Dragging a woman into one's ride—a feat all three men present had managed before, but only at a moderate pace. A brief exhilaration at one or two hundred kilometers per hour was certainly romantic.
Once the speedometer nudged past three hundred, that was simply beyond the limits of an ordinary person. Unless one was born with reckless abandon or highly trained, maintaining control at such velocity was unthinkable.
Imagine the thrill of a roller coaster—that was the sensation.
Any driver capable of precise vehicle control at such speeds was undeniably formidable.
All four individuals present fell into that category of elite drivers. Even for them, breaching three hundred kilometers per hour sent an adrenaline surge through their systems.
Consider a young woman at three hundred and thirty kilometers per hour: the shriek of the wind screaming past, the sheer tension that made her heart leap into her throat, the world outside blurring into streaks of light. The crushing pressure of the safety harness pulling her tight as the sports car carved through a turn...
What else could she possibly do but scream hysterically?
Although the canopy automatically rose above three hundred kilometers per hour, shielding occupants from the slicing force of the wind, the manufacturer intentionally designed the chassis to offer minimal sound insulation. The resultant eerie howl of the wind and the deep vibration of the body panels were utterly terrifying.
The three men exchanged a glance, arriving at the same silent conclusion: Madman.
On the video feed, the red sports car executed another incredibly fluid maneuver, smoothly overtaking another racer.
Ah, a madman possessing truly formidable skill.
The Captain absorbed their comments, yet his gaze remained fixed on the red car. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. She hadn't changed at all.
Clearly, he recognized the owner of the red car as someone familiar. It was understandable, given the owner’s penchant for the color red, their breathtaking driving prowess, and that signature, delicately sweeping style.
To this day, he maintained that no one else could pilot a sports car with such grace. It was captivating to watch, less like driving and more like a crimson sprite performing an elegant dance.
Furthermore, that person always enjoyed taking a woman along for the ride.
And this vehicle perfectly matched every characteristic of that individual. Who else could it be?
Suddenly, a ripple of gasps swept through the grandstands. "007!" "It's 007!"
The Captain followed the screen’s focus. Two hundred meters ahead of the red car, a black sports car was also hurtling forward at over three hundred kilometers per hour, its license plate clearly marked: 007.
Possessing such a distinctive number meant the driver was certainly no amateur.
A quick inquiry to someone nearby confirmed it: this 007 was quite famous, having secured seventh place in the inaugural National Sports Car Grand Prix, leading him to adopt 007 as his permanent vehicle designation thereafter. At the Mingzhou Club, 007 ranked among the top ten elite drivers.
The initial shock subsided, and the spectators’ excitement ignited. While the red car had initially drawn attention due to its exceptional skill, the real buzz was the unfamiliar number, 001313. Dark horses always command scrutiny.
However, until now, 001313 had only passed smaller fish. While these passes looked effortless, it was difficult to gauge the true level of skill without seeing a contest against a genuine master.
Now, a heavyweight contender had finally appeared, leading to a direct, one-on-one showdown.
A spectacular drama was about to unfold: would the established master prevail, or would the dark horse, appearing out of nowhere, prove technically superior?
Everyone leaned forward in anticipation.
The club staff keenly recognized this burgeoning focal point and decisively switched the massive panoramic display to showcase the duel between 001313 and 007, placing the technical specifications of both vehicles side-by-side.
This immediately drew the attention of those who hadn't noticed before, sparking widespread discussion.
"Hey, why is the red car so much heavier than 007’s?"
Someone spotted the significant difference in the vehicles' weights. Sports car weight was regulated; the difference between two cars of different designs should not exceed one kilogram.
Yet, 001313 weighed approximately forty kilograms more than 007. How was this possible?
Could the driver of 001313 be a giant fat man weighing over a hundred kilos? The audience entertained this thought. However, the notion seemed utterly absurd—a hundred-plus-kilo man driving a sports car as if it were dancing? What a joke.
A few quick thinkers already surmised the truth: there might be more than one person inside the red car.
As more spectators joined the debate, a voice from the club staff crackled over the speakers inside 007’s car: "Mr. Fei, the red car behind you is attempting to pass. Please be advised."
Fei Shangming glanced in his rearview mirror. Indeed, a red sports car was less than three hundred meters behind him, rapidly gaining ground, seemingly traveling even faster than he was.
Too far to make out the license plate, but anyone daring to drive at such velocity must possess some skill.
He felt a flicker of interest. Although he knew the club was utilizing him to draw a crowd, he considered it part of the obligation required to enjoy such high privileges.
Bring it on. Let me see what you’re made of, a faint smile played on his lips.
Just ahead, a standard sports car was obstructing the path. He used his superior speed to muscle past it. Looking back, the red car passed that same vehicle with equal ease.
By now, his own speed exceeded three hundred and forty, while the red car was clocking three hundred and fifty. Overtaking ordinary cars was no challenge at that speed.
The true test lay in precise control. At this velocity, even the slightest over-correction on a curve could send him slamming into the track barriers.
And achieving such precision at this speed wasn't something attainable merely through training. As far as he knew, nearly every top-tier master possessed exceptional physical acuity.
After passing several cars, the real challenge arrived: the entrance to the third section of the track. This section featured a kilometer-long downhill slope culminating in an extremely sharp curve right in the middle.
This was a notorious bottleneck; over ninety percent of skilled drivers had failed here, unable to maintain speeds above three hundred.
But he was not among them.
The red car was now only about a hundred meters behind him.
The audience held their breath. This section was always one of the highlights—they loved watching cars either spectacularly flip or navigate the perilous corner at high speed, cementing a classic moment in the footage.
Gazing at the terrain, the four onlookers frowned, each mentally calculating how they would tackle that stretch at that speed.
Fei Shangming was familiar with the terrain. He tapped the brake just before the descent, reducing speed to the optimal level. Through countless trials, he had determined this was the best entry velocity for this slope.
This way, by the time he reached the tight curve, he would only need four seconds of braking to navigate it smoothly. This was his optimized solution derived from hundreds of runs.
Having secured the inside lane, a victorious smile spread across his face. He admitted the red car was a formidable opponent, though he couldn't fathom how it managed to stay fractionally ahead of him.
Logically, if they had started on the same line, their speeds should be identical upon reaching this point.
Furthermore, his own machine was a performance-enhanced model he had personally modified, while the red car was a mass-produced model. There was no reason for it to be faster.
Unless he used less braking in the first and second stages—but even that didn't quite add up. Unless he hadn't braked at all, his speed couldn't possibly be this much greater than his own.
No braking at all? Was that even conceivable? Unless he was cheating.