Act: 1 Chapter: 3 | A Full Power Uphill Battle! | Lancia 037 Vs R34 GTR

As time ticks by after Collei's hard-fought victory and Topaz's brutal accident, the summit of Mount Yougou stirs once more. The tension, momentarily broken by the crash, returns now as the crowd readies for the next showdown. Teams hustle. Headlights buzz. The smell of hot rubber and spent gasoline still clings to the night air.

Near the paddock, Navia crouches beside the rear-engine bay of Clorinde's 1983 Lancia 037 Group B rally monster, her gloves smudged with oil. Her motions are brisk but deliberate—she adjusts throttle cables, tightens clamps, and double-checks the distributor timing like a surgeon prepping for high-stakes combat. Every bolt torqued, every line secured. No detail escapes her.

Collei stands off to the side, her AE86 parked silently behind her, now a specter in the shadow of the mountain's glow. But her focus isn't on her own car.

Her eyes are fixed on Serval's machine.

The Bayside Blue R34 GT-R looms under a halogen lamp, steel and menace incarnate. The paint gleams with a cold intensity, polished to a mirror sheen that dances with every flicker of fluorescent light. The curves of its widened body panels stretch taut like muscles coiled for war. Its six-spoke Nismo wheels rest with deceptive calm, like claws waiting to dig in.

Collei's gaze sweeps across every inch—the chin-scraping front lip, the cold glint of the titanium exhaust tip, the rear diffuser that promises downforce and death in equal measure. The GT-R doesn't just look fast—it looks hungry.

Gravel crunches behind her. Clorinde steps into frame like a shadow drawn by blood in the water, catching Collei's absorbed stare.

"Seems like someone's taken a liking to that car," she murmurs, her tone smooth, eyes sharp with amusement.

Collei flinches, letting out a sheepish chuckle as she tugs at her jacket sleeve. "Ah—uh, yeah. Maybe a little."

Before the moment stretches, a presence cuts through the atmosphere—steady footsteps, heavy with intent. Serval.

She approaches, her ponytail swaying rhythmically, eyes locked on Clorinde with an expression as cold as cut steel. There's no friendliness in it, no forced bravado—just the kind of wary respect a seasoned fighter has for someone they've never seen bleed.

"I'm Serval Landau," she states. No pomp. Just name and weight.

Clorinde doesn't flinch. Her stance doesn't change, and her voice is neutral but firm. "Clorinde."

A moment passes—charged and unspoken. Serval twitches like she might offer her hand, but then turns without a word and walks off, boots tapping like slow drumbeats across the pavement.

Clorinde watches her go, lips twitching faintly. "That's… very kind of her," she murmurs with the faintest trace of irony.

Serval pauses beside her R34, her fingertips brushing the carbon fiber roof. Her mind spirals.

No cocky grin. No smug posture. No mind games. She's just… calm. Why the hell does that make me feel more unsettled than anything?

Across the lot, Clorinde and Navia confer near the Lancia, Ningguang joining them with a tablet displaying telemetry data. Their conversation is hushed but focused. The confidence on their faces isn't loud—it's surgical. It gnaws at Serval's nerves.

Navia steps back and slams the Lancia's rear cover shut with a satisfying clang. She wipes her gloves on a rag and flashes a thumb.

"All set, Clorinde! She's prepped and tight. Boost's solid. You're good to go."

Clorinde nods once. "Perfect. Let's finish this."

She climbs into the 037, movements fluid, unhurried. The door shuts with a mechanical clunk—solid and final. A second later, the engine barks to life with a violent crack. The twin-cam Lampredi four-cylinder snarls, its supercharger immediately screaming with that unique, banshee-like whine. It doesn't purr. It shrieks.

All heads turn.

The 037 rolls forward, aggressive stance low and nose-heavy. The exposed rear engine cover rattles slightly with the vibration of raw power. It takes its place behind the GT-R on the starting line—an old gladiator squaring off against a younger, bulkier rival.

Serval coasts her R34 forward, the RB26DETT idling deep and throaty, the turbochargers fluttering softly as she blips the throttle. The contrast is striking—Japan's technological marvel growling in basso continuo, while Italy's analog beast hisses and screams with unfiltered rage.

Topaz appears beside the GT-R's driver window, her cheek now bandaged, a faint trail of blood crusted down one side. Her eyes, however, are sharp.

"You ready?" she asks, tone flat but loaded.

Serval doesn't answer immediately. Her knuckles grip the wheel hard enough to creak the leather.

"I… I don't know," she confesses. "It's like… my body's gone numb. Like that Lancia already swallowed me whole and we haven't even launched yet."

Topaz leans in through the window and smacks her on the shoulder—hard enough to jolt her. "Snap the fuck out of it. You drive your race, your line. That's what I forgot tonight—and look where it got me."

Serval breathes deep, the adrenaline cutting through the fog. "Yeah. You're right."

"One more thing," Topaz adds, voice dropping into a whisper. Her eyes flick to the Lancia behind. "On the guttered hairpins? Don't leave even a meter of space inside."

Serval frowns. "What do you mean?"

Topaz's face turns grim. "If you do, she'll mount the inside like a fucking jungle cat. I watched it happen. That car climbs—literally climbs the gutter edges. I'm not kidding. Shut the door. Block it."

Serval nods slowly. No hesitation now. "Got it."

Topaz retreats just as Keqing steps forward, arm raised like a blade through the air. The crowd hushes.

"Let's get this started!" she announces, her voice slicing clean across the hum of machinery.

The moment crystallizes. Both cars lurch forward slightly as revs climb.

The GT-R's blow-off valve flutters with rapid-fire bursts, exhaust booming in sync with the cam profile. Across from it, the Lancia's high-pitched whine builds like a pressure cooker seconds from exploding.

Clorinde's hands tighten around the suede steering wheel. Her blue eyes narrow, laser-focused on the road ahead.

Serval rolls her shoulders once. Her right foot hovers—clutch depressed, ready to drop like the hammer of war.

Engines scream. Turbos and superchargers howl.

The tension on the line is unbearable.

And then—

Keqing's hand drops.

The hunt begins.

Serval's eyes narrow, her pulse syncing with the R34's low, ominous rumble. Her foot lifts off the clutch, and with a vicious bark of turbocharged fury, the Bayside Blue Skyline lunges off the line. The rear tires dig in, squatting the chassis as the all-wheel-drive system hooks into the pavement with ruthless grip. Boost kicks in hard. The turbo spools with a sharp metallic shriek, wastegate flutter cracking through the cold night air.

Behind her, Clorinde's fingers tighten around the Momo steering wheel. She dumps the clutch.

The Lancia 037 responds like a creature released from a cage—its supercharged Lampredi four screaming straight into the redline. Rear tires spin wildly, scrubbing traction with a shriek as dust and gravel erupt in twin plumes behind the mid-engined monster. The rear grips—finally—and the whole chassis snarls forward, snapping into second gear with a sharp clack of the dogleg gearbox.

The two machines tear down the initial stretch. Street lamps streak over their windshields like muzzle flashes. The road bends left. Fast.

At the summit, Topaz watches them vanish into the night around the first hairpin. Her arms are crossed. Her face is stony, unreadable.

"I have to say…" she mutters, her voice low, glancing toward Navia and the Speed Stars clustered near the Lancia's pit. "You guys are one hell of a team…"

Back in the fray.

Inside the cockpit of the Lancia, Clorinde's mind slices through the chaos with surgical clarity. Her gaze stays fixed on the tail of the R34. It's fast. No doubt. Inline-six with serious turbo work. But power like that… it's not your ally on mountain passes like this. Not when gravity's already pushing you downhill. She upshifts, short and sharp, keeping the engine in its narrow, angry power band.

Up ahead, Serval flicks her eyes to the rearview mirror. The reflection of that boxy Italian wedge makes her lip curl. A fucking foreign car? Really? Doesn't she have any pride in Inazuman machines?

Her fingers wrap tighter around the Nismo wheel. Fine. I'll show her what a real car can do. What Godzilla can do.

The second hairpin looms—tight, with loose gravel on the apex. Serval slams the brake pedal hard. ABS kicks in with a rhythmic chatter, and she throws the R34 into the turn, clipping the inside line with surgical control. Power on exit, feathering the throttle to keep the rear from twitching.

Clorinde doesn't brake as hard.

Instead, she snaps the Lancia's wheel left and initiates a full four-wheel drift, throttle held at a precise angle to balance the slide. The mid-engine layout makes the rear dance with every input. The supercharger's whine escalates into a banshee scream. Tires screech. Smoke curls from the rubber like incense from a battlefield.

The crowd loses it.

"DID YOU SEE THAT!?" someone bellows. "Four-wheel drift! In a mid-engine car!"

"That's INSANE!" another yells, standing on tiptoe. "She made it look like it was nothing!"

Clorinde corrects with the lightest of countersteers. Left. Right. Tap of throttle. She exits inches from the guardrail, directly behind the R34's bumper.

The gap hasn't widened. It's shrinking.

Serval feels it. Why the hell won't she go away? That acceleration— She looks down. Her revs are where they should be. Boost is building properly. It's not me… it's that car.

Another hairpin, this one tighter.

Serval brakes late again, cautious near the edge. She stays off the gutter line—Topaz's warning replaying in her head.

Behind her, Clorinde doesn't hesitate.

She flings the 037 deep into the corner, her left front wheel skimming the concrete, the undercarriage clearing the gutter by centimeters. The right rear lifts briefly—suspension articulating on the edge of disaster—and the car sticks.

A spectator drops his drink. "HOLY SHIT! She just slotted the Lancia INSIDE THE GUTTER!"

Serval jerks her head left and catches a glimpse—just a blur of Martini stripes and white paint. Her heart leaps into her throat.

What!? No fucking way!

The Lancia claws up beside her. The two cars exit side-by-side, roaring into the next straight. Turbo flutter from the R34 sings in frantic bursts; the Lancia answers with the spine-chilling scream of its high-strung four-cylinder.

Serval grits her teeth. No. No. No! I've handled RX-7s. GT86s. Even Supras. But this thing…

Hairpin. They brake simultaneously, both cars sliding into the corner in perfect tandem—Clorinde's drift smoother, the Lancia carrying just a touch more speed.

Serval keeps her line tight and regains half a car's length on exit. But her nerves are fraying. Her palms sweat against the Alcantara. She's breathing hard now.

Clorinde's voice murmurs under the howl of her engine. "Not bad. You do know how to tame Godzilla."

Serval growls through clenched teeth. "Try to overtake me again. I dare you."

Clorinde's eyes gleam. "I already know where you're weak."

Another corner—Clorinde dives in hard but doesn't complete the pass. She backs off on exit, feigning pressure but giving Serval room. Playing with her.

Serval scowls. You think you're clever?

The long straight looms. Nazuchi's infamous power stretch.

Serval smirks. You're done here. You can't touch me now.

She keeps it flat through fourth gear, RPM climbing. Fifth. She's pushing the R34 to its upper limit.

In her mirror—the Lancia closes.

No fucking way.

Clorinde slams it into fourth, foot to the floor. The needle spikes—7,000—7,800—8,500 RPM. The Lancia screams like it's about to tear itself apart, the entire chassis vibrating with tension.

And then it flies.

The 037 rockets past the R34 like it's standing still.

Serval's jaw drops. "HOW!?"

Clorinde shoots her a grin as she passes. "That's the end of that."

Hairpin. Clorinde initiates early. Full drift. She uses every inch of the road and every ounce of the 037's razor-sharp weight distribution. Tires wail. Her cornering speed eclipses anything Serval can match. By the time they exit, she's built a full second gap.

The R34 claws at the pavement to keep up, but the heavier chassis and AWD system can't make up the difference.

Spectators erupt. Flags wave. Fists pump the air.

Clorinde crosses the finish line, her Lancia roaring like a gladiator victorious in bloodsport.

The sound of the supercharged engine fades into the night.

Another name written in the mountains.

Another kill for the ghost of Group B.