Chapter 20: Violent Motorcycles

Friday—back when Evelyn had still been a student in her previous life—was undoubtedly an exciting day.

Because it meant that a full week of heavy coursework could finally come to a temporary end, and when the sun set, she could enjoy some hard-earned relaxation.

It had to be said: that impatient anticipation for a break on Friday afternoons was the very essence of the weekend.

But later, after she graduated from university and successfully transitioned into society as a corporate s*ave, Fridays stopped stirring any waves in her heart at all.

After all, what kind of workhorse gets the luxury of a proper two-day weekend?

But today—today’s Friday was completely different!

Evelyn’s eyes were filled with the excitement of making money.

The prize money was three hundred thousand. Spend two hundred thousand to repair her guns, and she’d still have a hundred thousand left—enough to live in comfort for quite a while!

She could already imagine it: after getting the prize money, she’d use the remaining hundred thousand to rent a big apartment, then buy a bed large enough for her to roll around on as much as she liked!

Anyway, the landlord had already urged her for rent several times, stuffing one bill after another through the crack of her door every day. Evelyn had long since had enough of that cold-blooded old woman.

As for Cyril, Evelyn had never once considered sharing the prize money with that sickly young master—he didn’t need it!

Actually, when you really thought about it, she could have secured her finances through black-on-black methods like extorting gangs.

But on one hand, church doctrine didn’t allow nuns to engage in outright criminal acts. Usually, roughing up thugs and gangsters, or like now, participating in underground races, could be framed as self-defense or work done for exorcism purposes—something the church would turn a blind eye to.

But if she dared to obtain money through outright criminal profiteering, the Third Hall—responsible for internal church inspections and discipline—would come knocking the very next day and throw Evelyn into a church prison.

Moreover, on the other hand, as someone who had lived more than twenty years in a modern civilized society in her previous life, Evelyn still had at least a shred of moral bottom line.

Don’t let her usual crazy demeanor fool you—at the very least, she paid for what she bought and refrained from gaining illegal profits. She still followed those basic rules.

Talking about moral principles with a lunatic was admittedly a bit funny, but this really was one of the few moral lines Evelyn still held.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t have thrown out what little money she had left when she demanded those two motorcycles from Shelby.

Even though that money wasn’t enough to buy a rearview mirror, at least she paid. It counted as a mutually agreed-upon transaction—neither violating doctrine nor crossing Evelyn’s moral line.

Yes, the money she had tossed to Shelby back then was her last remaining savings. She could now truly be described as utterly broke.

But after tonight, everything would become clear and bright.

Shelby had already sent people to deliver the two motorcycles to Evelyn, intact. One black and one white—two performance monsters shimmering with sensual luster beneath the dim streetlights.

Everything was perfect, except…

Evelyn shifted her gaze to Cyril standing before her—and behind him, the ever-present head maid Serra, her chin as always lifted toward the sky.

Evelyn had never worried that Cyril would break their appointment. The deterrent power of the six Command Seals was more than enough—he didn’t dare not show up.

But why was Serra here too?

With her here, how was she supposed to have any fun?

“Sorry about this…”

Cyril gave an awkward smile and rolled his wheelchair closer to Evelyn, lowering his voice. “She already noticed that I left the estate alone last time. This time, no matter what I said, she refused to let me go out by myself…”

To fool Serra, Cyril had lied, saying he wanted to see this underground race called the Death Ride Grand Prix. That was the only reason Serra hadn’t grown suspicious—probably.

Still, as a conscientious head maid, Serra had followed along anyway, saying, “Young master, your health is weak. Going out is inconvenient. I’ll accompany you.”

That was what she said, but the look on her face at the time left absolutely no room for refusal.

And so the situation became what it was now: Serra followed behind him like a mobile sculpture, even controlling Cyril’s direction by pushing his wheelchair.

“Alright, alright, I get it.”

Evelyn muttered softly, then lifted her gaze toward Serra, who stood there like a statue.

“What a coincidence, meeting you here.”

As she spoke, that familiar mask of gentle warmth was already perfectly affixed to her face.

“Good day, Sister Evelyn.”

Serra bowed slightly, maintaining her elegant yet perpetually aloof demeanor.

This head maid—always like a flawless sculpture—clearly didn’t think much of Evelyn, this nun pretending to be gentle.

Even as she spoke, she subtly gripped the handle of Cyril’s wheelchair and pushed him a few steps away from Evelyn.

“Underground races meant for the amusement of noble youths don’t seem like the sort of place a nun such as yourself should be visiting.”

“Oh, not at all. As a nun, it’s only natural for me to shoulder the responsibility of guiding lost lambs back onto the right path.”

Evelyn narrowed her eyes into a gentle curve, her smile not quite reaching them. “And there seem to be an especially large number of lost lambs here.”

To an outsider, the two were merely exchanging pleasantries. But to Cyril, their verbal sparring looked like flashing blades—sparks nearly flying through the air.

The two gang members Shelby had sent to deliver the motorcycles exchanged a glance, silently reaching the same conclusion: at their level, it was best not to get involved in a clash between two women this terrifying.

Fortunately, the confrontation between Evelyn and Serra didn’t last long before it was interrupted by cheers and shouts erupting from the crowd not far away.

At the crowded bridgehead, gamblers shouted excitedly, scribbling bets onto betting slips. Some yelled encouragement for the racers they’d backed, while others wore grave expressions as they wrote and calculated, analyzing each contestant’s chances of victory.

And at the very bottom of the betting slips, in a corner no one paid attention to, two newly added names occupied the last slots.

One was called Celti.
The other, Dante.

Their odds had climbed to a frightening 1:50.

…

The John District lay along the Eriel Canal on the western side of Ingrey City, part of the mid-city area. Because of its proximity to the canal, it had numerous ports and docks.

The John Bridge spanning the canal was one of the district’s landmarks. Built by Nianhorg and maintained daily by them, this bridge had endured centuries of wind and rain and remained as solid as ever.

When it was first constructed, the Ingrey City Hall had considered the possibility of future wars, erecting four towering bastions at both ends of the bridge.

The anticipated wars never came. Instead, those four bastions were leased by the underground race organizers and converted into premium VIP viewing suites.

At this moment, in a luxuriously decorated top-floor room of one bastion, an elderly gentleman with a monocle—immaculately dressed, hair graying—sat on a red velvet sofa, gazing down at the bridge through a floor-to-ceiling window.

The racers were gathering on the bridge. According to the rules, they would cross John Bridge, follow a fixed route around the John District, and return to the starting point—which was also the finish line—right back at John Bridge.

During the race, contestants were allowed to attack each other using any weapons. Though firearms were limited to light weapons such as pistols, killing opponents was not prohibited.

Naturally, the desperadoes who came to participate didn’t care about their opponents’ lives. In a race like this, showing mercy to others was cruelty to oneself.

“Mr. Enzo, your wine.”

A waiter approached with a silver tray and gracefully presented it within easy reach of the elderly gentleman.

“Thank you.”

The gentleman addressed as Mr. Enzo reached out and took a wine glass filled with red wine, his movements elegant and refined.

“Mr. Enzo, do you think Cage will win this race as well?”

The waiter stood slightly behind and to the side of Mr. Enzo, holding the tray like a statue.

“Cage?”

Mr. Enzo took a sip of wine, his other hand gently stroking the cane he never parted with. This cane—exquisite in both material and craftsmanship—had once been wildly popular across the country as a symbol of noble status.

“Cage is indeed formidable. After all, he used to be a professional racer.”

Mr. Enzo’s thumb brushed over the ram-skull sculpture atop the cane, cast in brass. “In terms of driving skill alone, he leaves the other contestants far behind.”

“But…”

Mr. Enzo set the wine glass back onto the tray and took out a brass pocket watch engraved with intricate patterns. With a click, he flipped it open.

“I think tonight’s race might just see one or two dark horses break out.”

“So you believe Cage won’t win this race, Mr. Enzo?”

“That’s hard to say.”

Mr. Enzo chuckled softly, lowering his gaze to the watch face in his hand. “After all, I’m nothing more than a merchant. How could I possibly foresee the future?”

The hands on the dial ticked forward, second by second.

The start of the race was drawing ever closer.