Epilogue

Six Years Later

Six years have passed since Team Speed Stars disbanded—and in those six years, the world has moved on. Some changes came with fanfare, others in silence. Some were for the better. Some weren't. But through it all, the echoes of that mountain-borne legacy—of downshifts echoing off cliff walls, of screaming tires in the dead of night, of engines howling under the stars—still whisper through the forests of Narukami, down the guardrail-lined roads of Mt. Araumi, and in the memories of those who lived and raced it.

The automotive world had undergone a quiet revolution. Synthetic fuels—engineered, clean-burning, zero-emission—became the new lifeblood of internal combustion. It changed everything. Overnight, the war against gasoline was over. ICE cars, long thought to be on death's door, came roaring back into the spotlight. And with them came a resurgence of raw mechanical driving—clutches, gearshifts, and that spine-tingling scream of revs climbing into the redline.

Electric cars? Still around, still efficient. But the market had shifted. EV sales began to fall, displaced not by nostalgia, but by hunger. Enthusiasts wanted more. Not silence. Not efficiency. They wanted violence. Character. Soul. Manufacturers responded in kind—lightweight sports cars came flooding back, engines tuned to thrill, not just move. But not all lived up to the hype. Some looked fast but drove like appliances. Others—true successors—brought fire back to the asphalt.

But legends don't need rebirth. Some of them just never left.

Ningguang—once the tactician of the mountain, always cool under pressure—has become an unstoppable force in the business world. Her portfolio is vast, her fortune measured in hundreds of millions, her ventures diverse and ruthless in efficiency. And yet, for all her success, she still lives simply. She still calls Mt. Araumi home. Her garage houses only one car: the white Mazda RX-7 FC, its twin-rotor engine still snarling like it did years ago. She still drives it hard, attacking the mountain passes like she's got something left to prove, even if the world knows she doesn't.

Keqing, ever her equal in speed and spirit, has built a real estate empire rivaling Ningguang's own. She lives with her—quietly, peacefully—in the same mountain town, in a home nestled high above the tree line, overlooking the winding roads they once ruled. Her FD RX-7, still wrapped in that signature Midnight Purple, is immaculate. Maintained, not stored. Driven, not retired. When the nights are clear and the moon's hanging low, she'll take it out for a run—no fanfare, no racing, just the road and the past whispering in her rearview.

Down in town, the old gas station still stands. Beidou's behind the counter, March 7th lounging nearby, and Lyney running logistics. The place hasn't changed much. Still smells like oil and old rubber. Still has that ancient vending machine that eats your change if you're not careful. But there's something sacred about it—a time capsule in motion. Beidou's R32 Skyline still snarls like thunder when she fires it up. She keeps it tuned herself. March's Supra Mk4, that brilliant Mica Blue Targa-top, is still her pride and joy. Neither of them left the scene. They just… stayed. Anchored. Proud. They were always the heart of the team.

Seele and Pela, having sought new horizons, have found success elsewhere, though they never forget their roots. They still visit the gas station on occasion, and their cars—symbols of their past triumphs—remain close to their hearts. Seele's Midnight Blue Nissan S30Z, lovingly nicknamed the Devil Z, is as much a part of her as the rebellious spirit that drove her to it. Pela, ever the enigmatic one, still treasures her white Toyota MR2 SW20, a car that carries with it memories of high-speed chases and victories won on the edge of danger.

Then… the two who defined it all. The aces.

Clorinde has solidified herself as a force to be reckoned with in the world of rally racing, becoming a two-time national Inazuma Rally Champion. Her career in the rally scene is a testament to her exceptional talent and determination, though she's always been careful not to let the spotlight consume her. Despite her success, Clorinde has made it clear that she has no intention of following her father's footsteps into the World Rally Championship (WRC). She values her peaceful life, far from the constant barrage of media attention. It's a deliberate choice—she avoids interviews, evading the fame that could so easily swallow her whole. And though she's stepped away from the limelight, Clorinde has no intention of abandoning her love for rallying. She still owns her iconic 1983 Lancia Rally 037 Group B, A Car that used to belong to her father, and the car that defined her early years in the sport, and has recently added a new pride to her collection: the Kimera EVO 37, a modern-day tribute to the 037, capturing the spirit and soul of the original.

And Collei.

The rookie. The legend. The girl from nowhere who drove tofu runs in an old AE86.

Six months after the team disbanded, she stepped into the world stage. Signed with Toyota. Walked into the WRC paddock like she belonged there—and made damn sure everyone else knew it, too. In her rookie season, she annihilated expectations. First rookie ever to take the World Rally Championship. She didn't stop. Four more seasons. Four more titles. Five straight. Every surface. Every country. Every corner of the globe.

However, as she reached the pinnacle of her career, Collei made a shocking announcement: she was retiring. 

Not because she was burned out. Not because she lost her edge. But because she'd climbed the mountain—and found another on the horizon. Something calling her beyond the co-driver notes, the gravel sprays, and the flashbulbs.

Her AE86—the one that started it all—is still kept pristine in Lynette's garage. The Group A Silvertop under its hood was destroyed in that final race against Clorinde—an engine sent to the afterlife in a blaze of revs and glory. But the chassis remains untouched. A time capsule. A monument.

She lives with Amber now. Quiet life. No media. No noise. Just the sound of birds, the distant bark of Arlecchino's R34 firing up in Arlecchino's driveway. The blue Skyline still runs like a dream, maintained with obsessive care. Arlecchino may be long retired from tofu deliveries, but that car is her heirloom, her pride. A memory that lives in steel and speed.

And so the world keeps turning.

Roads change. Cars evolve. People grow old. But the legacy of Team Speed Stars—of a mountain road in Narukami, of drifting under moonlight, of battles won with tire smoke and grit—that doesn't fade. Not ever.

Because speed isn't just about how fast you go. It's about what you leave behind.

And the race… it never really ends.

It was another busy day at the gas station.

The sun hung high and unrelenting, drenching the cracked asphalt in a golden blaze that shimmered with heat mirages. The midday buzz was thick with the low rumble of engines idling and the sharp scent of gasoline, oil, and hot rubber. Wind chimes on the rusted awning jangled weakly in the occasional breeze, barely audible over the constant rhythm of cars pulling in, refueling, and rolling out again. For Beidou and March, it was just another day in the endless stretch of them—same gas, same tools, same routine.

Beidou twisted the cap back onto a customer's tank, her grease-streaked fingers working with instinct more than thought. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her glove, the smudge of oil painting a dark stripe across her temple.

"What a damn day…" she muttered, her voice rough with heat and repetition, but carrying a small note of satisfaction beneath the weariness.

March was lounging against the service counter, arms crossed, one leg cocked back lazily. She blew a puff of air upward to dislodge a rogue strand of pink hair that had fallen into her eyes. "You're telling me. Rush hour's like a fucking parade every day. What is this, apocalypse prep? Did I miss the memo?"

Beidou snorted, but her gaze drifted upward, toward the jagged silhouette of Mt. Yougou looming in the distance. Its slopes sat timeless against the blue sky, edges framed by drifting clouds. Her expression slackened for just a heartbeat—nostalgic, haunted, maybe even a little hopeful.

"I wonder how everyone else is doing…" she murmured.

The thought didn't get time to settle. A low, throaty growl rolled into the air like distant thunder—new, aggressive, refined. Both heads snapped toward the road. A red Toyota Supra A90 crested into view, its body gleaming like a polished ruby, sunlight rippling across its sculpted frame. It pulled into the lot with deliberate poise, its engine note deep and muscular, a far cry from the sterile tones of modern EVs. The car came to a stop directly across from March's own Mica Blue Mk4 Supra, the two machines facing each other like a mirrored reflection across time—past and present, legacy and evolution.

Beidou's brows furrowed beneath her bandana. "Well now… who the hell is this?"

The driver's side door clicked open and swung wide with the kind of smooth precision that screamed custom hinge work and money well spent. A tall, confident figure stepped out into the sunlight. Vibrant green hair fell across her shoulders like silk, catching the light in wild emerald strands. Purple eyes, sharp as blades but playful at the edges, peered over the rims of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses before she plucked them off and tossed them onto the seat with a flick of her wrist.

She smirked, hands on her hips, voice carrying across the lot like a challenge.

"I'm looking for two drivers from the Yougou Speed Suns," she said, loud and unmistakable. "You wouldn't happen to know where they are, would you?"

The grin widened into a devil-may-care flash of teeth. "Oh, wait. Beidou! March!"

It hit like a dropped transmission.

Beidou froze mid-step. March's jaw dropped so fast it was a miracle her sunglasses didn't fall off. Then, recognition smashed through them like nitrous to the veins.

"Collei?!"

They bolted from opposite ends of the station, nearly tripping over each other to reach her. The collision was pure chaos and joy—laughter, shouting, arms wrapping around each other in a bone-crunching group hug that pulled years into the present like nothing had changed. They laughed like kids again, voices bouncing off the gas pumps and sunbaked pavement.

Amber leaned casually against the passenger side of the Supra, arms folded across her chest, her warm smile radiating calm familiarity. She stayed back a beat, letting the reunion breathe before giving a lazy wave.

"Hey. Long time no see."

Beidou stepped back, shaking her head in disbelief. "Well, I'll be damned. Look who's back from the dead! How's life treatin' you, five-time rally queen?"

Collei laughed, running a hand through her hair, now longer, a little messier, but unmistakably hers. "Not bad. Figured it was time to come home after wrapping up my last campaign."

March raised an eyebrow, still catching her breath from the emotional whiplash. "No shit! You really went through with it, huh? Retired from the WRC. So what's next—world domination? Intergalactic rally league?"

Collei gave a theatrical shrug, but her eyes sparkled. "Five titles felt like a good number. I've driven on every continent, left enough tire marks on the world's stages to circle the globe twice over."

Beidou scoffed, nudging her in the ribs. "Sixty-five races in five years, and you won fifty-fucking-eight of 'em. That ain't domination—that's a massacre."

March pointed at her, eyes gleaming. "And not a single crash. You pulled off impossible shit and came out clean every time."

Collei chuckled, a little color rising to her cheeks. "Okay, okay, dial it back. You're making me sound like a damn superhero. I just drove fast and didn't screw up too bad."

Beidou crossed her arms and smirked. "Let's see—first rookie champion, youngest title holder in history, first woman to win the WRC, youngest to win two, then three, four, and five. Should I go on, or are you gonna start charging us for stats?"

Collei groaned, covering her face. "Please stop. My ego's gonna need its own garage if you keep this up."

Amber finally stepped forward, slipping an arm around Collei's waist. "Speaking of garages… how about a little reunion party? Mt. Yougou. Just like the old days. Call up the whole crew."

Collei's grin returned full force, her gaze drifting back to the mountain as the golden afternoon light painted it in soft amber hues. "Now that… is an idea I can get behind."

"But first," she added, tone dropping a bit more serious, "I need to swing by Lynette's. Then Dad. Then Clorinde. Once that's done, we plan something big."

Amber clapped her hands together. "Perfect! I'll grab my Sileighty from the garage. Friend of mine's been babysitting it—says it's running hotter than ever."

Collei shot her a smirk. "Sounds like a plan."

Amber leaned in, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. "See you soon, sweetheart."

Collei didn't say anything. She just opened the Supra's door, slid back into the driver's seat, and rested her hands on the leather-wrapped wheel. Fingers flexed instinctively over the stitching. Her eyes flicked once to the rearview, once to the peak of Mt. Yougou—like checking a rival in the mirror.

Then, with a confident flick of her wrist, she turned the ignition.

The A90 roared to life, its low-end torque humming like a coiled beast under control. Collei pulled out of the lot slow, deliberate, the tailpipes growling like a promise as she faded into the road—heading for Lynette's Garage, where the stories lived and new legends were about to be forged.

Moments later, the red Toyota Supra A90 coasted into the cracked asphalt lot of Lynette's Garage, its turbocharged inline-six purring low, like a panther at idle. The glossy ruby-red paint caught the overhead sun like a blade catching fire, and as Collei killed the engine, the sudden silence was heavy with anticipation. She stepped out, boots crunching against gravel and oil-stained cement, the unmistakable scent of grease, old fuel, and scorched rubber rising up to meet her—an aroma only people like her ever called home.

The garage loomed ahead, its steel roller door streaked with years of wear and sun-bleached paint. Faint clanks and muffled music filtered through the thick walls. Without breaking stride, Collei approached and knocked—three firm raps, sharp and precise.

The door shot up with a mechanical grind, and before the sunlight could fully pierce the darkened interior, Lynette was already there—jumpsuit half-zipped, rag slung over one shoulder, eyes widening with shock and then joy.

"Collei!" she gasped, throwing her arms around her without hesitation, the kind of hug you don't get often in this world. Collei laughed, a short, genuine burst of sound as she returned the embrace.

"It's been way too long," she said, pulling back just enough to get a good look at her old friend. "You still pulling sixteen-hour shifts without blinking?"

Lynette grinned, brushing a streak of grease off her cheek with the back of her hand. "Better now that you're standing here. What about you, world champ? How's retirement treating the queen of sideways?"

Collei smirked, her tone casual but her eyes distant. "Just getting started. But I had to come see her first."

Her gaze shifted past Lynette. Past the tool benches and engine stands. And there—bathed in soft showroom lighting like a relic on display—was her.

The AE86.

The damn car looked like it had rolled straight out of 1987 and into the present without aging a day. The iconic panda scheme—gloss white with jet black accents—gleamed under the fluorescent lights, every line on the body razor-sharp, every panel perfectly aligned. The carbon fiber hood reflected the ceiling grid in smooth, unmarred detail. It wasn't entombed behind velvet ropes or draped in cloth. It stood tall and bare, as if it had been waiting this entire time for its driver to come home.

Collei's breath hitched. Her legs carried her forward before her mind could even catch up.

Lynette followed with a knowing smile. "Six years, and I've kept my promise. Chassis's been straightened, braced, and seam-welded. Reinforced subframes, dampers refreshed, whole underbody resealed and coated. Better than factory, and she's still got your fingerprints all over the tuning map."

Collei circled the car slowly, reverently. Her fingertips brushed the fender—cold, hard steel warmed by memory. She crouched low to inspect the wheels: Watanabe RSs, matte black, zero curb rash, still wrapped in the same spec of Advan Neova AD08Rs she loved—fresh rubber, but the same DNA. Her hand slid up along the A-pillar, traced the roofline. The metal felt alive under her touch.

She reached the passenger door, popped it open. That smell hit her instantly—alcantara, sunbaked leather, old race gas, and a ghost of tire smoke. It was the kind of scent no air freshener could replicate. It belonged to midnight battles, sunrise drifts, and runs that blurred into legend.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she sank into the Recaro bucket like she'd never left it. The bolstering held her snug, every contour still matched to her body. Her hands gripped the wheel—Nardi suede, worn smooth at ten and two. She didn't need to look. Every button, every switch, every scratch was muscle memory.

The key was in the ignition. She stared at it for a second.

Then she twisted it once—accessory power. The dashboard flickered to life. Omori Factory custom cluster: needle sweep. Digital AFR, oil temp, boost readouts—all right where they should be. The ECU chirped once, relays clicking under the dash.

She breathed in through her nose and turned the key to start.

The starter motor cranked once, twice—and then the new engine caught with a snarl. The 4A-GE 20V Silvertop—Group A spec, naturally aspirated and singing at idle—roared to life with a bark that filled the garage like a war cry. Idle settled to a snarling purr at 1,100 RPM, cam overlap giving it that uneven, almost percussive rhythm.

Collei's eyes lit up. Her foot gave a short blip—VRAP! VRAP-VRAP!—the throttle response instantaneous, needle jumping like a heartbeat. It was raw. Responsive. Animal.

"Goddamn, you still got it," she whispered, voice choked with affection. Her palm slapped the dash with a laugh. "I missed you, old girl."

Lynette leaned on the windowframe, arms crossed, smirking. "Still think I was crazy for pulling that engine from the wrecked Group A car in Sapporo?"

Collei shook her head. "Nope. You're insane. But you're brilliant."

"I rebuilt it from the ground up. Forged internals. Dry sump. Jenvey ITBs. Tuned to 240 at the crank—all-motor. She'll scream to 10,000 clean."

Collei whistled low. "That explains the song."

Lynette tossed the Supra's key fob into her lap. "You want me to park the rental?"

"Yeah. She's yours for now—just don't put regular gas in her. She'll bite."

Collei double-checked the gear lever: close-ratio six-speed, short-throw, perfectly weighted. Her hand moved with precision—neutral, clutch in, first gear engaged. The shift clunked in with a mechanical crispness that sent a thrill through her spine. Her heel hovered near the accelerator, gently feathering revs. Mirrors adjusted, harness buckled, window down.

She gave Lynette a final nod. "Next stop—Arlecchino's place. Gotta see the old man."

Lynette stepped back, hands on her hips as the AE86 crept toward the exit. "Give her hell, Collei. And when you're ready... I want to see what she can do on Mt. Yougou again."

"Oh, you will," Collei said, grinning as she rolled out.

The Hachiroku pulled into the daylight, its high-strung growl bouncing off the garage walls. As it merged onto the empty mountain road, Collei downshifted once—blip, snick—then again, the engine howling in reply. The sound tore through the hills like a gunshot.

She was home. And the mountain was about to remember who she was.

Moments later, Collei's AE86 rolled to a smooth, reverent stop in front of the house at the edge of the quiet neighborhood. The suspension hissed slightly as the chassis settled. She shut the engine down, and silence filled the cockpit—thick and absolute. Without the comforting purr of the 4A-GE, her heartbeat suddenly felt loud in her ears, a slow, steady drum echoing in the hush.

She didn't move. Just stared through the windshield at the familiar contours of the house—its weathered paint, the stone path leading to the door, the faint glow of a kitchen light behind the curtained window. It hadn't changed. Not a single shingle out of place. But to her, it felt like seeing it for the first time all over again.

Her hands stayed resting on the wheel. Her fingers flexed once, twice, then stilled. The memories came quietly—like fog over a mountain road. Nights of tofu runs, dew still fresh on the rearview mirror, tires whispering against damp tarmac. Long talks in the kitchen after midnight. Arlecchino leaning against the R34, arms crossed, eyes sharp with pride and worry.

Her throat tightened.

She blinked hard. Tears threatened, but she pushed them back, dragging in a shaky breath. "I miss this place…" she whispered, almost ashamed at the tremor in her voice. A quiet smile followed, small and tired and real.

With deliberate motion, she opened the door. The cool mountain air met her like an old friend—crisp, clean, laced with pine and distant rain. Her boots hit the pavement with a solid thump as she stood. The porch light flickered slightly as she approached the door, each step carrying a weight far heavier than her gear.

She hesitated, just a heartbeat, then knocked. Three soft raps—polite, careful. Almost afraid.

The door opened sooner than expected. Arlecchino stood there in house clothes—loose black slacks, a faded long-sleeve shirt, hair slightly undone, as if she'd only just sat down after a long day. For a moment, she didn't move. Her eyes widened, searching, disbelieving.

Then the recognition hit.

"Hi…" Collei's voice cracked just slightly. Her lips lifted in a hesitant, vulnerable smile.

Arlecchino inhaled sharply—and in the next second, she surged forward, arms locking around her daughter with a ferocity that belied her slender frame. The embrace was desperate, protective, overflowing with six years of unspoken words.

"My champion," Arlecchino murmured, her voice raw, trembling against Collei's shoulder. "I missed you, Collei."

Collei held her tighter, her forehead resting against her father's collar. The tears came freely now, hot trails on cold cheeks. "I missed you too, Father."

Neither of them moved for a long time. The world narrowed to the steady beat of two reunited hearts.

Eventually, Arlecchino stepped back, just enough to cup Collei's face in her hands. She studied her—every line, every freckle, every glint of green in her eyes. "You've come home?" she asked quietly, hope tangled in every word.

Collei nodded, eyes shimmering. "Yes. And I'm here to stay."

A slow, rare smile broke across Arlecchino's face. With a gentle motion, she pulled the door wider. "Then get inside before the tofu gets cold."

Later, they sat at the old wooden dining table. The meal was simple: miso soup, sautéed greens, grilled rice balls, and fresh tofu—the kind Arlecchino still made the traditional way. The warm aroma lingered in the room like memory itself. They ate slowly, savoring not just the food but the presence of one another.

Conversation flowed. Sometimes softly. Sometimes between bursts of laughter. Time peeled back like an old road map, revealing routes neither had forgotten.

"So," Arlecchino said between sips of tea, her eyes sharp with curiosity, "what's it like? Being a WRC champion?"

Collei leaned back in her chair, exhaling with a lopsided grin. "It's everything I dreamed of. But right now? I just want to rest. I'm hoping for some peace and privacy. Let the hype fade. Let the tires cool."

Arlecchino snorted. "No kidding. You park that AE86 outside too long and you'll have journalists sniffing around by morning."

Collei laughed, then followed Arlecchino's gaze to the wall.

There, in a simple black frame, hung a photo that time hadn't touched.

Team Speed Stars.

Collei and Clorinde posed atop their machines—Collei's AE86 and Clorinde's immaculate Lancia Rally 037, side by side like comrades in arms. Behind them, the rest of the team stood with greasy overalls and wide smiles, hands on shoulders, the support van looming behind them like a watchful guardian. It was a picture of triumph, of unity forged through shared asphalt.

"That was a special time," Arlecchino said, voice soft with reverence.

She looked back at Collei, brow raised. "I see the Eight Six is back on the road."

Collei's grin grew. "She's purring like a tiger. I had a custom Group A engine built for her—reinforced for endurance, but with the same soul. 240 horses. All-motor. Screams to eleven thousand without complaint."

Arlecchino gave a slow, impressed nod. "And the over-revving?"

"Gone. Hard cut limiter. Forged internals. She's bulletproof now."

"Finally." Arlecchino's smirk returned. "I was tired of you calling me at 2AM saying you popped the head gasket again."

Collei chuckled. "No more late-night rebuilds, I promise."

"Good. Because next time, I'm making you scrub the garage floor."

They laughed again, but this time it lingered—warm and full.

As the night wore on, their voices faded into quieter conversation. Comfortable silences stretched between them like well-worn roads. Around them, the house breathed with the rhythm of old memories: the creak of the stair, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint scent of soy sauce and engine oil lingering in the wood.

Collei looked around, eyes soft with peace. For the first time in years, she felt truly grounded.

The mountain roads would call again. The thrill of the drive, the scream of tires on tarmac, the redline roar of her AE86—they would all return.

But tonight, she was home.

And that was enough.

The following late afternoon, the sun began its slow, deliberate descent over Lake Yougou, spilling cascades of gold and amber across the water's glassy surface. The lake shimmered like molten fire, broken only by the occasional ripple as a bird skimmed low over the stillness. It was a postcard of serenity—almost too perfect. Deceptively calm, considering the horsepower and chaos that had unfolded earlier that day.

Inside her garage, Clorinde worked with laser focus. Her gloved hands moved deftly, carefully reattaching the final component of the Volumex compressor on her beloved Lancia Rally 037. The air was thick with the sacred scent of machinery—motor oil, scorched rubber, warm metal. A single droplet of sweat trailed down her temple, and she wiped it away with the back of her wrist, her dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. She leaned in, scrutinizing the torque on the last bolt with a mechanic's intimacy born of countless hours spent elbow-deep in combustion and grit.

The tranquil rhythm of the garage—the occasional click of a ratchet, the soft creak of suspension under its own weight—was suddenly broken.

It started low, a distant snarl of independent throttle bodies. Then it built quickly into a raspy, glorious growl that only a high-revving inline-four could produce. Her ears perked up immediately.

She turned just as the unmistakable sound of a Toyota AE86 cut through the silence like a racing heartbeat.

The car came to a crisp stop right outside the garage. The engine shut off with a throaty purr, followed by the satisfying clack of a door closing.

And there it was.

The Panda-scheme AE86. White and black, carbon fiber hood catching the golden rays like a piece of obsidian under fire. Its pop-up headlights, slightly faded but full of attitude, stared at her like a long-lost friend who never truly left.

And leaning against it, arms crossed and grinning like she'd just blitzed every mountain pass from here to Mondstadt, was Collei.

"Missed me, fellow rally racer?" Collei's voice rang out—light, teasing, but threaded with something deeper.

Clorinde stared for half a second longer before laughing aloud. "Collei, the five-time WRC champion! You've got some nerve showing up unannounced."

She rushed forward, arms wide, and the hug that followed hit like a flashback. Fierce. Unfiltered. Full of miles and memories.

When they pulled apart, Clorinde held her friend at arm's length, studying her like a long-missing puzzle piece. "Damn, it's really been a while. You look good. How's the quiet life treating you?"

Collei shrugged with mock modesty, though her smirk betrayed her pride. "Pretty great. I figured it was time to stop running from ghosts and check in on some living legends. I see the 037's still alive and kicking."

"Alive, kicking, and faster than she's ever been," Clorinde said, gesturing toward the car's exposed rear. "And she's not alone anymore. I picked up something special—a Kimera EVO37. Twin-charged. Lighter, meaner, sharper. It's like the old S4 mated with a thunderstorm."

Collei whistled low. "Now that I've gotta see. Sounds like she's built to misbehave."

Clorinde leaned casually against the Lancia's frame. "She is. Maybe later I'll take you for a ride—assuming you can handle being in the passenger seat for once."

Collei grinned. "Only if you promise not to scare the crap out of me. Again."

Clorinde smirked. "No promises."

There was a brief, companionable silence. The kind that settles between people who've shared something bigger than themselves. Roads. Championships. A love for machines that made them bleed and fly all at once.

"So," Clorinde said, eyes narrowing slightly, "what's this really about, Collei? You've got that look. Like you're hiding something good."

Collei stood upright, hands sliding into her jacket pockets with deliberate nonchalance. "Reunion time. I'm pulling the team back together—Speed Stars and a few others. Tomorrow night. Family Diner in town. I've reserved the whole place."

Clorinde's expression faltered just a moment—hit by the sudden weight of nostalgia. All the late-night runs. The cigarette smoke and engine heat. The wins. The losses. The family they built under moonlight and floodlamps.

"You know I wouldn't miss that for anything," she said at last, her voice softer, reverent. "I'll round up whoever I can."

"Perfect," Collei replied, voice buzzing with anticipation. "I've still got a few more stops, but I'll swing by tonight for a check-in."

They hugged once more—quick, firm, and full of unspoken promises—before Collei stepped back toward the AE86. She dropped into the driver's seat with practiced ease and fired it up. The sound rolled out of the garage like thunder on warm asphalt.

Clorinde stood at the edge of the bay, arms crossed, watching the Eight Six peel out. The tires chirped, caught, and launched the car down the road in a graceful arc of rubber and speed.

She didn't move for a while. Just stood there, letting the evening light wash over her, golden and soft as memory.

Tomorrow was going to be something special.

One hell of a reunion.

The following evening, as the sun began to set, Collei found herself at the top of the familiar road leading to Yougou's Downhill, the place where it had all started. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the faint, lingering smell of asphalt baking under the day's heat. She pulled her AE86 to a stop, the car idling quietly as she gazed out at the winding serpent of road below her.

The sky was a gradient of deep orange and violet, streaked with the last remnants of daylight. Pulling her phone from the dashboard mount, she checked the time—five o'clock. The diner awaited, along with the reunion of her former rivals and closest friends.

But first, there was something she needed to do.

Her lips curved into a sly grin as she pocketed the phone, her eyes gleaming with determination. "Just one run... for old times' sake."

Without hesitation, Collei climbed back into the driver's seat, pulling the harness over her shoulders. The click of the five-point harness and the tightening of straps felt like a ritual, grounding her in the moment.

The engine roared to life as she twisted the key. The newly installed 1.6-liter Silvertop 4AGE Group A engine sang out, its aggressive growl reverberating off the mountain's walls. It wasn't just a car; it was her partner, her legacy.

"Alright, let's go!" she muttered, slamming the shifter into first gear and planting her foot on the accelerator.

The AE86 surged forward, the rear tires biting into the pavement with a ferocity that sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. The headlights illuminated the road ahead, cutting through the growing shadows.

The first right-hand hairpin came up fast—faster than she remembered. Collei's focus sharpened as her hands flew over the wheel. A quick stab at the brakes, a flick of the wrist, and the car initiated a flawless four-wheel drift. The rear tires screamed against the pavement, leaving a faint trail of smoke as the AE86 slid gracefully through the corner.

This was her Cuilein Zone. Her heartbeat synced with the rhythm of the car, the road, and the roaring engine. Every input she gave was precise, instinctual. It was as if she and the AE86 had never been apart.

As she powered down the longest straightaway, the growl of her engine was joined by another. Then another. Collei glanced in her rearview mirror, her curiosity piqued.

A lineup of headlights came into view, gaining on her fast. She eased off the throttle just enough to see who dared to join her impromptu descent.

First up was the unmistakable silhouette of Clorinde's Lancia Rally 037. The low, guttural growl of its supercharged engine was like a war cry. Clorinde pulled alongside, her gloved hand shooting a quick thumbs-up before falling back into formation.

Behind her were two rotary symphonies—Ningguang's pristine white RX7 FC and Keqing's Midnight Purple RX7 FC, both hugging the road with surgical precision.

And then more joined in: Navia's blazing red Honda NSX, with Albedo riding shotgun, the duo flashing confident smiles as they passed. Ganyu's sky-blue Honda S2000 brought up the rear, its naturally aspirated scream echoing through the canyon.

It was as if no time had passed.

Collei smirked, the competitive fire in her eyes sparking anew. "Alright, you wanna play? Try and keep up!"

She slammed her foot back onto the gas, and the AE86 shot forward like an arrow, the convoy following in perfect unison.

Through every hairpin, every chicane, and every treacherous curve, the six cars moved like a single entity, drifting in synchronized harmony. The screech of tires and the roar of engines filled the air, a symphony of speed and skill that celebrated their shared love for the road.

The world outside the mountain pass blurred into obscurity, leaving only the thrill of the chase. This wasn't just a race—it was a reunion in motion.

By the time they reached the base of the mountain, the convoy slowed, each car rolling into the parking lot of the family diner they all remembered.

The place was alive with the glow of neon signs and the murmur of voices. Rows of iconic cars were packed into the lot, each one a legend in its own right.

Collei parked her AE86 next to Clorinde's Lancia, shutting off the engine and stepping out. Her gaze swept across the sea of vehicles, her chest tightening with nostalgia.

There they were: Yelan's jet-black Blackbird, its sleek silhouette a testament to her precision driving. Silverwolf's tuned Integra, unmistakable with its custom vinyl decals. Amber's iconic Sileighty, its paint gleaming like freshly polished amber.

March's Supra. Seele's Devil Z. Pela's perfectly balanced MR2. Feixiao's roaring Lancer Evo IX. Yoimiya's bright white Sierra Cosworth. Eula's GT86 with its subtle, icy elegance. Ayaka's AE86, her old rival in a twin machine.

And then... there it was.

Her father's R34 Skyline GT-R. Bayside blue, sitting like a king among gods.

Collei's breath hitched, a wide smile spreading across her face. Her heart swelled with pride, excitement, and a sense of belonging she hadn't felt in years.

"This..." she whispered, the words catching in her throat before she laughed aloud. "This is fucking awesome."

As the convoy of cars rolled into the diner parking lot, their engines idling in a harmonious symphony, Ningguang's RX7 FC and Keqing's RX7 FD pulled up directly behind Collei's AE86 and Clorinde's Lancia 037. Their sleek, polished frames gleamed under the soft glow of the streetlights, a testament to their immaculate care.

The hiss of air brakes and the quiet click of car doors opening announced their arrival. Ningguang stepped out first, her platinum hair cascading down her shoulders as she brushed it loose with a practiced hand. Keqing followed, her midnight-purple locks framing her sharp, determined eyes.

Ningguang turned toward Collei with open arms, her voice ringing out like a clarion call. "Collei! Our five-time World Rally Champion!"

Collei grinned broadly as she walked over, pulling Ningguang into a tight hug. "Oh, Ningguang. It's so nice to see you too!"

The two shared a moment of genuine warmth before Collei moved to embrace Keqing, then Albedo, Ganyu, and finally Navia, each hug heartfelt and full of the unspoken bond that time hadn't diminished.

Collei stepped back to look at her assembled team, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. She nodded firmly. "Thank you all for coming."

Ningguang placed an arm over Collei's shoulder, her smile as radiant as ever. "Come on, let's make our way inside. Everyone's waiting for you."

As they entered the diner, Collei was greeted by the sudden sound of chairs scraping against the floor. The entire room rose to its feet, and a wave of applause filled the space. Faces from her past—rivals, teammates, and opponents alike—clapped and cheered, their admiration and respect palpable.

Collei froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and recognition. Ningguang stepped forward, handing her a microphone with a knowing smile. "Come on, Collei. Give a speech."

Taking a deep breath, Collei stepped to the front of the diner. The room quieted, and all eyes turned to her as she began to speak. Her voice was steady, warm, and tinged with nostalgia.

"Exactly seven years ago, I was just a fresh graduate from high school. Twelve years ago, I started doing deliveries for my dad, Arlecchino. She taught me everything about driving on the mountain pass—the precision, the focus, the feel of the road beneath the tires. Back then, I hated it. I drove because I had to. Because it helped the family business. I never imagined it would become my passion, my identity, my everything.

But then, one night, everything changed. Seven years ago, I found myself in an impromptu race against Keqing's RX7 on Yougou's Downhill. It wasn't planned or expected, but that race lit a spark in me I didn't know existed. That night, I overheard people talking—buzzing about 'some Eight Six' that had beaten an RX7. I had no idea that 'some Eight Six' was me until it became the talk of Yougou.

Eventually, my dad found out. She didn't scold me. She didn't yell or ground me like I thought she would. Instead, she said something that would change my life forever: 'Go to Yougou tonight. Find some punk in an FD they claim is the fastest in Araumi. And beat the living fire out of her in the downhill.' That's exactly what I did. That night wasn't just a race—it was a statement. It wasn't about the win, but the connection to the road, the thrill of the challenge, and the pride of the pass.

The following week, my friend March—always the instigator—got involved. She talked to Yelan, who came by the Gas station i used to work for, She was already buzzing about my Eight Six, and somehow, without me even knowing, I was challenged to another race. By the time I found out, it was too late to back out. It was a Saturday night, and I remember the nerves building as I lined up against Yelan. But when the engines roared, the nerves faded. That race wasn't just a competition—it was a revelation. For the first time, I felt like I belonged on the road. That night, I stopped being just a driver. I became a racer.

I raced. And I won. But victory didn't come without loss. I'll never forget the first engine I blew. God, I was devastated. I dropped to my knees, watching the steam billow from the hood, hearing the clanking of broken metal, and seeing oil pooling around the fender. It felt like a part of me had shattered. I thought I'd destroyed everything my dad had worked so hard to build. I didn't sleep for days. I couldn't stop blaming myself. But Dad didn't let me stay down for long. We rebuilt. We came back stronger with a new Group A engine—an engine that screamed to 11,000 RPMs. It felt untamable at first, like it was fighting against me. But then, I learned to let it breathe, to let it sing. And together, we became unstoppable.

Then Team Speed Stars happened.

We weren't just a team; we were a force of nature. The pride of Narukami Prefecture. Every course we tackled, we conquered. We raced against the best—against teams with more money, better cars, and bigger reputations—and we crushed them. Even when someone sabotaged the course, causing Clorinde's Lancia 037 to crash on a hairpin, we didn't back down. We rebuilt. We came back stronger. I'll never forget that night on Asase Pass, where Clorinde absolutely dominated the uphill. It was the kind of race that legends are made of. We were undefeated, and we earned every single victory.

Then came the Ace versus Ace race—the race to end all races. Me against Clorinde. Two Aces. Two drivers who had pushed each other to the edge and back. That race was everything—every lesson, every victory, all wrapped into one. It was fierce, it was relentless, and it was beautiful. But the race to the finish line, my Eight Six couldn't take it anymore. I blew my second engine trying to pass Clorinde. I crossed the line, but I knew the car had given everything it had. We called it a draw, and honestly? It was perfect. That race wasn't about winning. It was about respect. It was about ending the rivalry that had started with our fathers and forging something new—a bond that went beyond the road.

Six months after Team Speed Stars disbanded, I became a Toyota Works Rally driver for the WRC. My first outing was in Monte Carlo, and I'll never forget the nerves as I stood on the starting line. But once I hit the road, it all clicked. I went on to win my full-time season in the WRC, becoming the first rookie champion, the first female world champion, and the youngest world champion. Over the next four years, I won four more titles. Five consecutive WRC championships in a row. Even now, it feels surreal.

Just a couple of months ago, I announced my retirement from the WRC. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was the right one. I've achieved everything I set out to do. Out of 65 locations, I won 58 of them. And didnt finish lower than fourth. I've lived my dream, and I've cemented my place in the history of rally racing, as one of the all time greats. But none of it would've been possible without all of you.

To the Narukami Prefecture's racing scene, to the rivals who pushed me to be better, to the teammates who believed in me—to all of you, thank you. You've all been a part of this journey, and I'll carry these memories with me forever."

Collei raised her glass high, her voice steady and strong. "To everyone. Cheers—to the road that brought us together and the family we've become!"

The room erupted in cheers, glasses clinking and laughter spilling into the night. As Collei set down her glass and the microphone, she was immediately swept into conversations, hugs, and laughter with her old friends.

Amid the warmth of the reunion, her gaze drifted out to the parking lot beyond the diner's glass windows. There, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, her AE86 stood parked beside Clorinde's 037 and her father's iconic R34 Skyline GT-R. The three cars—symbols of her past, her journey, and her legacy—stood side by side, as if watching over the night.

A soft smile spread across her face, her heart swelling with contentment. This wasn't just a celebration of the past—it was a promise for the future. A new chapter awaited her, one filled with endless possibilities. But tonight, she allowed herself to bask in the glow of the people who had stood by her side through every twist and turn.

And so, the story of The Speed of the Stars came to a close—not with an ending, but with the promise of something even greater yet to come.