The odds for each vehicle varied wildly, but the crimson Carey and obsidian Galaxy predictably held the lowest payouts. These track titans dominated the leaderboards, their 1:1.2 odds reflecting years of dominance. Latham's T-20 languished at the bottom with 15:1 odds - a humiliating margin amplified by the pathetic 200,000 credits wagered on it versus the frontrunners' 50-million-credit pools.

  He gritted his teeth, transferring 900,000 credits from his gold card (10,000 already deducted for the T-20 rental). The sudden bet spike drew murmurs, but when bettors realized the wager came from the driver himself, laughter rippled through the crowd.

  Twenty-three engines snarled toward the staggered starting grid. By qualifying order, the scarlet Carey claimed pole position, Latham's boxy sedan relegated to last place. Launch intervals stretched like eternity - 10 seconds between each vehicle.

  The Carey erupted forward at 500 km/h, its stabilizer array shimmering with illegal aftermarket mods. Latham's stomach dropped as subsequent racers matched that velocity, their custom frames howling past speed traps. When his green light finally flashed, the T-20's factory-limited 500 km/h felt glacial by comparison.

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  Reality crystallized: no amount of driving genius could compensate for hardware deficits. On the ninth-tier straightaways, the Carey's shadow dwindled as it hit 700 km/h through sections the T-20's governors physically blocked.

  Then came the salvation curve.

  The tenth-tier access ramp yawned like a steel serpent's maw - a nightmare of switchbacks and 270-degree corkscrews where raw speed became liability. Latham's lips peeled into a feral grin. Here, the soul-driver entity's true value would manifest.

  As the Carey's driver white-knuckled through the first hairpin at 300 km/h (forced to halve velocity), the T-20's sensors blazed crimson. Latham's neural feed overloaded with collision warnings... then went preternaturally calm.

  "Hold 500," he whispered.

  The fused consciousness obliged. The sedan's suspension screamed through a 180-degree inversion, centrifugal force threatening to pancake Latham against his harness. Gritting through eighth-tier mental strain, he watched the Carey's lead evaporate turn by impossible turn.

  Somewhere in the maze of steel, the scarlet racer's aristocratic driver finally checked his rear cam - and saw death in gray steel.