Chapter 72: Risking It All on the Turn

Lately, all the boys in the shop had been afraid of Old Hu. They hardly dared to breathe in his presence, let alone point fingers at him or talk back. Three years ago, when he was diagnosed with early-stage lung cancer, he was completely stunned. The surgery and subsequent treatments were all arranged by Boss Mo. Back then, Lin was still very young, tagging along at his side, but she already dared to lecture him—not allowing him to smoke or drink, insisting he go to bed early, get up early, and exercise regularly. Looking back, those days, though challenging, were warm and joyful.

Once, he too had been a professional racer. But the golden years of a racer are fleeting. He had real hope of winning a championship, but a fall during a race left him injured—not gravely, but enough to confine him to bed for a year. After that, any hope of winning a title was gone, and he was left to make a living repairing cars.

He pulled out a cigarette, about to put it to his lips, but then smiled wryly and put it back in the pack. That brat was back now; if he didn't quit for good, she would nag him to death.

Lin Zhiwei sped down the road, testing the car with bursts of acceleration and deceleration. She hadn’t driven in a long time, so warming up the engine was especially important.

By the time she reached the parking lot at the foot of the mountain, a group of young men dressed in black had already gathered together, smoking and laughing, occasionally roughhousing. When they saw her approach, they all turned to size her up.

Lin Zhiwei wore a black silk mask that covered half her face. After all, even this young man’s face she wore now was the manager of a film star and had some degree of recognition in the public eye. It was best to be cautious.

A man with a red silk half-mask jumped off his bike and hesitantly asked, “Are you... Madman?” He glanced at the familiar black HONDA, with that wild, glaring character for "Lin" so out of place on it. Only one person could handle that bike.

“It’s me,” Lin Zhiwei replied, stepping forward and giving him a light punch on the left shoulder.

The man froze, then snapped out of it and grabbed her shoulder, laughing wantonly. “Damn, you brat, only coming back now? Heartless as ever.”

The other racers laughed freely and chimed in:

“Madman Lin’s back! Now we’ll have a real show to watch.”

“Jili’s been talking about you non-stop—he’s like a broken record.”

“Shut it, don’t talk crap,” Jili said, suddenly embarrassed, tossing his helmet hard at the guy.

“Oh?” Lin Zhiwei’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Looks like Brother Jili’s been dying for a beating lately. No wonder he’s been so eager to find out when I’d be back.”

Jili ruffled her hair hard, giving her a playful thrashing. “How do you talk to your brother like that, you little brat?”

Lin Zhiwei dodged away before he could really get a grip—her wig might not be secure, and if it fell off, her secret would be out.

“What’s the rule tonight?” she asked, stepping back with her arms folded.

“Just a straight race down the mountain—plenty of bends, your favorite,” Jili said, pointing toward the shadowy winding road in the distance, his eyes shining with excitement.

Lin Zhiwei looked that way and smirked, “A good choice. Let’s get ready, warm up the engines.”

With that, the crowd dispersed, each heading to their own bike, twisting the throttle, checking every minor detail.

Lin Zhiwei stretched, put on her helmet, and everyone took their places, lined up in a row—the tension before battle palpable.

A slightly plump man with glasses waved a flag in his hand and shouted, “Red flag up, then we start. Ready, brothers?”

Engines roared in response, the racers glaring at each other, poised to spring.

The man stood fearlessly in the middle of the road, counting down, “Three, two, one!” The red flag went up.

Instantly, the thunder of engines exploded, and Jili popped a wheelie, rocketing out front in a flash of bravado.

Spectators roared with excitement. Word had spread that the Madman would be racing tonight, and the crowd was packed tight.

These past years, whenever Madman was present, no one could beat him. His cornering was unparalleled—clean and sharp.

He’d earned the nickname "Madman" during his first race against Jili, when he overtook on the inside of a bend without a second’s hesitation, moving with such seamless unity with his bike that it seemed insane.

Aerial cameras broadcast the race live to a big screen at the foot of the mountain. After the first bend, Lin Zhiwei easily pulled ahead of the crowd, leaving only Jili and herself locked in a duel.

The other racers tried their best to catch up, but the gap between them and the leading two only grew, especially since both Lin Zhiwei and Jili refused to slow down for the corners. None of the others dared push so hard—on mountain roads, one wrong move and it could end in a crash.

Lin Zhiwei’s gaze was sharp as a blade. The scenery behind her streamed away like a slow-motion film; the streetlights lit the winding road ahead. With half the course left, she kept close behind Jili, not the least bit anxious.

Jili kept a close watch on her in his rearview mirror. His Ducati had been modified for mountain roads, with reduced riding strain and smoother cornering.

Madman Lin’s HONDA, though finely tuned, was built too compactly, with even power distribution—too conservative, probably not the best for mountain roads.

Lin Zhiwei already had a plan in mind. Beating someone on speed was only temporary—the key was timing. Mountain races were nothing like regular circuits; mental resilience and endurance were everything. The greatest danger was overconfidence, which could be overtaken at any moment.

Every corner was an opportunity for the one behind. The leader could never fully block every chance for an overtake. To keep the advantage, you had to stay on guard.

After the fourth bend, the rest of the racers were clearly exhausted. Juggling speed through every curve while trying to catch up had dulled their senses and reflexes, and they fell farther and farther behind the leading pair.

But Lin Zhiwei stayed right on Jili’s tail. Jili gritted his teeth under the mounting pressure. Lin Zhiwei kept feinting left and right, but Jili defended fiercely, not yielding a single opening.

This time, he was determined not to let the brat slip past so easily.

Lin Zhiwei was in no hurry; her goal wasn’t just to win here. Jili knew well that she excelled at cornering, so he had worked hard to defend and improve his own speed through the bends, trying to block every possible angle.

But from her observations, Jili had been lowering his body as much as possible through the last four bends to claim the inside line. This wore the tires down too quickly; overheated tires lost grip, and it also demanded extreme coordination and stamina from the rider.

Sure enough, by the sixth bend, Jili was clearly struggling, his posture a bit off as he straightened up.

Lin Zhiwei seized the moment—as they exited the sixth bend, she dropped her body low, seamlessly transitioning from upright to a sharp lean, her throttle work and subtle wrist and ankle movements perfectly in sync. In a blink, she was ahead of Jili.

Jili was stunned but quickly regained his composure. He’d expected the brat to overtake him, but not with such cunning. So, she’d been waiting to test his endurance all along.