Chapter 0082 Racing (1)!

On Canglong Mountain, no one knew when the wind had begun to howl, or when the first drops of rain had started to fall.

The Ferrari LaFerrari tore along the mountain road, its engine screaming as it devoured the pavement. Already a supercar by nature, further modified for speed, it surged ahead with such ferocity that, in the few seconds Zhang Xiaofan spent in stunned silence, the gap between the Ferrari and his silver Cayenne had widened significantly.

Even as Zhang Xiaofan floored the accelerator, the silver Cayenne was left chasing the Ferrari’s taillights. This stretch of the course was uphill and relatively straight, playing to every advantage the Ferrari could muster.

The distance between them grew with each breath. But then, as if on cue, the road ahead began to twist and turn, the surface growing rough and uneven. The Ferrari’s speed dropped noticeably as it navigated these tricky curves.

Zhang Xiaofan’s eyes narrowed—this was the moment he had been waiting for. His left hand clamped tightly around the steering wheel, his right gripped the gear lever, shifting rapidly. His foot pressed the accelerator mercilessly, refusing to yield for even an instant.

The silver Cayenne picked up speed, closing in as they approached the first hairpin. The Ferrari ahead was forced to slow once more, yet Zhang Xiaofan didn’t hesitate; he kept his foot hard on the gas, hurling the Cayenne forward with reckless abandon.

The speedometer climbed—160 kilometers per hour, and still rising. For all that velocity, the Cayenne’s body held steady, a testament to its superior modifications.

Watching Zhang Xiaofan drive like a man possessed, Song Wenwen dared not utter a single word. She clung desperately to the door handle, her knuckles white. Even in this brief time, she could see it—this man was a master behind the wheel, leagues beyond her own skills.

His control was astonishing, his reflexes razor-sharp. In his hands, the car seemed almost alive.

A harsh screech rang out as Zhang Xiaofan slammed the brakes just before the turn, the sound of tires skidding against wet asphalt loud and clear. In the same instant, he twisted the steering wheel, and the silver Cayenne drifted perfectly around the bend, losing hardly any speed before roaring onward.

The Ferrari ahead managed its own drift, but it was noticeably slower. As they exited the first curve, the gap between them had narrowed.

“He’s got some skill after all,” muttered Mu Han, glancing in the rearview mirror at the Cayenne’s flawless drift. He shifted gears and floored the accelerator, the Ferrari’s speed surging as he shot forward once more.

Beyond the first turn, the road straightened out—a short stretch, but enough for the Ferrari to show its true strength. The performance gap was evident; the distance Zhang Xiaofan had clawed back was lost again in seconds.

Zhang Xiaofan simply smiled, undeterred, and pressed the accelerator even harder. The speed climbed rapidly—180 kilometers per hour.

Moments later, he hit 200. Now, the Cayenne’s body began to shudder, the steering wheel quivering in his grip. The Ferrari ahead was likely past 210 by now—a LaFerrari, after all, could easily hit 250 on such a stretch.

Soon, another sharp curve loomed ahead—a narrow, near-ninety-degree bend with a steep drop just beyond the guardrail. Not especially high, but enough to spell disaster if they went over.

The Ferrari began to slow, its body tilting as Mu Han prepared for another drift. But Zhang Xiaofan showed no intention of letting up. His foot remained glued to the accelerator, eyes gleaming with fierce determination, fingers drumming out a silent rhythm on the gear shift.

Song Wenwen’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. Was this madman really not going to slow down for such a narrow turn? Even the best drift would struggle against the laws of inertia—one mistake, and they’d be tumbling down the slope.

God, is he insane?

Still, she said nothing. She knew this was the worst possible moment to distract a driver. All she could do was hold her breath and pray.

As the Cayenne hurtled toward the curve, Zhang Xiaofan seemed to calculate precisely when to move. He wrenched the steering wheel, briefly tapped the brake with his right foot, then shifted back to the accelerator.

The Cayenne, which had been on the verge of careening down the slope, veered sharply, tires screaming against the wet road. In the violent shift, Song Wenwen was thrown against the window, her heart hammering against her ribs.

For a moment, she saw nearly half the car’s body suspended over open air.

“Am I going to die?” she wondered desperately.

In that instant, Zhang Xiaofan released the brake and stomped the accelerator once more. The Cayenne lurched forward, the wheels finding purchase as the airborne side slammed back onto the road.

Though he’d braked briefly, the Cayenne’s speed barely faltered.

“Utterly reckless,” Mu Han muttered from the Ferrari, having witnessed the audacious maneuver with his own eyes. He could perhaps attempt such a feat himself, but he would never gamble with his life like that—a single mistake would mean certain death.

Now, for the first time, Mu Han’s expression grew serious.

With that perfect drift, Zhang Xiaofan had closed the gap again. But as soon as the road straightened, the Ferrari’s advantage returned, and the distance widened once more.

And so it went, over and over—each curve saw Zhang Xiaofan closing in, each straightaway saw Mu Han pulling ahead, the distance between them locked in a tense equilibrium.

This was a winding mountain road, and at such breakneck speeds, they soon reached the halfway point. The rain intensified, pelting the asphalt, and both cars began to lose traction.

In the Ferrari, Mu Han’s face was grave. The mountain roads were treacherous at the best of times, with relentless hairpin bends and now a deluge of rain. Drifting through the next curve would be impossible.

Even on the straight stretches, maintaining such high speeds risked disaster; the slightest miscalculation could send the car tumbling.

Unconsciously, Mu Han eased off the accelerator.

But Zhang Xiaofan showed no sign of slowing. The Cayenne’s engine roared, echoing through the mountains as he gripped the wheel, foot pressed flat to the floor. As Mu Han slowed, the silver Cayenne rapidly closed in.

“Maniac!” Mu Han hissed, glancing in the rearview mirror at the relentless pursuit. He was a racing fanatic, his career once derailed by a single loss, forcing him out of the club. He was no stranger to risk and took pride in his skill, but he would not let the Cayenne overtake him.

Gritting his teeth, he shifted gears and floored the accelerator, the Ferrari surging to 220 kilometers per hour. Yet the Cayenne held steady behind him, matching his every move—clearly, it too was pushing 220.

At such speeds, especially on a mountain road, death lurked at every corner. A single strong gust of wind could flip a car in an instant. Mu Han’s eyes narrowed, his senses on high alert.

In the Cayenne, Zhang Xiaofan’s face was serious, but his eyes burned with confidence.

Ahead was an uphill straightaway, ending in a vicious curve. Mu Han, who had already completed one lap, knew this section well: on such a steep incline, you had to sprint at full speed, but as the curve approached, you had to slow—this bend was barely forty-five degrees.

Such a turn was beyond the realm of drifting, even for the most skilled driver. Mu Han, confident in his abilities, knew he would have to decelerate sharply and realign the car before regaining speed.

Beyond this bend, the road down the mountain was mostly straight; as long as he made it through, victory would be his.

The two cars hurtled onward like lightning, racing up the slope. The warning signs appeared in the glare of their headlights.

Mu Han began to slow, hands clenched tightly on the wheel, eyes fixed on the looming void beyond the bend.