Chapter 22: The Death Race Begins

“Dante?”

Cyril, now dressed in a red trench coat, looked at the betting slip in his hand, then turned his gaze to Evelyn. “Why give me such a strange alias?”

At this moment, they had already moved from the VIP viewing room in the bridgehead fortress to the race preparation area. Countless pit crew members were busy and tense, making final adjustments to the racers’ motorcycles and weapons.

“You don’t want the name of the Grien family’s eldest young master appearing on a betting slip like this, do you?” Evelyn said, watching the gang members helping them prep their bikes. “I originally wanted to name you Liu Peisong, but after thinking it over, I gave up.”

“Who gave you permission to name me however you like?” Cyril tossed the betting slip aside and reached out to pinch Evelyn’s chin.

Click!

Before his hand could even touch her cheek, two cold gun barrels were already pressed beneath his jaw.

Even though one of her Shut-Ups was damaged and left at Leona’s gunsmith workshop for repairs, Evelyn still had another one on her.

“My property. I’ll name it whatever I want,” Evelyn said with a dangerous grin. “Or do you want me to blow your head off right here in public?”

If Cyril hadn’t stopped, she really would have pulled the trigger.

In a place like this, Evelyn had no qualms at all.

But Cyril was different. Even if his head were blown apart, it would only hurt for a moment—he’d recover in less than three seconds.

However, in full public view, his half-demon identity would be exposed, bringing unnecessary trouble and possibly alerting Sera.

He hated trouble. Evelyn didn’t.

That was exactly why Evelyn could toy with him so easily.

“Hmph, women,” Cyril snorted, withdrawing his hand. “Fine, Dante it is. No woman’s ever given me a nickname before.”

“If you want to die, just say so,” Evelyn said, narrowing her eyes as she slowly raised her left hand. The six command seals on her ring finger were gilded by the dim yellow streetlights.

“Don’t be so violent—I don’t want to die,” Cyril said with a wicked grin, backing away two steps.

Only then did Evelyn lower her hand. She spun the Shut-Up in a neat flourish and slid it back into the thigh holster.

Sure enough, once this guy stood up, his personality changed. He no longer hid behind that timid, cowardly façade—or rather, once standing, his inner and outer personalities seemed to swap.

When confined to the wheelchair, he looked cowardly on the outside but was arrogant to the core.

Once standing, he became outwardly arrogant, yet inwardly timid.

Perhaps it was some kind of psychological barrier he’d developed long ago to protect himself?

Evelyn didn’t know what he’d been through, nor did she care. He was just a KPI for her promotion into the choir—who bothered to understand the emotional trauma of a KPI?

As long as she could keep Cyril firmly under control and prevent him from entertaining any improper thoughts, that was enough.

“Uh, the prep’s finished!”

A gang member holding a wrench looked up and wiped the grease from his face. “You can head to the starting area.”

As for what had just happened between the two of them, he could only pretend he hadn’t seen anything. He was just a small fry forced by his boss to handle logistics. Faced with these two—especially the terrifying Evelyn—he didn’t dare say a single unnecessary word.

“Okay, thanks for the hard work,” Evelyn said.

She put on her helmet, swung her long, straight leg over the Hell Mammoth, and mounted it.

Twisting the throttle, the monstrous machine let out a terrifying roar.

Although all the racers were desperadoes, in reality, every one of them had a pit crew responsible for logistics, tuning their bikes and weapons to peak condition.

Evelyn had neither the money nor the time to assemble a professional crew. Shelby’s men could only fill that role temporarily.

Don’t underestimate them just because they were illiterate gangsters—having followed Shelby, a fanatic motorcycle enthusiast, they’d learned quite a bit about bike tuning themselves.

On the other side, Cyril mounted the White Widow. Listening to the engine’s growl, a trace of anticipation actually appeared on his face.

Perhaps even he hadn’t realized it himself, but having been confined to a wheelchair since childhood, he possessed an innate desire to chase speed—to break free of gravity itself.

The two motorcycles roared as they slowly rode out of the densely packed preparation area.

“Hey, you think…”

Once the bikes had fully entered the starting zone, the gang member with the wrench bent down and picked up the betting slip Cyril had tossed away. “Should we place a bet?”

“What, trying to make some extra cash?” his companion joked. “Don’t cry if you lose. Who you betting on—Cage? That won’t pay much.”

“I think they’ll win,” the wrench-wielding gangster said, pointing to the two names at the very bottom of the slip—Celty and Dante. “Odds are 1:50. If they win, I’ll buy you a drink!”

…

At the very center of the preparation area, a dense crowd gathered. This was the busiest spot and also the closest to the starting zone—the best location of all.

Naturally, such prime real estate was reserved for star racers, like Cage, the three-time consecutive champion.

Contrary to what one might imagine, Cage didn’t look like a reigning champion at all. He was just an ordinary middle-aged man, the kind you’d lose in a crowd and struggle to pick out again.

At the moment, Cage was leaning against a toolbox at the entrance of his prep room, idly playing with a brass coin hanging from his neck while holding a betting slip in his other hand, studying it carefully under the prep room lights.

Outside the barriers, fans and gamblers crowded together like a tidal wave, shouting things like “Defend the title again!” and “Go!”

Yet Cage seemed to hear none of it, calmly and meticulously scanning the list of racers on the betting slip.

It was his habit. Even though his driving skill put him leagues ahead of everyone else, he’d developed the practice of carefully reviewing his opponents before every race.

“Celty? Dante?”

Cage’s gaze stopped on the two unfamiliar names at the bottom of the list.

Every race saw a few new names. After all, this was a competition racing alongside death—every event claimed several lives. Even if a few lucky newcomers survived, they’d either be traumatized by the brutality or badly injured.

Only those who lived through several races and consistently placed would return again and again.

Still, the enormous prize money attracted countless desperadoes, so aside from a few old rivals, each race brought fresh names.

Several of Cage’s usual rivals had died just last week. Newcomers on the list were nothing unusual.

And yet, for some reason, these two names caught his attention.

He couldn’t say why—only that he had a faint feeling these newcomers might be formidable opponents.

Cage rubbed the brass coin between his fingers, the ram skull relief engraved on its face giving a faint tactile sensation.

“Mr. Cage! The bike’s ready!”

A young newcomer from the pit crew called out, interrupting Cage’s thoughts. “This beauty’s in perfect condition!”

The young man patted the fuel tank with confidence.

“Ah, thanks,” Cage said.

He lifted the coin to his lips and kissed it, then tucked it carefully back beneath his collar.

Grabbing his racing jacket, he slipped it on. The moment he zipped it up, his entire aura changed.

An invisible pressure instantly filled the prep room.

Moments ago, he’d been an unremarkable middle-aged man. Now, he was a champion racer radiating sharp intensity.

“Drinks are on me after the race,” Cage said as he put on his helmet. The flaming skull painted on its surface seemed almost alive under the prep room lights.

Seconds later, amid cheers from the pit crew, Cage rode his bike toward the starting zone.

“Oh, right?”

After Cage disappeared, the young newcomer nudged the veteran mechanic beside him. “What’s with that coin of Mr. Cage’s? He seems to treasure it.”

“The coin?”

The veteran rolled his eyes, then understood. His mouth moved beneath his graying beard. “That’s his lucky coin.”

“Lucky coin?”

“Yeah. He kisses it before every race. Says it brings him good luck and leads him to victory.”

“So that’s why he keeps winning? That effective? Where can I buy one?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the veteran snapped. “Mr. Cage wins because of his skill. You could buy the same coin and still not even know how to tighten a bolt!”

He glared at him. “What are you standing around for? Help clean up the tools!”

“O-okay!”

While the two chatted, Cage had already reached the starting area amid the gamblers’ cheers.

Motorcycles had existed for only a little over twenty years. When Nianhog Industry first produced one, people were skeptical of their performance and safety.

After all, compared to cars, riding a motorcycle was like sitting on an engine with two wheels.

But soon after, motorcycle races hosted by Nianhog Industry captivated everyone, and motorcycle culture flourished to this day.

Compared to horse racing, motorcycle racing was faster and more thrilling. The surge of speed and the adrenaline rush were intoxicating.

Cage was one of those drawn in by that adrenaline. He quickly became a professional stunt rider, competing in races across the country.

He seemed born with a talent for mastering speed, collecting countless trophies along the way.

In underground races like this, he was even more at home, with cumulative winnings approaching one million.

If he won tonight, his total would surpass that mark.

Yet why did he keep returning to these races?

Even Cage himself couldn’t quite remember. It felt like there had once been an important reason driving him—but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall it.

The roar of engines nearby broke his thoughts. He turned to look.

A woman in a form-fitting leather suit wearing a yellow cat-ear helmet, and a man in a red trench coat.

Judging by their starting positions, these must be Celty and Dante at the bottom of the betting slip.

Cage glanced at their rides—Nianhog Industry’s Hell Mammoth and White Widow.

Both bikes were monstrous in terms of performance and displacement, but they didn’t seem to have undergone any custom modifications, which was decidedly unprofessional.

If Cage’s crew had handled them, they’d have stripped off everything unnecessary—mirrors, kickstands, fenders—maybe even the full seat to reduce weight.

They’d add wedge-shaped rolled steel plates to the thick front forks, sharpened along the edges to ram and slice opponents’ tires. They’d remove the engine guard bars, replacing them with vicious forward-pointing spikes or hooks to tip and flip rivals.

Or they’d install devices on the White Widow—spike spreaders, tar sprayers—perhaps even remove the braking system entirely.

Because death racing didn’t need brakes. Slowing down was done by downshifting, using engine drag—and smashing into your opponents.

In races like this, failing to customize your bike meant starting at a massive disadvantage. You might not even make it off John Bridge before being riddled with bullets.

Had he misjudged them? Were these two just naive rookies dreaming of winning prize money?

“Ladies and gentlemen! And you hyenas lurking in the shadows with bloodstained copper coins in your pockets! Midnight has arrived!”

Lights flared at the center of the stands. A man in a crimson tuxedo, wearing a raven-feather eye mask, leapt onto the platform with a brass megaphone, his voice overpowering the roar of the crowd.

“Welcome to the flesh-and-blood feast of John Bridge! This is the Grand Prix of Desperate Driving—the only pilgrimage road paved with gasoline and bones!”

Snap!

Spotlights on the bridge blazed to life, bright as day, illuminating the racers.

Engines roared like beasts. Cheers crashed in like waves.

“Look around you! Smell the air! That’s the stench of cast iron, the fragrance of gunpowder, and the sweet aroma of gamblers’ souls burning away!”

The man strode to the edge of the platform. Maniacal laughter erupted from the packed stands.

“Tonight! Thirty-two warriors will crush the Holy Father’s commandments beneath their tires! Their scripture is the internal combustion engine! Their mass is a heavy-metal requiem sung by exhaust pipes!”

He threw back his cloak, revealing a signal pistol inlaid with skull reliefs at his waist.

“There are only three rules!”

He paused, waiting for the mountain-sea roar of the crowd to subside.

“Rule one: no brakes! Rule two: your bullets, your blades, the demon contracts hidden in your fuel tanks—all legal! Rule three: the finish line recognizes only the first to cross it—even if you crawl across, dragging half your opponent’s intestines behind you!”

Steam pipes on both sides of the bridge erupted, blasting white mist skyward, flinging streamers and discarded betting slips into the air like fluttering butterflies.

Amid this frenzy, the man suddenly bowed slightly toward the VIP boxes atop the bridgehead fortress.

“And a reminder to the noble lords in the VIP suites… the newly opened ‘Death Wager’ has been raised to five million. Care to guess who’ll become fresh graffiti beneath the bridge tonight?”

If anyone were to look through binoculars toward the towering bridgehead fortress, they’d see shadowy figures through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the VIP lounges—women in opulent gowns with hair piled high, men in tailored suits with fine handkerchiefs tucked into their breast pockets.

Every one of them wore a different mask and held a delicate wineglass with bubbling liquid inside. All anyone could know was that they were powerful figures not to be crossed—never who they truly were.

“Now! Let us welcome the poor wretches who’ll entertain us with their lives!!”

Above the starting line, the signal lights began to flash. Red went out. Yellow lit up. The roar of engines peaked.

“Gentlemen—ignite your engines! Squeeze out the last shred of humanity! Because the road to hell—now officially opens!!!”

Bang!

The signal pistol boomed. A green flare tore through the night sky as the green light ignited. In an instant, tires screeched, thick white smoke billowing from the ground.

The meat-grinder contest had officially begun.