The scene where Car 001313 overtook two vehicles was witnessed by an observer who had been watching the chase because the driver of the trailing car was his cousin.

Who would have known that right as he saw this incredibly thrilling moment, he exclaimed "Damn!" three times in excitement, waving his arms and shouting, "That's amazing, absolutely amazing."

A gentleman next to him, seeing his extreme excitement, couldn't help but ask curiously, "Buddy, which car are you watching?"

"001313. I mean, it's just incredible," he replied.

"Really? Let me see."

He had been bored, so he switched the channel to Car 001313. Every spectator, upon entering, received a player—which was a pair of glasses—allowing them to watch whichever car they desired; it was incredibly user-friendly.

The moment he saw the car's speed, he became thrilled: three hundred and fifteen kilometers per hour.

As a seasoned sports car enthusiast, he certainly knew what that implied. Theoretically, the top speed of a sports car was three hundred kilometers per hour.

But the actual situation was different. To make the sport more thrilling, the club introduced a new rule: as long as the accelerator was held down, the speed would continuously climb. However, the instant the accelerator was released, the speed would instantly drop back to three hundred.

Since the club's inception, no one had ever managed to reach the finish line while keeping the accelerator fully depressed. The highest recorded speed achieved was five hundred and eleven kilometers per hour during the fourth stage.

The red sports car executed a beautiful feint, luring the car ahead into creating an opening, and zoomed past.

Brilliant.

He clapped his hands once.

Once the speed surpassed three hundred kilometers per hour, overtaking wasn't difficult; the speed itself was the advantage. But the probability of an accident increased exponentially. Many spectators here were actually waiting for the spectacle of a fiery crash.

Soon, the staff also noticed the red sports car and switched its feed to the panoramic live broadcast on the track screens. Any car exceeding three hundred km/h would be displayed on the big screen.

001313's outstanding performance quickly drew the attention of the audience. Seeing an unfamiliar license plate running at a blistering three hundred and twenty kilometers per hour, some began to admire the newcomer's courage, while simultaneously thinking, This corner is probably going to be a rollover. They couldn't help but anticipate the moment.

However, they were disappointed. The red sports car navigated the turn effortlessly, speed undiminished.

In the spectator seats at the northeast corner, a few young people were in discussion. One long-haired man kept yawning, "There aren't any real masters in Mingzhou. Captain, why did we even come here?"

Standing next to him was a girl with intricately detailed features and vividly dyed hair, who chimed in, "Exactly. The skill level here is several tiers below ours at Daer."

Another young man, bespectacled and scholarly, disagreed, "Maybe the top drivers just didn't show up today."

"Tch," the dyed-hair girl scoffed. "You can tell from the average skill level; even their best won't be much to write home about."

"Didn't the Captain say there was one top expert in Mingzhou whose skill level matched his? Right, Captain?" the bespectacled man pressed.

"Look at that red sports car."

Their captain, a tall, solidly built young man with a buzz cut, who had been silently monitoring the live feed, suddenly interrupted them.

This captain clearly held authority; the three stopped their argument and looked up.

Just then, the red sports car was approaching a sweeping double curve.

"Is he insane?" Seeing the red car holding a steady speed of three hundred and thirty, the dyed-hair girl couldn't help but exclaim, "He's not slowing down?"

The bespectacled man explained, "Don't forget the club's rules are different from ours. Once a sports car exceeds three hundred km/h, if the brakes are applied for more than five seconds, the speed immediately drops back to three hundred." While speaking, his eyes never left the red car.

"Looks like this driver is either a rookie or a master," the long-haired man remarked.

Closer now, the red sports car chassis visibly lurched—he finally hit the brakes.

In the stands, the captain's brow relaxed. It aligned with his assessment: this driver was no ordinary racer.

Screeeech.

The red car’s body tilted slightly, skidding a few meters, the tires scraping the ground and spitting up sparks. It cleared the first curve and immediately banked into the second, sliding a few more meters before mastering that one too.

To the spectators, the red sports car moved like an agile carp, its movements seamless and natural. Despite traveling at three hundred and thirty kilometers per hour, the brief pauses during the turns made it feel almost like slow motion—a truly captivating sight.

A burst of cheering erupted from the stands. They never stinted their applause for exceptional skill.

Some began to speculate that 001313 was just a master in disguise, pretending to be a novice to fool everyone.

Others guessed he was a master visiting from out of town.

Unfortunately, the canopy of the car had automatically raised, obscuring the driver’s appearance. Otherwise, they would have known the identity of this mystery man.

To protect the driver, the canopy automatically rose once the speed exceeded three hundred, as the wind sheer at that velocity would make breathing impossible.

Unlike the more animated spectators, the quartet in the northeast corner remained silent, replaying the maneuver in their minds.

"He's good," the bespectacled man admitted, letting out a long breath.

"Anyone can pass a simple double curve like that, right?" the dyed-hair girl said dismissively. She wasn't entirely wrong. It was like sword practice: one person could swing seven times in a second, cutting a wooden block into eight perfectly equal pieces. Another might also swing seven times in a second, but the resulting pieces would be uneven in size.

That was the difference.

The long-haired man agreed, "Yeah, so what if it’s three hundred and thirty km/h? It’s not that hard."

The bespectacled man smiled faintly, choosing not to argue the point.

The captain nodded. "Regardless, he is a serious contender. We need to be cautious. It would be best if we could gather his data."

He then turned to the bespectacled man, "Did you record it?"

The bespectacled man nodded. "And I’ve already downloaded the footage of 001313 from that moment. It’s a shame we don't have the data from before it hit three hundred; otherwise, we might figure out who that driver really is."

"Mm," the captain agreed, looking back at the red sports car, a flicker of fierce interest in his eyes. Is that you?

"I think I heard a woman scream inside that red car just now," the long-haired man suddenly mentioned.

"You heard that too?" the dyed-hair girl exclaimed. "Could the driver be a woman?" As she spoke, a fierce light ignited in her eyes.

Many women participated in sports car racing, but those who reached the dyed-hair girl's level were exceedingly rare—much like how the top Mech Pilots were overwhelmingly male. After all, women were significantly disadvantaged in terms of raw physical strength. Having achieved mastery in driving, the dyed-hair girl had never encountered a female opponent worthy of the name. Learning that the driver of the red car might be female instantly spurred her competitive spirit.

"Unlikely," the bespectacled man shook his head, refuting the idea. "That scream sounded like sheer, hysterical terror. How could that be the driver?"

Hearing this, the dyed-hair girl looked slightly disappointed. "Then why was there a woman screaming in the car?"

"Could it be... there's another woman in the car besides the driver?"

The three exchanged bewildered glances, momentarily speechless. After all, the implication was utterly absurd.

P: Still running commando style, brothers, throw some fire support my way.

For more novels, visit storyread.net.