"Fuck!"

  The curse echoed through the T-20's cramped cockpit, swallowed by its soundproofed walls. Latham had just fed race data to the onboard computer for victory probability calculations, only to receive an infuriating prompt: INSUFFICIENT DATA - UNABLE TO COMPUTE.

  In the track's elevated control suite, three men stared at holographic projections. Harrison, the silver-haired track owner, swirled brandy in his glass. "That T-20's taking gold," he declared, eyes gleaming. "Who the hell is this driver?"

  Beside him, operations director Akita (razor-sharp black hair framing East Asian features) and personnel chief David (burly with whiskey-ruined nose) exchanged glances.

  "Level 11 mentalist minimum," David rasped, scratching stubble. "Probably ex-military mech pilot. No civilian handles 500km/h through Hell's Corkscrew otherwise."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Akita's console chimed. A synthesized female voice announced: Driver identification complete.

  The wall screen lit with surveillance composites - Latham entering the track's perimeter, renting the T-20, every micro-expression during pre-race checks.

  "Latham. 18. Millard Public Academy." David snorted. "Since when do prep school brats pull G-forces that'd liquefy astronauts?"

  Harrison's brow furrowed. "Energy monitor readings just updated."

  The screen flashed crimson text:

  ?MENTAL ENERGY LEVEL: 8?

  David's whiskey tumbler shattered on marble. "Bullshit! That's–"

  "–our own sensor data," Akita interrupted coldly. "Calibrated yesterday."

  For ten heartbeats, only the T-20's live feed broke the silence - the gray sedan now threading through Tier 10's Avalanche Turn at suicidal angles.

  "There's only one explanation," Harrison finally breathed. "Prodigy. A once-per-generation talent."

  Outside, the crowd's roar shook the observation glass as the T-20 emerged from the death turn - still locked at 500km/h.