Chapter 23: Dante and the Motorcycle

In front of the starting line, all thirty-two motorcycles roared in unison. The white smoke produced by tires grinding against the asphalt was thick enough to blanket the entire starting zone.

“Vrooom!”

The instant the green signal light came on, that dense white smoke was ripped apart by these speed-beasts forged by human industry.

Thirty-two motorcycles burst from the line like caged predators set loose, stretching the smoke into long, thin white trails behind them.

If you asked where the most dangerous stretch of this race was, everyone—from the racers themselves to the gamblers in the stands—would give the same answer: John Bridge.

Because this 1.8-kilometer bridge spanning the canal served as both the starting point and the finish line.

In any race involving speed, the fiercest competition always occurs at the start and the finish.

And this was a death race.

What the organizers never told the gamblers was another reason: the bridge was also where the VIP viewing boxes were located. They had to ensure that, along the stretch visible to those wealthy patrons, the spectacle would be at its most beautiful and most thrilling.

Thus, from the very second the thirty-two motorcycles shot off the starting line, the meat grinder of a race entered its most intense phase.

Within twenty seconds, a rider had already crashed and died barely a hundred meters from the start.

“Heeheeheehee!”

Hansa let out an excited, warped laugh. He was a regular in these death races—someone who had survived five consecutive events.

Though he lacked the refined technique and experience of Cage or other perennial podium finishers, surviving five death races in a row meant he possessed qualities and strengths beyond the imagination of most newcomers.

Cackling, he gripped the handle at the back of his motorcycle with one hand. Attached there was a motorized winch, and at the end of it—a harpoon gleaming with cold light.

A harpoon meant for hunting large fish, modified and mounted onto his bike as a weapon to crush his opponents.

Although the organizers allowed light firearms like pistols, in practice only fresh rookies relied on handguns.

Even the most skilled shooter couldn’t aim steadily from a motorcycle racing at top speed, let alone hit another motorcycle doing the same.

And compared to the improvised weapons these desperados built themselves, pistols were laughably ineffective against vehicles.

“My precious little baby…”

Hansa locked onto a rider slightly behind and to his side, grinning savagely as he pressed the button on the grip.

“Bang!”

With a thunderous blast, the propellant detonated, launching the harpoon from the winch with brutal force.

Trailing an iron chain, the harpoon flew faster than human reaction time and stabbed straight into the other rider’s fuel tank.

The tank ruptured, gasoline gushing out, while the barbs of the harpoon lodged firmly into the inner wall.

Still grinning, Hansa pressed another button.

“Come here! Hahahahaha!”

The winch motor roared to life, the chain snapping taut. The immense force dragged the other bike toward Hansa, throwing it off balance.

The rider struggled desperately to keep control, but as the chain tightened, death crept in silently.

“Surprised? Like it?!”

Hansa’s bike closed in. Blades suddenly sprang from the spinning wheel hubs, whirling like a meat grinder and shredding the lower chassis of the other bike into metallic fragments.

The crippled motorcycle lost balance completely, slammed into a stone pillar on the bridge, flew up, broke apart midair, and ignited as sparks lit the spilled fuel—exploding like fireworks.

The rider himself was hurled away, crashing into another racer behind him, sending that bike tumbling into a rolling ball of fire.

This was the trait that let Hansa survive five races: ruthlessness.

He had no bottom line, no mercy. When he struck, it meant death.

Though he rarely placed high, seasoned gamblers had given him a nickname he relished:

The Track Hound.

As the motor reeled in the chain, the massive harpoon scraped grooves into the road before snapping back onto the winch.

Hansa was already hunting for his next target.

Aside from Cage, who had surged far ahead the instant the lights went green, there were still several riders tightly contesting Hansa’s position.

At this stage, eliminating rivals was every racer’s priority.

Fewer living opponents meant fewer variables.

“Whoosh!”

The howl of sliced air rushed past Hansa’s ears as a red-and-white blur shot past him, surging into his front flank.

It was a white Nocturne Type-S—also known as the White Widow.

Riding it was a youth in a fitted red leather coat, the wind snapping it loudly behind him.

Hansa, experienced as he was, recognized him instantly as a newcomer.

No one in their right mind brought a White Widow—an expensive toy built for aristocratic heirs—into a race like this. And worse, it had no custom modifications, not a single weapon mounted.

“In that case, you’ll be my next prey, hehehehe!”

Laughing again, Hansa spun the winch and aimed the harpoon at the rider speeding ahead of him.

“Speed alone won’t save you in this race—you need the power to kill!”

Hansa’s face twisted grotesquely beneath his helmet. “Let Professor Hansa teach you a lesson!”

“Bang!”

The harpoon shot forward again, propelled at bulletlike speed toward the white motorcycle.

“Screee!”

But instead of destruction, a teeth-grinding metallic screech rang out.

The youth in the red leather coat had caught the harpoon—barehanded.

He didn’t even turn his head.

What the hell?!

Hansa’s heart slammed as if struck by a hammer. In five races, he had never seen anything like this.

That harpoon was his own design, built by his mechanics, driven by high-yield propellant. Its speed rivaled bullets.

No one should have been able to react to it—let alone catch it.

A tremendous force suddenly surged through the chain, nearly knocking Hansa’s bike off balance.

You’ve got to be kidding me?!

To ensure the harpoon could destabilize others, Hansa had deliberately made his bike heavier, sacrificing speed.

Its weight reached a terrifying 500 kilograms—a moving fortress on the track.

At that mass, no opponent could budge him. They were all dragged down and destroyed.

And now someone was yanking the chain by hand?!

Panicking, Hansa slammed the reverse button. The motor whined, the chain shrieking under tension.

Under that monstrous torque, no one could possibly hold on.

Sure enough, the chain snapped back, the harpoon slamming into the winch with a dull thud.

No.

No no no no no!

Hansa’s heart pounded like a war drum.

This wasn’t right. The boy should’ve been dragged off balance. The harpoon shouldn’t have come back.

He twisted his stiff neck to look behind him, hearing his own vertebrae grind.

And what he saw made cold sweat pour down his back.

The hardened steel harpoon was bent—grotesquely twisted.

As if something had folded it by sheer force.

Impossible!

That harpoon could punch through steel plating mounted over fuel tanks.

It hadn’t even hit the bike—it had been caught!

Hansa swallowed hard as icy wind poured through his helmet, drying the sweat on his spine.

A horrifying realization surfaced.

Had the boy snapped a five-centimeter-thick steel harpoon with his bare hands?

The more Hansa stared, the more the bent metal looked like it bore fingerprints.

A flash of red swept across his vision, leather snapping in the wind.

He turned stiffly—and his heart nearly stopped.

Someone was on his bike’s front.

The red leather coat billowed as the youth crouched calmly atop the bike, utterly indifferent to the lethal speed.

It was the same rider from the White Widow.

Wasn’t he still behind me?!

How did he get here without a sound?!

Out of the corner of his eye, Hansa saw white—the White Widow itself, still racing forward without a rider.

John Bridge was straight and empty. With enough speed, even an unmanned motorcycle would run true.

“Huh?”

The youth—Cyril—spoke, his voice slightly hoarse. “Your weapon’s kind of interesting.”

Hansa’s heart raced wildly. He almost imagined he could see the wicked grin curling on Cyril’s lips through the helmet.

“But you dared attack me…”

Cyril slowly extended a hand, pressing it against the dashboard. “Was your life bought wholesale?”

Crack!

The dashboard glass shattered.

Not just the dashboard—the entire front end warped under an immense, unseen force, crumpling like paper in a giant’s grip.

Hansa’s bike instantly lost balance, flipping forward and smashing apart across the road.

Fuel splashed everywhere, igniting in a roaring inferno that swallowed the asphalt.

Hansa himself was consumed by the flames, soon to be reduced to charred remains.

In a race like this, no one mourned the dead. Countless bikes blasted through the firestorm and surged ahead.

Cyril, meanwhile, had leapt free the moment the bike overturned, landing perfectly on his White Widow. He twisted the throttle, surging forward as a white streak that took the lead.

“And lighting the fifth firework of the night—our dear ‘Track Hound,’ Hansa!”

The host in the crimson suit boomed from the central platform. “Let us thank his generous contribution—his life and screams, warming up our evening!”

“But—”

His tone dropped, sly and sinister. “The death of an old dog means another beast—younger, fiercer—has opened its eyes!”

On the scoreboard, Hansa’s name was crossed out in red.

“This newborn dark horse couldn’t even be bothered to give us a full name—just two words: Dante! How arrogant! How… irresistible!”

“Don’t blink, my hyenas! The real show has only just begun! Let’s see how far this newborn dark horse can run!”