Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Letter A

“Dear viewers, racing fans in front of your televisions—can you believe your eyes? Do you believe this is a human driving a race car? Do you believe that from today, from this very moment, the global racing world is about to be transformed into an entirely new landscape?” The host of Switzerland’s RSTV racing program spoke with unbridled passion to racing enthusiasts around the world.

“Look! The creators of this new era—Mo Shu and his co-driver Wang Yining—have just completed another breathtaking leap! Oh! The height they’ve reached is simply awe-inspiring! This is already their performance in the fifth stage—the final stage of today’s race. Who could have imagined that the debut car of the Divine Team would be this resilient, and that the performance of the Speed God, Mo Shu, would set our blood on fire!”

“Oh!!! Incredible! Incredible! Simply unbelievable!”

Fans glued to their screens erupted in startled exclamations. Some, overwhelmed by the heart-stopping footage and surging adrenaline, couldn’t help but cover their eyes.

In the studio, the host pressed on, even more excited: “Yes, trust your eyes, trust your mind, and shatter everything you thought you knew about racing! The miraculous Mo Shu is still racing at an average speed of 200 kilometers per hour—yes! For a Formula Supercar, you at home might not think much of that number, but this is the ERC circuit, the most brutal car race in the world. Besides Mo Shu, who else could possibly achieve this speed? That’s right! I want to ask—who else? Who else can bring us such astonishing velocity?”

The host’s words tumbled out in a torrent, impossible to contain. At this point, he was perhaps more thrilled than Mo Shu’s own fans, to the extent that the television director on the other end of the broadcast couldn’t sit still, repeatedly signaling to the host to rein it in.

Come on! You’re a Swiss TV host—regardless of whether Switzerland has a competing team, shouldn’t you at least mention your own European teams more? How can you keep boosting their morale while dampening our own?

“Ahem... Alright, let’s have the director switch the feed to some of the other teams so we can see how the homegrown drivers are performing,” the host finally managed to restrain his overflowing emotions during Mo Shu’s steady advance.

The screen shifted to the Munich Light Super Team, where driver Ron Thomas appeared to be having a smooth run. One moment he drifted through a corner, the next he splashed through a pond, sending up a spray of water several feet high.

Unfortunately, whenever Thomas encountered a jump, he always slowed down significantly, making the spectacle pale in comparison to Mo Shu’s daring feats.

And his speed? 135 kilometers per hour?

A chorus of groans erupted from the audience—too slow!

After witnessing Mo Shu’s performance, Thomas’s segment simply couldn’t compare.

At home, spectators began to lose interest—some picked at their feet, some scratched their heads, and others even turned to their computers to look up information about Mo Shu.

In bars and cafés, viewers seized the chance to visit the restroom. Many had been holding it in, unwilling to miss even a second of Mo Shu’s race.

It’s likely that Thomas, still at the wheel, had no idea that he, once quite popular, had now become the laughingstock “bathroom break” driver.

The TV director couldn’t take it any longer, either. If they stayed on Thomas much longer, their entire team would probably lose their bonuses when the ratings came in. Time to switch!

Moments later, the screen changed to another team, and the host quickly cleared his throat.

“Now you’re watching the Carbon Black Gold Team from Germany—a team where the rally king Russlein once competed. As everyone knows, this team has swept the annual ERC championship for seven consecutive years, but defending their title this year will be no easy feat. Just facing Mo Shu from the Divine Team will be a tall order!” The Swiss host couldn’t help digressing again.

Indeed, for Carbon Black Gold to defend their title, they would first have to get past Mo Shu.

But Mo Shu couldn’t afford to get complacent. Perhaps he’d been too confident and hadn’t done enough homework on Carbon Black Gold.

This year, the team’s chosen driver was shrouded in mystery. As Russlein’s successor, he had yet to show his face, and his information was so scant as to invite speculation—just a single letter, “A,” represented all there was to know.

A?!

Damn it, there was no guessing this one!

With nothing else to do while waiting for the race to end, Wang Yu and Russlein pored over the drivers’ roster—one stroking his chin, the other frowning deeply.

They speculated wildly, but couldn’t figure out where Blake Gordon of Black Gold Petroleum had found such an enigmatic driver.

Most importantly, this driver’s results were nothing to scoff at. Mo Shu covered 24.5 kilometers in 7 minutes, while this driver came second with about 10 minutes.

By the second stage, Mo Shu still clocked 7 minutes, but A improved by half a minute, coming in at 9.3001 minutes.

In the third stage, Mo Shu, as steady as ever, maintained his lead with a time of 7.2534, but A’s result astonishingly improved to 9.0009 minutes.

At this rate, it was only a matter of time before A caught up to Mo Shu. Though Mo Shu remained oblivious during the race, Wang Yu and Russlein outside the circuit were taken aback.

Fortunately, in the fourth stage, A’s time held steady at around 9 minutes and didn’t improve further, allowing the Divine Team to breathe a sigh of relief.

But who exactly was this A? To actually pose a threat to the Speed God Mo Shu—Wang Yu grew anxious.

After all, this was only the first ERC race—fifteen more awaited, each to be conquered one by one. If A continued to improve, the pressure on Mo Shu and the Divine Team would be immense. Wang Yu could only hope A’s performance was a fluke.

Meanwhile, on the distant expanse of the South Pacific, amid endless ocean, Willman and Blake Gordon sipped a bottle of exquisitely aged red wine while watching the ERC race and chatting.

“Old Blake! A’s performance has been more than satisfactory,” Willman commented, a chill lingering in his demeanor even as he savored a rare vintage.

“Willman, you’re getting quite bold, speaking to your elders that way!” Blake Gordon swirled the wine in his glass, clearly displeased by Willman’s icy attitude.

“Heh, I put up the money—I deserve to know what it’s brought me.”

“Rest assured, Willman. If I, Blake Gordon, set my mind to something, it will be done.”

“Alright, for the sake of our many years of cooperation, let me offer you a toast.” A mischievous smile played at Willman’s lips as he raised his glass.

“Cheers! To a fruitful partnership!”

“Haha! Fruitful? I won’t be satisfied until Mo Shu is out of the picture.” Willman’s words dripped with venom, the chill in his eyes intensifying.