Chapter 33: Stray Dogs Don’t Need Gravestones

Fragmented, half-real images flashed through her mind—
These were… Cage’s memories?

Perhaps because the distance between them was too close, what Cyril’s psychic ability had read was being transmitted to her through the blood pact?

Evelyn glanced at the rearview mirror. Not far behind her, Cyril was driving the White Widow, locked tightly onto Cage’s tail.

Well, whatever. Might as well take a look. Maybe she could find clues in these memory fragments about the primordial demon that had made a deal with him.

So, while maintaining blistering speed, Evelyn diverted part of her focus to the memories Cyril was reading.

…

In this world, due to the sheer length of history, the origins of many sports are difficult to trace.

But motorcycles were different. Cage was certain of this: the sport of motorcycle racing must have been born the moment the second motorcycle was ever built.

From the day those two-wheeled speed machines were invented, humanity had never stopped pursuing the evolution of technology and machinery, never stopped chasing the limits of speed.

Cage would probably never forget the afternoon twenty years ago—his tenth birthday—when he secretly took his younger sister and climbed over the wall of the spectator grounds to watch the world’s first motorcycle race, hosted by Nianhog Industrial.

From that afternoon—more precisely, from the very second those two-wheeled speed beasts roared and howled as they burst past the starting line—a seed of speed and dreams was deeply planted in his heart.

Back then, motorcycle technology was still in its infancy. The track wasn’t standardized, and all the riders raced across muddy roads. Even the dust they kicked up was enough to choke the spectator stands. Yet Cage still stared wide-eyed, watching those streaking figures.

He wanted to be a racer. He wanted to compete.

Chasing extreme speed seemed to become the only goal of his life.

What came afterward wasn’t particularly remarkable—just the story of a boy with a dream, step by step walking onto the path called “professional racer.”

Cage seemed born with an indescribable sense of belonging to speed and racetracks. In the words of his coaches and pit crew, he had talent.

At eighteen, in his debut year, he took third place in the 8th Nianhog Industrial Cup. From that moment on, Cage began a career that felt like hacking reality itself—cutting through thorns and obstacles all the way.

At nineteen, he achieved the first Grand Slam in the history of motorcycle racing during a full year of circuit competitions.

At twenty-one, he lifted his second Nianhog Industrial Cup championship trophy. By then, he was already an undisputed hall-of-fame–level rider in motorcycle racing.

At twenty-three, he continued to maintain utterly unmatched, dominant power in the sport.

At twenty-five, the trophies he had won had nearly filled every cabinet in his home. In every race, he claimed the championship without suspense, and his sister would always be the first to rush onto the podium, standing on tiptoe to place the laurel crown of victory on his head.

He believed those days would last forever. He would keep winning, keep surpassing his rivals, keep surpassing himself on the road of speed.

His sister would keep rushing onto the podium after every race, crowning him with the wreath of victory.

Until the year he turned twenty-seven, when a young dark horse burst onto the scene and crushed him head-on with overwhelming dominance.

Just like how he himself had once appeared out of nowhere, smashing seasoned champion riders with unstoppable force.

In that young man, he seemed to see his former self.

But he refused to lose. Just like that fierce, competitive drive coiled in the hearts of all professional athletes—no one willingly accepts defeat.

It wasn’t that they had to win. They simply couldn’t accept losing.

The desire to challenge a powerful opponent again burned like wildfire, scorching his heart and slowly turning him into someone he no longer recognized.

He no longer returned home with a gentle smile for his sister. He no longer treated her as his most precious treasure.

He grew irritable, often losing his temper at her.

Every day, he buried himself in the team garage, in the motorcycle modification room, pouring all his patience into the machine.

Every day, he ran lap after lap on the track, all to shave fractions off his lap times.

He came home less and less, devoting all his thoughts to one thing only—winning back what he’d lost.

Yet even in motorcycle racing, a sport that demands peak reflexes and physical condition, by twenty-eight—nearing thirty—he was already considered an aging competitor. His peak reaction speed and physical ability had passed, and he found it increasingly difficult to compete with younger riders.

Still, he believed effort would be rewarded.

He would reclaim his victory at the end of his career.

But in the very year he planned to return to the track and wash away his humiliation, the rules of racing quietly changed.

Tracks became standardized. Motorcycle modifications were heavily restricted due to safety and political considerations.

The once-familiar racecourse suddenly felt alien.

Yes—he had accumulated too much glory, and he was too old. His adaptability, learning ability, and responsiveness were far inferior to what they once were.

He couldn’t adapt to the new tracks or the new rules. It felt as though the times had cast him aside.

And this race became the most disastrous defeat of his entire career.

Excessive training had long left his body riddled with hidden injuries and chronic damage—time bombs waiting to explode. During the race, they all detonated at once.

Three hundred meters after blasting past the starting line, his vision blurred, his consciousness sinking as though submerged in molten lava.

He crashed.

A devastating crash.

The motorcycle he had poured all his savings into shattered into pieces, and his own legs were crushed with comminuted fractures.

Forget returning to the track—he could barely even stand.

The doctors said that after rehabilitation, he might be able to walk again. But only walk. Those fragile legs would never run again, let alone carry him back onto the track to chase the limits of speed.

It seemed he was being forced to say goodbye to his former dream.

And it was precisely then that the news—“Cage Crashes Just 300 Meters After the Start”—hit the front pages of countless newspapers.

In an instant, waves of doubt and curses flooded the streets.

People couldn’t accept that a man once hailed as a hall-of-fame rider would end his career with such a humiliating defeat.

“That Cage guy didn’t even make it past the first corner before crashing?”

“He just benefited from loose rules back then, didn’t he? Won by relying on modified bikes.”

“He raced like absolute trash. I always knew he was a useless hack.”

“Haha, now that the rules are standardized, people who relied on machine advantages deserve to be left in the dust!”

“Why didn’t he just die in the crash? People like him should’ve died long ago.”

“I heard he even did things with his sister… tsk tsk…”

“What a beast…”

Those accusations and curses gradually morphed into baseless rumors, slander, and outright personal attacks.

People seemed to delight in lifting someone high into the heavens, molding them into a god—only to savor watching that god fall into the dust, trampled by ten thousand feet until shattered.

They didn’t care about Cage’s dreams. They didn’t care about the years upon years of effort he poured into winning.

They couldn’t see the sweat, tears, pain, and perseverance behind each trophy. They didn’t care whether the rumors were true, or even had any basis at all.

They cared even less whether their words would truly hurt someone.

They were the same people who lavished you with praise when you shone—and the same ones who wouldn’t hesitate to stomp on you ten thousand times when you fell.

But Cage could do nothing.

He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t return to the track to prove himself.

He was just a cripple—someone who couldn’t even run.

So he grew gloomy and despondent, locking himself in his room all day, seeing no one, speaking to no one. Even though his sister tried to talk to him every day, forcing a cheerful smile, trying to coax him outside to see the sun.

His sister was braver than he was. Even though she stood at the center of rumors and slander, she could still smile at any time.

But he couldn’t.

He was afraid that the moment he stepped out the door, those baseless accusations, curses, rumors, and slanders would crash over him like a tidal wave.

So he kept company only with alcohol, numbing his mind, forcing himself to sink into a foggy stupor—as though only then could he distance himself from this wretched world.

But the world is cruel, and fate will always use the most merciless methods to wake you up.

The year Cage turned thirty, his sister was diagnosed with Milheim Syndrome.

It was an extremely rare disease, one that caused patients to gradually develop inhuman traits—demonic scales, bone spurs, horns.

Eventually, as these nonhuman features multiplied, patients would completely lose mobility, even the ability to think, falling into eternal sleep.

It was a terminal illness. Even astronomical medical expenses could only slow its progression, never cure it.

But Cage couldn’t even afford to slow his sister’s condition. Most of his prize money over the years had gone into building racing teams and modifying bikes. What little savings remained could only cover a fraction of the sky-high medical fees.

Unable to race, his reputation utterly ruined, he seemed to have no way left to earn money for his sister’s treatment.

Until one day, an old gentleman came to see him.

Cage couldn’t recall the man’s face—only that he wore a meticulously tailored suit, and the cane in his hand, carved with an exquisite ram’s skull relief, gleamed under the lights.

“I can help you,” the man said. “You only need to pay a small price.”

His tone was low and elegant, like that of an art collector roaming the world in search of treasures.

“As long as you help me, I’ll give you anything you want!”
Cage clutched at the offer like a lifeline. “What do you want? Fame? Skill? My life? I’ll give you anything!”

“No, no, no. I can give you the ability to return to the track and win again. And the price… is only—”

The old gentleman lifted Cage’s chin with his cane.
“—your most precious possession.”

“My most precious possession?”

Cage didn’t understand. Wasn’t it the trophies he’d won?

Those things had already become nothing but scrap metal. What value could they have?

Cage agreed.

The old gentleman gave him a brass coin. On one side was the same finely carved ram’s skull as on his cane; on the other, a set of scales.

“The transaction is complete. Go and enjoy your race.”

With that, the old gentleman vanished.

Afterward, Cage discovered that his legs had fully healed. His physical strength, reflexes, and dynamic vision far exceeded even his former peak.

To earn medical fees as quickly as possible, he chose to enter underground racing in the John District.

Using an old frame from years past and scattered spare parts, he cobbled together a motorcycle that could only be described as scrap metal.

And yet, with that very machine, he achieved victory after victory in races that walked hand-in-hand with death, amassing a considerable sum of money in just a few weeks.

But amid the continuous wins, he realized he was gradually forgetting things—important things.

He slowly forgot his sister’s appearance.
Forgot her name.
Forgot why he had entered these races in the first place.

His streak of victories also drew the attention of the organizers.

Until one day, the organizer—a young master named Eldrich—approached him.

“You keep winning. That’s not very good.”

Eldrich slid a glass of expensive-looking whisky toward him.
“How about losing the next one? I’ll pay you handsomely.”

Cage stared at the glass, lost in thought.

Drinking it would mean agreement—he’d earn far more than the champion’s prize money.

But he refused.

He had forgotten why he raced. He had forgotten why, after every victory, he only received a pitiful portion of the prize.

But the pride he’d forged as a professional racer told him one thing:

You don’t fix races.

So he refused—cleanly and decisively.

He also knew that once he refused, this dark-faced young master would surely find a way to kill him.

But he still refused.

He was just a stray dog.

And stray dogs don’t need gravestones.

Stray dogs only need to run—until they rot…

…

The final image flashed through his mind, and Cyril jolted awake from Cage’s memories.

The White Widow’s engine continued to roar, its violent soundwaves rippling even the surface of the canal.

The sea of fire Cage left behind was still being split apart by Cyril, stopping just half a meter before the White Widow’s front end.

This guy… was different from those other beasts whose hands were soaked in blood.

Someone like this—

shouldn’t die in a race drenched in filth and blood.