007 and 001313

Dragging a woman into their own car—this was something all three men present had done before, but only within the bounds of ordinary speed. Cruising at a hundred or two was romantic, even poetic. But once the speed soared past three hundred, it was no longer something an average person could endure. Unless you were naturally fearless or thoroughly trained, no one could keep control under such extreme conditions.

Imagine the thrill of a roller coaster—that’s the sensation. To be able to precisely control a car at such speeds required extraordinary skill.

All four present were such masters of their craft, yet even they could feel their adrenaline surge as the needle passed three hundred kilometers per hour.

Picture this: a young woman, hurtling along at three hundred thirty kilometers an hour, wind howling in her ears, heart slamming against her ribs, the scenery flashing past in a blur. The suffocating pressure of the safety belt as the car whipped through corners—

What could she do, except scream hysterically?

Though once the speedometer crossed three hundred, the car’s canopy would rise, shielding its occupants from the fury of the wind, the manufacturer had deliberately left the walls uninsulated against sound. The howl of the wind and the trembling of the car’s body were enough to rattle anyone.

The three men exchanged glances, the same thought rising in their minds: Madman.

On the screen, the red sports car once again slipped past another car with a breathtaking maneuver.

A madman, yes—but a supremely skilled one.

The captain listened to their words, but his eyes never left the red sports car. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth. She was just as she’d always been.

It was obvious he considered the driver of the red car an old acquaintance. It was understandable. That person loved red; their driving was equally dazzling; their style was just as refined and ethereal.

To this day, he believed no one could drive a car quite like that—so elegant, so pleasing to the eye. It was as if the red car wasn’t hurtling along the track, but dancing a graceful ballet.

And that person always liked to drive with a woman beside them.

This car matched every one of those traits. Who else could it be?

Suddenly, an exclamation rose from the stands. “007!” “It’s 007!”

The captain glanced at the footage. Two hundred meters ahead of the red car, a black sports car was also tearing along at over three hundred kilometers per hour. Its license plate read 007.

With such a distinctive number, this was no ordinary driver.

A quick inquiry with those nearby confirmed it: 007 was famous, having taken seventh place in the first national sports car championship. Since then, he had chosen 007 as the number for his personal car.

Within the Mingzhou Club, 007 was counted among the top ten drivers.

The audience erupted. The red sports car had already drawn their attention, not just for its superb driving, but for the unfamiliar plate—001313. Dark horses always attracted a crowd.

But up until now, 001313 had only faced lesser competition, passing them with ease. Its true level was hard to judge without a match against a master.

Now, finally, a heavyweight contender appeared, and it was a direct, head-to-head duel.

A good show was about to begin. Would the renowned veteran prevail, or would the upstart dark horse prove superior?

Everyone waited with bated breath.

The club staff, quick to sense the excitement, immediately switched the largest panoramic screen to the 001313 versus 007 showdown, listing the technical specifications of both cars side by side.

Now, even those who hadn’t been paying attention looked up, and the discussions began in earnest.

“Wait, why is the red car so much heavier than 007?”

Someone noticed the significant weight difference. There were standard regulations for sports cars; two vehicles of different models should not differ by more than a kilogram.

Yet 001313 outweighed 007 by about forty kilograms. Why?

Was the red car’s driver a hundred-kilogram giant? The idea was absurd. Could such a heavyweight possibly drive with such grace, as if dancing? Ridiculous.

Some quick-witted onlookers reasoned there must be more than one person in the red car.

As more and more people joined the discussion, a voice piped into the 007’s cockpit, “Mr. Fei, there’s a red sports car behind you requesting to pass. Please be advised.”

Fei Shangming glanced in his rearview mirror. Sure enough, a red sports car was less than three hundred meters behind, closing in fast—evidently, its speed exceeded his own.

It was too far to make out the license plate, but to be driving at such speeds, the driver had to be highly skilled.

His interest was piqued. He knew the club was using him to stoke the crowd’s excitement, but this was part of the privilege of being a top driver.

Come then, let’s see what you’re made of. A faint smile flickered on his lips.

Just then, a car appeared ahead. Taking advantage of his superior speed, he overtook it with ease. In his mirror, he saw the red sports car slip past just as effortlessly.

His own speed had already exceeded three hundred forty, while the red car was going even faster—three hundred fifty. For ordinary sports cars, keeping up was out of the question. At such speeds, the real challenge was precise control; a single careless twitch of the steering wheel and you’d crash into the guardrails.

To handle a car with such accuracy at such velocity was not something training alone could teach. As far as he knew, nearly all top drivers possessed extraordinary physical abilities.

After passing several cars, the true test approached. Ahead lay the third segment of the track—a kilometer-long downhill stretch, with a viciously sharp curve halfway down.

This was a notorious bottleneck; more than ninety percent of top drivers had failed to maintain over three hundred kilometers per hour through it.

But he was not among them.

At this moment, the red car was only a hundred meters behind.

The audience held their breath—this section was a highlight, a favorite spectacle. They loved watching cars either crash spectacularly or, with consummate skill, blaze through safely, creating unforgettable moments.

The four-man group frowned, each considering how they would handle such a challenge.

Fei Shangming, entirely at ease, tapped the brakes before the descent, reducing his speed to the optimal value he had determined through countless trials. This was the best speed for tackling the slope.

Thus, when he reached the curve, he would only need to brake for four seconds before making the turn. It was a technique honed over hundreds of attempts.

Securing the inside lane, a victorious smile touched his lips. He admitted the red sports car was a formidable rival, though he couldn’t quite understand how it managed to be faster than him.

Logically, if both had started from the same line, their speeds should have been identical by this point.

Moreover, the red car was a standard model, while his own vehicle had been meticulously modified for superior performance. There was no reason he should be slower.

Unless the red car had braked less on the earlier sections, but even that didn’t quite add up—unless it never braked at all, which was impossible. Unless… cheating.

Could it be?