Chapter 19: The Young Master of the Grian Family Has Been PUA’d!

One black and one white heavy motorcycle reflected the sensual sheen of exquisite machinery under the garage lights.

To be fair, even Evelyn had her full attention captured by these two handcrafted heavy bikes, to the point that she completely ignored the grimy, gasoline-scented garage environment around her.

In her previous life as an overworked office drone, she had always wanted to see poetry and distant horizons. Buying a top-tier motorcycle and riding it out for a spin whenever she had free time had been one of her few dreams.

Unfortunately, as a corporate workhorse, she had neither the leisure to see poetry and distant lands nor the money to buy a motorcycle. She died suddenly before saving up enough, only to arrive in this world and become a narrow-waisted, long-legged, marriage-bound but utterly useless young noblewoman.

Fortunately, now she could at least tame this beast born of human industry.

“Dominion Axial Heavy Assault Platform, also known as the Hell Mammoth, manufactured by Nianhorg Industries.”

Shelby tapped the motorcycle’s fuel tank with a knuckle. The emblem of Nianhorg Industries gleamed brilliantly under the light. “I had a mechanic I know modify this big guy. I guarantee the horsepower will satisfy you.”

This was a massive machine in matte cast-iron black from head to toe. Its body was sharp-edged and angular, filled with a sense of geometric cutting.

It didn’t look like something meant to run—it looked like something capable of crushing walls.

The frame was thick, with an explosive amount of exposed mechanical structures. The tires were absurdly wide, giving off the impression of an industrial beast just at a glance.

“This monster wasn’t designed for the civilian market. Its original purpose was to provide a high-speed, heavily armored, all-terrain mobile platform for the Empire’s border patrols, large estate guard units, and imperial armed forces. The design philosophy emphasized absolute reliability, ease of maintenance, and powerful load-bearing and modification capabilities, rather than riding comfort or aesthetics.”

Shelby stroked the sharp contours of the body as if caressing a lover. “Getting my hands on this beauty cost me a lot of money.”

“And this one here—Nocturne Type-S, also known as the White Widow.”

Shelby tapped the instrument panel of the other white motorcycle. “Designed specifically for gentlemen with discerning taste. It combines outstanding performance with unparalleled elegance—an artwork in motion. Everything about it exists to efficiently cut through the air and quietly devour the road.”

The bike he was introducing was entirely matte corpse-white, pale like Cyril’s skin. Its overall appearance was streamlined, with smooth lines and a complete, glossy shell. There were hardly any excess bolts or exposed piping to be seen, like a low-crouching, aggressive beast.

This mafia boss, who shrank back and felt utterly stifled in front of Evelyn, now looked like an excited child showing off his beloved toys, chattering endlessly about the two motorcycles.

From performance specs and horsepower displacement to manufacturing techniques and more—

He talked nonstop, completely losing the stammering, hesitant demeanor he had shown earlier in the office.

Evelyn ignored the talkative mafia boss and reached out to twist the throttle of the motorcycle known as the Hell Mammoth.

In an instant, the engine let out a roar like a wild beast.

Evelyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the gasoline-laced air, as if she could hear the echo of her past-life dreams within that engine’s roar.

Just listening to the sound was enough to tell—this machine was an absolute performance monster.

This big guy suited her tastes perfectly.

“Products from Nianhorg Industries have no flaws except being expensive.”

Shelby concluded his introduction with that line. As a motorcycle enthusiast, just hearing the engine’s roar made his entire body tremble with excitement.

“Though being expensive might not be Nianhorg Industries’ flaw—it might be mine.”

He added another sentence.

Evelyn glanced at the mafia boss who was practically dancing with excitement, but said nothing.

He would probably never imagine that the terrifying nun who once made him quake with fear was actually the young heiress of Nianhorg Industries.

“Oh right, Sister.”

Shelby suddenly seemed to recall something and asked, “Why do you need two motorcycles? Is there someone else investigating the race with you?”

“And him.”

Evelyn pointed at Cyril, who was sitting in a wheelchair nearby, curiously touching the Nocturne’s polished engine.

“Him?”

Shelby was dumbfounded. No matter how he looked at him, this fair-skinned, delicate young master seemed so weak that he couldn’t even stand up.

Let him control a performance monster like this?

Wouldn’t he topple the bike before even mounting it, then get crushed flat by this two-hundred-plus-kilogram hunk of metal?

“That’s none of your concern.”

Evelyn saw the doubt on Shelby’s face and spoke. “Before Friday, get these two big guys delivered to my place. Remember to fill the tanks.”

“Got it!”

Shelby agreed readily, though the thought that his beloved bikes were about to be taken into that kind of race—where they might not even have a complete wheel left—made his heart ache.

…

The wooden door of the rental apartment creaked open. Dim yellow hallway light spilled inside, illuminating the walls covered in peeling paint.

As soon as Evelyn stepped inside, her shoulders sagged as if all the strength had been drained from her body. She completely lost that gentle yet oppressive aura she carried outside.

Now, she looked more like an office worker who had just returned home after work, utterly exhausted.

The door slammed shut with a snap. Evelyn, familiar with the place, reached out in the dark and flipped the light switch. Amid a crackling electric sound, the bulb flickered a few times before dim light filled the narrow apartment.

Pujie flapped its wings and flew in through the window, landing precisely on its perch.

It still had a yellowed piece of paper clamped in its beak, tilting its head as it watched Evelyn deftly strip off her nun’s habit and pull one of the few shirts she owned—used as pajamas—from the wardrobe.

“Ah, this is much more comfortable.”

The loose shirt perfectly covered the base of Evelyn’s thighs. Swinging her long legs, she leaped forward and flopped onto the soft bed.

Even the metal bed frame creaked from the impact.

The bed, along with the blankets and pillows, was probably the most valuable thing in her home aside from those two guns—Shut Up and Bullet.

As a seasoned corporate s*ave, she knew very well that only this bed was a place where she could truly rest and relax, so she never begrudged spending money on it.

Her only grievance was that the room was too small to fit a bigger bed.

Once she got promoted into the choir, she would definitely get a bigger place and buy a bed she could roll around on freely!

“Did you find anything?”

Evelyn rubbed against the soft blankets and pillow as she spoke. Back in the afternoon, when she left the dessert shop called “White Dove and Frosting,” she had already sent Pujie out to search the city for clues about the death race.

“Here.”

Pujie flapped its wings, circled the room once, and landed on the metal rack at the head of the bed, handing the yellowed paper to Evelyn.

“What’s this?”

Evelyn flipped it over, her waterfall-like long hair now rubbed into a bird’s nest. “A betting slip?”

Under the dim light, she read the text on it. “Death Ride Grand Prix…”

This was the official name of the death race.

“This betting slip is from last week,” Pujie tilted its bird head and said.

Though it was just a betting slip, Evelyn could already glean information others wouldn’t speak of from it.

The original owner of the slip seemed to be a seasoned gambler. From the messy pencil markings scrawled across the page, it was clear he had carefully analyzed the detailed information of each participant before placing his bets.

At the very top of the slip was the contestant with the most terrifying odds. Most participants had odds ranging from 1:8 to 1:20, with a few exceeding 1:20. Only this one person had odds of a horrifying 1:1.4.

In other words, if you bet one hundred and he won, you’d only earn forty.

Compared to the nearly tenfold or twentyfold odds of the others, his odds were absurdly low.

If it weren’t to maintain gamblers’ willingness to bet on him, the organizers might even have adjusted his odds to 1:1.

The reason was simple—this man, named Cage, had won the championship three weeks in a row with absolute dominance.

Even in last week’s brutal race, where seven of the top eight were all killed, he had charged past the finish line alone without suffering so much as a scratch.

Naturally, this contestant named Cage had been circled heavily by the betting slip’s owner.

However, as a seasoned gambler, he naturally wouldn’t choose someone like Cage with such unbelievably low odds.

Evelyn continued reading downward and finally saw a contestant at the bottom with odds of 1:30. In the betting box behind this contestant’s name, the gambler had written “1000” in pencil.

If this person won, the bettor’s principal would increase thirtyfold—he could net twenty-nine thousand in a single night.

A seasoned gambler would always choose high-risk, high-reward options.

But the result was already known to Evelyn. In last week’s race, seven of the top eight all died. The only survivor, Cage, claimed his third victory without even drawing blood.

And the owner of the betting slip had drawn a sloppy X over the name of the contestant he bet on.

From the deep scratch marks where the pencil tip tore into the paper, it was clear he had been furious at the time.

The poor contestant he had backed likely hadn’t survived the death race either.

“This Cage seems like an opponent worth paying attention to,” Evelyn murmured.

To win three times in a row with overwhelming dominance in that kind of race, without even a single scratch—

That alone proved that his ability in motorcycle racing was unquestionable.

“Ugh, whatever, whatever! I’ll think about it later!”

Evelyn suddenly rubbed her head, then accurately tossed the yellowed, tattered betting slip into the trash can.

“Sleep, sleep! As expected, the bed is my final destination!”

Before Pujie could say anything, Evelyn pulled the blanket over her face, leaving only a lock of messy long hair and one long, slender leg exposed.

Pujie tilted its bird head, wanting to say something, but fearing it might disturb Evelyn’s sleep and end up with feathers flying everywhere, it held back.

It could only flap its wings and fly back to its perch to enjoy its own rest.

…

In the Grian estate, Cyril was still huddled behind his desk, hiding his face behind the green lampshade of the desk lamp, reading the words on the page one by one under its light.

But page after page turned, lines of text passing before his eyes, and yet he couldn’t remember a single thing he had read.

Evelyn’s words—“Isn’t there still you?”—kept circling in his mind like some kind of spell, refusing to fade.

Did she mean… she needed me?

The thought flashed by, unfamiliar enough to make his heart race.

Extreme and unreasonable as her methods were, this was the first time someone hadn’t treated him as a fragile young master who needed protection, but as someone—

Someone useful. Someone who could be sent onto the battlefield as an equal.

The feeling was extraordinarily subtle, clashing with all his reason and fear, yet unmistakably piercing his heart.

“Young master.”

The crisp chime of the doorbell snapped Cyril out of those absurd thoughts as Serra opened the door.

“Your black tea.”

Serra carried a silver tray and walked gracefully to the desk. With each light step she took, ripples spread across the surface of the tea in the cup.

The head maid who had watched Cyril grow up maintained her usual elegance today as well.

“Thank you…”

Cyril reached out to take the tea and took a sip.

“Young master, today…”

Serra stood beside the desk holding the tray, dignified like a sculpture carved by a master. “Today, it seems you went out?”

“Mm…”

Cyril shrank his neck slightly. “I suddenly felt that staying inside the estate all the time without seeing sunlight might not be a good thing. The weather was quite nice today.”

He was, of course, lying. He couldn’t exactly tell Serra that he had planned to kill Sister Evelyn, only to end up kidnapped and dragged around by her all day, could he?

“Is that so?”

Serra paused thoughtfully, then said, “Given your condition, young master, going out alone is too dangerous. If you wish to go out next time, please have a maid accompany you.”

“Mm, I will.”

Cyril watched the ripples slowly spreading in the cup of black tea, then suddenly looked up. “By the way, Serra—do you know about the racing event in the John District?”