"Thank you, young man. You made a wise choice." The driver was a kindly old man, and he held out his hand to the young man.
"Okay, Uncle, I only have five minutes. Please hurry and teach me how to launch the missiles!" The young man grasped his hand, visibly nervous.
"Teach you? No, no, there's no need to teach you." The kindly old man smiled.
"Why?" the young man asked in surprise.
"Do you know the normal lethal radius of a missile?"
"How large is it?"
"Four thousand square meters," the kindly old man replied.
"You mean it could easily hurt us too?" The young man seemed to understand.
"That's right. So all you need to do is sit there and watch obediently. No one will dare attack us unless they want to blow up our missiles and die with us," the old man said confidently.
"Uh, that's not right." The young man suddenly shook his head and began counting on his fingers. "They say foreigners are bad at math, and it turns out that's true. Four thousand square meters is only an area of fifty by eighty. As long as their cars stay over a hundred meters away from us, they can attack us without any worries."
"Hehe, young man, your math is indeed good, but you don't understand human nature. The others here are just as bad at math. They won't know as much as you do." The old man was very patient.
"Oh, I see." The young man suddenly understood.
He looked around. Were those racers really that bad at math?
Mm, probably. After all, they clearly weren't professional racers, but street-racing punks who had dropped out before finishing middle school.
Their understanding of missiles was probably limited to the idea that one shot could devastate