The collective exhale from the crowd reverberated through Tier 4. Reckless collisions at overspeed weren't celebrated here – just the desperate act of a humiliated driver. As the T-20 slid unscathed through the chaos, thunderous applause erupted across the complex.

  Without warning, every holographic display snapped focus from the scarlet Carey to the unassuming gray sedan. Newcomers rarely stole the spotlight here, yet the T-20's uncanny precision sparked electric anticipation. Cameras zoomed in as it breached Tier 5 at 200 km/h, tires barely kissing the access ramp.

  Latham's pulse hammered, yet his augmented consciousness remained ice-cold. Eighth-tier mental energy coursed through neural pathways, digesting terabytes of track data – every skid mark, every micro-adjustment of the red Carey's suspension. The fused soul-driver entity processed it all, its directives singular: Catch the Hyperblade.

  Tier 6's 300 km/h barrier shattered beneath them. At this velocity, ordinary minds would dissolve into sensory overload. Screens across the complex lit with biometric readouts – Latham's neural activity spiking beyond Level 5 thresholds. Gasps rippled through betting pools as odds recalculated in real-time.

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  By Tier 9, the gray sedan moved through vacuum. Twenty-three custom racers – including the crimson Hyperblade – formed a glittering blockade across eight parallel lanes. Challenge pings flooded Latham's feed:

  "Fresh meat wants glory?" sneered a chrome-winged Vortex rider.

  The Carey's driver finally spoke, voice lacquered with aristocratic boredom: "Shall we educate him, gentlemen?"

  Odds flickered on the central megascreen:

  

  
• ?Carey Hyperblade (Scarlet Ghost)?: 1.2:1


  
• ?Vortex XT-9 (Silver Serpent)?: 3:1


  
• ?T-20 Rental (Unknown)?: 50:1


  

  Latham's answer boomed through stadium speakers: "All lanes. One lap."

  The soul-entity flexed within his mind, its hunger mirroring his own. As starting lights pulsed crimson, the T-20's reinforced frame groaned under sudden G-forces – not acceleration, but the computational weight of twenty-three predator minds converging.

  Somewhere in the blur of screaming turbines and holographic waypoints, Latham stopped breathing. Became the algorithm.

  The Carey never saw the gray shadow slip through its blind spot.