Chapter 24: The Legend of the Headless Rider

A pitch-black heavy motorcycle roared like a raging beast, its engine bellowing without restraint.

Streetlights streaked across its body in rapid flashes, tracing muted reflections along the machine’s sharply angular, geometrically cut frame.

What seemed utterly out of place with this violent, armored monster of a bike was its rider—a slender woman.

Her form-fitting one-piece leather suit perfectly outlined her curvaceous figure, while the yellow helmet on her head, with cat-ear-like protrusions, added a strangely playful touch to her appearance.

Naturally, this female rider—who looked completely unthreatening—drew the attention of many competitors.

Especially since she was riding ahead of them.

In a death race like this, every participant instinctively prioritized eliminating opponents who looked weak.

After all, every racer eliminated meant one less variable in the later stages of the race.

Tony and Richie thought the same way.

Unlike most solo competitors, Tony and Richie always raced as a pair.

After all, they were brothers.

The organizers did not prohibit racers from forming alliances. On the contrary, they secretly encouraged it.

Compared to one-on-one slaughter, conflicts between groups tended to be larger in scale, with more explosions and more deaths—far more exciting to watch.

As long as the VIPs were entertained, the race would never lack funding, and it could continue endlessly.

But these ad-hoc alliances rarely lasted more than a few races.

After all, there could only be one winner.

Among these desperados, no one truly celebrated a teammate’s victory.

Once all outsiders were eliminated, the fighting would inevitably turn inward.

No one who entered this race was indifferent to the 300,000 prize money.

To the organizers and the VIPs in their luxury boxes, 300,000 was pocket change.

What they enjoyed far more was watching alliances crumble and turn on each other.

But to the racers themselves, it was a fortune large enough to instantly elevate a nobody into the upper class.

Driven by that temptation, all temporary alliances were inherently fragile.

Except Tony and Richie.

They were brothers, raised together since childhood. To them, it didn’t matter which one won—the outcome was the same.

That was why, while nearly every other group fell apart in mutual slaughter, the bond between Tony and Richie never changed.

“Hey, bro, see that woman up ahead? I think her name’s Celty,” Richie said, riding alongside Tony.

“I see her, little bro! Looks like her bike hasn’t even been modified,” Tony replied, licking his lips as a bloodthirsty grin crept across his face beneath the helmet.

People like them never had any notion of chivalry.

Anyone riding ahead of them was simply an obstacle to be removed.

Tony pressed a button on his handlebar. Thick, hardened steel spikes shot out from the sides of his motorcycle.

At the same time, spikes extended from Richie’s bike as well.

This was a weapon the brothers had designed themselves—side-mounted spikes meant to skewer both rider and machine alike.

Their style was brutal: collide with the enemy, force their trajectory, trap them between the two bikes, and crush them with the converging spikes like an iron maiden.

They had even given this tactic a cruelly elegant name:

The Iron Maiden’s Embrace.

It sounded refined, even self-satisfied—but gamblers and spectators preferred to call it something else:

The Brother Grinder.

To date, aside from Cage—whom they could never catch—no one had survived their encirclement.

“Here we go, little bro!”

The moment they exited John Bridge and entered the city, Tony twisted the throttle and surged forward.

This stretch of road connecting to the bridge was much narrower, packed with dozens of sharp 90-degree turns—perfect hunting grounds for the brothers.

In previous races, more than a dozen racers had died here under their assault.

Some were forced between them and shredded by spikes; others tried to accelerate away, failed to slow down in time at the turns, and slammed straight into buildings, dying in explosions of metal and flame.

Their bikes quickly flanked Celty—one on each side.

A curve loomed just ahead.

The encirclement was complete.

Now all they had to do was slowly squeeze in, ramming her trajectory.

Her fate had only two options:

Be shredded by their spikes—or smash straight into the building and be torn apart by impact and fire.

Once she was gone, they’d be in the top eight.

Celty seemed to notice their movement, but the spikes were already close enough to brush against her long, beautifully curved legs.

Tony could almost imagine the sound of flesh tearing as the spikes pierced her thighs.

But Celty merely glanced left and right—then suddenly accelerated, bursting out of their kill zone.

A foolish, panicked move.

Tony curled his lips in mockery. A sharp 90-degree turn lay ahead. Accelerating recklessly like that meant she’d never slow down in time.

Just a woman, after all. She’d crash into the building and be reduced to pulp.

“Boom!”

As expected, she slammed straight into the structure. Tony even heard the Gothic-carved wall collapse, bricks and rubble raining down.

“Got her!” Richie shouted excitedly, reaching out to high-five Tony at full speed.

Top eight—secured.

“Boom!”

But as they entered the turn and looked ahead, a massive crash erupted behind them.

Both froze.

They knew that sound all too well.

That was the sound of a motorcycle smashing through a wall.

What happened back there?!

Had someone else crashed?

Before Richie could turn around, a shadow fell over him.

He looked up—and a massive, angular motorcycle was dropping straight down on him.

It was her.

Celty.

She hadn’t failed to make the turn.

She had done it on purpose.

She had smashed through the wall at full speed, ridden through the building, and burst out through another wall.

Impossible.

Even if it was a Hell Mammoth—even if it was a military-grade heavy motorcycle—no woman could survive that impact.

Anyone else would’ve been flattened instantly.

And it hadn’t been just two walls—Richie could hear continuous crashes behind him.

She had torn through multiple load-bearing walls.

Otherwise the building wouldn’t have collapsed like that.

There was no time left to think.

The Hell Mammoth reared up midair, and its massive rear wheel smashed down onto Richie’s front end.

Four hundred kilograms of force crushed his bike in an instant.

The rear wheel slammed into the ground, gouging out a terrifying crater, and the Hell Mammoth surged onward.

Richie lost balance, flipping off the track with his bike and slamming into a roadside wall.

“Rumble!”

The motorcycle tumbled across the road, parts flying like shrapnel. Bolts and fragments embedded themselves into the walls like bullets.

“Cough—!”

The impact shattered Richie’s body. Blood foamed from his mouth.

Miraculously—perhaps because he had slowed slightly for the turn—he wasn’t killed instantly.

But he didn’t even get two seconds to feel relieved.

A massive shadow enveloped him.

His bike—over two hundred kilograms of metal—was tumbling straight toward him.

Thud—rip!

The sound of flesh being pierced filled his ears.

The spikes tore through his body, pinning him to the wall like meat nailed to a chopping block.

Who would’ve thought that the spikes meant for killing others would claim their final victim—himself.

“Richie!”

Tony roared, eyes bloodshot.

He’d seen countless enemies die horribly—but seeing his own brother like this shattered him.

“b*tch!”

Tony was losing his mind. His vision burned red.

One thought consumed him: catch her—tear her apart.

“Your technique’s sloppy,” Celty mocked from ahead, “but your tools are kind of cute. Too bad.”

She didn’t even turn back as she raised a middle finger.

The Hell Mammoth roared and vanished around the bend.

“b*tch! b*tch! b*tch!”

Tony floored the throttle, pushing his bike to its absolute limit.

He no longer cared whether he’d make the next turn.

All he wanted was revenge.

Then he saw it.

Celty leapt high off the Hell Mammoth—and landed back on it mid-ride.

Why did she jump?!

Rage had robbed Tony of all judgment.

He pushed harder.

He was almost there.

Slice.

Tony suddenly felt a chill at his neck—like a breeze passing through.

What…?

Before his rage-fogged mind could process it, the world spun.

Thump.

His view froze low against the pavement.

A familiar motorcycle passed through his vision.

Wasn’t that… my model?

And the rider—

Headless.

A headless rider?

A demon?

Why something this bizarre now?

His vision narrowed.

Wait… that headless rider—

That’s my body.

At last, before consciousness fell into darkness, Tony understood.

A wire.

A razor-thin steel wire stretched across the road.

His blood dripped slowly from it.

It was set at the perfect height—to sever a rider’s head at speed.

That was why Celty had jumped—to avoid it.

If he hadn’t been blinded by rage, if he hadn’t gone full throttle, he would’ve seen it.

What rotten luck…

Tony closed his eyes and sank into darkness.

“Next life, try being a decent person… oh wait, you probably won’t have one.”

Celty’s voice was the last thing he heard.

Vroooom.

The Hell Mammoth continued roaring ahead.

Celty—Evelyn—brushed dust off her leather suit.

“…Great. Laundry again. No way I’m saving on water bills this month.”

Crashing through buildings had covered her in dust.

Still—

Beneath the yellow cat-ear helmet, her blue eyes narrowed.

That guy up ahead was ruthless.

Laying steel wire at full speed—guaranteeing decapitation for anyone behind.

And judging by the device on his bike, he could lay several more.

Cyril was behind her.

Should she warn him?

She whistled lightly and accelerated instead—though the sound was muffled by her helmet.

Stopping to warn him would waste time.

Besides, she trusted him.

Even if he failed—even if the wire somehow decapitated a high-level half-demon—

He wouldn’t die.

But if he couldn’t dodge something this basic…

Tch. That’d really lower the value of her “performance.”

If you’re weak—train more.

The Hell Mammoth entered another curve.

And this meat-grinder of a death race was far from over.

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