine's a monster. Powerband's widened down to seventy-five hundred RPM. She's not stuck wringing the tach to redline every time she needs torque anymore."
Keqing smiled faintly. "And that 280 horsepower… she's finally got the legs to fight back on the straights."
"She'll need it," Ningguang murmured. "That Silvia's a rocket on entry and a goddamn bullet out of apex."
They both stood quiet for a long moment, listening.
Far down the mountainside, the echoes of a high-revving rally car and a spooling turbo four were still alive—still fighting for control of Chirai Pass.
The night had only just begun.
And the mountain was watching.
The two machines screamed through the descending left-hand hairpin like a pair of apex predators tearing across steel rails, their engines howling in violent harmony. The night air quivered with the mechanical fury unleashed on Chirai Pass, the mountain echoing back their rage like a thunderous war cry. At the head of the pack, Clorinde's Lancia 037 dove into the corner with the fluid brutality of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. She rolled off the throttle with surgical timing, heel-toeing the downshift with a crisp blip that barked through the exhaust, keeping the chassis settled as the rear end rotated just enough to kiss the limits of adhesion. Her hands, calm and surgical on the wheel, adjusted the angle with minute inputs, the front tires carving through the inside arc while the rears clawed the tarmac with lethal grace.
Thin streaks of scorched rubber traced her path like ink on parchment.
The tail of the car rotated perfectly in sync with her footwork—calculated, cold, almost inhuman. It was the kind of technique that didn't come from practice alone. It was instinct honed through fire, a display of refined aggression that called to mind the legend of Ayrton Senna—the same kind of fluid throttle modulation, the same ruthlessly efficient commitment to every corner. No wasted motion. No mercy.
Behind her, the Ford Sierra RS Cosworth danced on the ragged edge.
Yoimiya gritted her teeth as she followed in Clorinde's wake, her line mirroring the same trajectory but with less mechanical obedience. Her eyes, sharp as ever, tracked the Lancia's movement like a hawk, golden irises glowing under the dash light, reflecting fury and admiration all at once. "Her car's evolved," she muttered, jaw tight, breath shallow. "Same body. Same sound. But it's faster. A lot faster than when we raced in Jakotsu."
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, the Alcantara wrap digging into the creases of her palms as she feathered the throttle with expert tension. "She didn't just polish her technique—she sharpened it."
Yoimiya could feel it in her bones—the way the Lancia pulled ahead not just in the corners, but even more alarmingly, on the straightaways. That shouldn't have been possible. Not against the fire-breathing Cosworth, with its brutally tuned turbocharger and near-perfect powerband. And yet…
Her eyes narrowed as she slammed the shifter from third into fourth, timing the clutch and throttle with a violent synchronicity. The turbo spooled in response, howling like a banshee. The Cosworth surged forward with brutal intent, the steering wheel trembling slightly as the boost kicked in hard.
She closed the gap—barely.
And then the Lancia pulled away again. Just enough to drive the frustration deeper.
Another hairpin approached—left-hand, blind exit.
Clorinde braked late, almost too late. The front end bit hard, and the rear danced. With impossible poise, she feathered the throttle and slid the car sideways into a flawless four-wheel drift, countering the weight transfer with a subtle steering correction. The Lancia looked like it was on rails even as it skated across the limit of traction.
Behind her, Yoimiya matched the angle—but her style was rawer. No steering input, just throttle balance. The Cosworth entered a clean no-countersteer four-wheel drift, the kind of maneuver only achievable with terrifying commitment. Her hands didn't move. Only her right foot adjusted, dancing on the accelerator like a concert pianist hitting a crescendo.
But it wasn't enough.
The gap refused to shrink. It held, cruel and stubborn.
Back at Base
The floodlights buzzed faintly over the parking area, casting stark shadows across the gravel and pavement. Amid the gathering of street racers and spectators, Ganyu made her way through the crowd, her expression calm but focused. She found Collei leaning against the hood of the Eight Six, her arms crossed, gaze fixed toward the dark stretch of mountainside where the sound of engines echoed like distant thunder.
"Hey, Collei," Ganyu said, her voice gentle but clear. "What's it like? Driving this course?"
Collei blinked out of her trance, eyes shifting to Ganyu. For a moment, she looked reluctant to speak. Then she pushed off the car and uncrossed her arms, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"It's brutal," she said plainly. "But smart. The course is split into three sections, and that makes it a tactician's playground… if you've got the skill to back it up. But pulling off tactics here? Almost impossible. It pushes both the car and the driver to the brink."
She gestured out toward the slope, tracing invisible lines in the air with her finger.
"The first section? It's wide. Fast. Room for two cars side by side, so it's all about who's got the guts to push flat-out. Clorinde has the edge there. Her Lancia's lighter, more planted, and she knows how to use every inch of road."
Ganyu nodded slowly, eyes narrowing with focus.
"The second section's the total opposite," Collei continued. "Tight. Narrow. Endless hairpins. It's like driving through Monte Carlo's ghost. Or a frozen alley in Snezhnaya. That's where rally instincts take over—and Clorinde? She thrives in that shit. She once told me something Walter Röhrl said: 'This car is a Formula rally car.' That's how she sees the Lancia. And she drives it that way."
Ganyu didn't speak, just listened.
Collei exhaled slowly. "Then there's the final stretch—the third section. Mixed terrain. Some fast, some tight. It's chaos, and it tests everything. You need top-end pull and technical finesse. I've never raced a Sierra Cosworth, but if anyone's going to dismantle it with precision, it's her. That car and Clorinde are built for war."
Back in the Race
Collei's prediction was already becoming reality.
As the two machines barreled into the second section, the Lancia started to widen the gap. It wasn't explosive—Clorinde wasn't launching away—but the lead was undeniable. Two car lengths, then nearly three. The Lancia danced through the bends with the kind of fluidity that came from years of rally lineage. Mid-corner corrections were almost non-existent. The balance was there. So was the discipline.
Through the final wide bend of the first section, Clorinde hooked her inside wheels into the concrete gutter. The car pitched slightly, one wheel lifting into the air in a perfect demonstration of "inner wheel lifting." It was a dangerous technique—mistime it, and the car could flip. But Clorinde executed it with ruthless efficiency, keeping her speed high through the exit, momentum intact.
Behind her, Yoimiya could only watch, frustration rising.
"She's using the wheel lift to make up ground…" she hissed under her breath, eyes flicking from Clorinde's tail lights to her own tach. "That's new. That's not what she did at Jakotsu."
The Cosworth exited the same corner half a second later, raw power screaming from the tailpipe, but the lead had grown again. The gap was approaching four car lengths now, and Yoimiya could feel the pressure like a noose tightening around her neck.
"This doesn't make sense!" she snapped, heel-toeing her way into another downshift. "We're both pushing around the same horsepower now. I even rebalanced the suspension. The Cosworth should be holding her in check!"
She shoved the shifter into gear and stomped the throttle. The turbo wailed in protest, hurling the car forward like a cannonball. Her entire body strained forward with the g-forces, the belts digging into her shoulders.
But Clorinde was already through the next bend, lines perfect, exit speeds even better.
Yoimiya's jaw clenched so hard it ached.
"I should've led," she growled. "Letting her go first was a mistake. A huge mistake. If I don't force a second run, this'll be over in minutes."
Desperation bloomed like fire in her gut. She shifted her weight, leaning into the wheel as she threw the Cosworth through the next corner harder than she wanted. The tires squealed in protest but held—barely.
The Lancia remained ahead.
Through the twisting entrails of the second sector, both cars vanished deeper into the belly of the mountain. The narrow turns devoured their headlights one by one.
Back at the summit, the crowd hushed, their ears straining to pick up the sound of machines in combat. Echoes rolled through the valley like ghosts, and the cheers fell silent.
The real battle—the one fought on grit, tire wear, and split-second decisions—had only just begun
Back at Base.
The low murmur of the crowd clung to the night like fog, punctuated by the fading echoes of engines snarling through the distant hills. Sodium vapor lamps cast their sterile glow over the starting line, stretching long shadows from every machine, every figure standing watch. Keqing stood near the edge of the road, arms folded, eyes trained on the horizon. Beside her, Ningguang's stance was as poised as it was unreadable—back straight, arms at her sides, gaze fixed not on the road, but on memory.
"They've both changed," Ningguang said, her voice low and deliberate. "Collei. Clorinde. Their growth isn't just in skill. It's in something else. Something I've been hesitant to put into words."
Keqing arched an eyebrow. Her gaze flicked to Ningguang. "What do you mean? Are you talking about tactics? Mechanical upgrades?"
Ningguang shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving the dim line where the race had begun. "Not quite. It's... a phenomenon. One I've only seen in a handful of drivers—maybe three in my entire time observing the Inazuma circuits. Clorinde's case was the first to stand out. I call it The Rapperia Zone."
Keqing blinked. "That's a name."
"I know how it sounds," Ningguang said. "Dramatic. Pretentious, even. But it's the only way I can describe it. A state where the driver and machine achieve absolute harmony. No delay, no friction, no lag between thought and motion. Clorinde doesn't just drive the Lancia 037. She is the Lancia 037 when it happens."
She paused, letting that hang in the air.
"It's rare. Sporadic. But lately, it's been happening more often."
Keqing narrowed her eyes, her skepticism tempered by curiosity. "When did you first see it?"
Ningguang's lips pressed into a thin line. "Her race against Heizou, a few months back. He brake-checked her entering a tight downhill hairpin—a calculated dirty move meant to force her into an overcommit. But Clorinde didn't flinch. She didn't even lift. The Lancia shot forward like it had been slingshotted out of another dimension. Left a faint shimmer in its wake. Spotters swore they saw light trailing off her rear tires. And the gap behind her? It ballooned instantly. The kind of acceleration that shouldn't be mechanically possible in that car."
Keqing turned her head slightly toward Collei's AE86, parked under a patch of dim light. The girl leaned against the hood, speaking animatedly with Ganyu. Completely at ease. "And Collei? She has something like this too?"
Ningguang nodded, her voice softening. "Different. But equally inexplicable. I'll explain later—when her turn comes. Trust me, it's better experienced firsthand than described."
On the Course – Second Section.
The road had narrowed to a two-lane artery choked with switchbacks, blind corners, and cruel cambers. The trees hung close now, suffocating the edges with black silhouettes. Dust floated in the air like smoke from a dying fire. The Lancia 037 sliced through it all—elegant, composed, and relentless.
Clorinde's hands danced lightly over the suede wheel, her footwork surgical—heel-and-toe blips on every downshift, the dog-leg gearbox singing with mechanical precision. The rear of the Lancia stepped out into a drift through a long left-hander, but Clorinde reined it in like a matador controlling the arc of a charging bull. Tire squeal. Exhaust bark. Forward momentum, unbroken.
Yoimiya, following close in the Sierra Cosworth RS500, was running out of answers. Her hands gripped the Momo steering wheel tight enough to whiten her knuckles, eyes wide, sweat stinging. "Come on... come on..."
She was still in it—barely. But then, it happened.
Coming out of a tight left-hander, the Lancia didn't just accelerate. It launched. The entire car surged forward like it had been yanked by a tether, its taillights momentarily smearing into streaks of white-blue light, almost imperceptible. The turbocharged growl of the Cosworth suddenly sounded hollow in comparison.
"The hell was that?!" Yoimiya shouted, the shock genuine. "She just—jumped ahead?! No boost spike, no clutch kick—what the fuck is going on?!"
Two car lengths. Then three.
She jammed the shifter into fourth, slammed her right foot down. The Cosworth's turbo screamed in protest, delivering its fury in late, laggy chunks. But it wasn't enough. Every time she tried to close the gap, the Lancia responded with something unreal.
Inside the Lancia, Clorinde's expression remained unreadable. Calm. Focused. Her eyes scanned the road, flicked to her mirror. She could see the Cosworth trailing, weaving slightly as Yoimiya tried to recover lost time. Clorinde exhaled slowly. "You're good," she murmured. "But I won't let this drag to a second run. Not tonight."
They dove into a steep right-hairpin—tight radius, negative camber. Clorinde initiated the drift with a short jab on the brakes and a flick of the wheel. The 037 rotated smoothly, four wheels sliding in perfect symmetry, throttle feathered to keep the car from snapping loose. The headlights scanned across the trees like searchlights, then centered as the nose straightened on exit.
Yoimiya followed—smooth entry, careful weight transfer, no countersteer. The Cosworth's tail stepped out, skimming the guardrail by inches. Her tires held. But she was still bleeding distance.
And then—again.
Out of the corner exit, the Lancia burst forward with a second unnatural acceleration, glowing faintly in the darkness. The shimmering trail reappeared, just for a moment. Just enough.
It was too much.
The sudden speed difference caught Yoimiya off guard, and her line suffered for it. She overcorrected. Her rear tires bit into loose gravel on the outside line—and snapped loose.
The Cosworth spun into a brutal 360.
Her hands scrambled over the wheel, countersteering with desperate precision. She caught it—barely—and forced the car back in line. The engine bounced off limiter for a second before she brought it under control.
But the damage was done.
Clorinde was gone.
Just the twin pinpricks of taillights disappearing into the trees ahead. Yoimiya stared into the dark, chest heaving. Then she pounded her fist on the steering wheel with a snarl. "FUCK! It's over... it's over."
Back at Base.
The silence was heavier now, broken only by murmurs and whispers from the crowd as word spread. Ningguang and Keqing stood side by side, neither speaking for a long moment.
"She triggered it again," Ningguang said at last, her voice hushed but certain. "The Rapperia Zone."
Keqing's brows drew together, her jaw tightening. "And it ended the race in one run."
Ningguang gave a solemn nod. "Just like I said it would."
Across the road, Collei stood still, eyes on the distant road. A flicker of tension crossed her face—not fear, but recognition.
The bar had been raised again.
And soon, it would be her turn.