A Most Ominous Sign

Buzz buzz!!

Buzzzzz—

At the crack of the starting pistol, seventy riders revved their off-road motorcycles and charged out with high spirits. The deep, thunderous roar instantly set the whole venue ablaze, igniting the valley's passion and driving it to a fever pitch. The spectators howled like demons.

The fat Black guy was stingy, and conditions were limited, so there was no video livestream. The only way to report the action was through his phone.

Because the signal was so poor, there were inevitably plenty of errors in the live commentary, but that did nothing to dampen the spectators' enthusiasm. The valley was both the starting point and finish line. As long as they stayed here, they could see the winner. Besides, most of them were gamblers who only cared about the result; there were very few who truly liked off-road motorcycle racing.

Beyond the valley exit lay a stretch of desert scrubland. The sand offered poor traction, and the map was wide, with flags placed only every hundred meters. One careless moment could leave a rider behind, and the seventy racers were soon split into three groups.

The first group had exactly ten riders. The gap between them and the second group was not obvious, and the two groups were not far apart. Since the race had only just begun, it was hard to say whether those rankings would hold until the end.

There was no need to mention the third group. More than half the riders were in it. They were just there for the excitement, joining in to make noise and enjoy the blood-pumping atmosphere.

Russell rode steadily among the first group. He had never ridden a motorcycle on sand before, but Vehicle Driving Mastery gave him a solid foundation. It was more than enough against a bunch of amateur riders.

The motorcycle rumbled and trembled, its engine continuously letting out a deep growl. In the blink of an eye, it had sped dozens of meters ahead, trailing a line through the sand.

Dozens of motorcycles kicked up great clouds of yellow sand. From above, they looked like a burst of arrowheads charging wildly ahead, with sand and stones filling the sky behind them. It was incredibly exhilarating.

Underground motorcycle races always moved from place to place, so the courses were made from whatever was available, and the obstacles were entirely natural.

Green! Eco-friendly! Cheap!

Deserts, steep slopes, wastelands—even the highways were already there. To organize this race, the fat guy only had to dig holes along the route with a shovel and plant some flags.

After passing through the desert, they reached the first turning point of the course. Guided by the flags, the first group rode onto the highway. Highways in rural America had few cars, but few did not mean none, and there was still danger. These hot-blooded youths raced as though they did not value their lives, twisting up the power. Their motorcycles screeched against the pavement, belching black smoke as they shot forward like beasts released from cages.

This stretch tested motorcycle performance. Riders with poor tires or engines were quickly left behind. Put bluntly, it was a contest of money. Without putting in cash, there was no way to open up a gap.

Without a gap, there could be no victory. Without victory, there would be no prize money or girls. In the end, losers went home.

Skipping the middle part, it could be summed up in one sentence: no money meant no girlfriend, and only spending money got you girls!

No money = single!

The first and second groups split into several tiers again. The performance difference between good motorcycles and ordinary ones caused obvious changes in the rankings.

The riders in matching outfits gradually squeezed into the first group. Russell's off-road motorcycle had average performance and dropped into the second group. Of the dozen or so young people representing Prosperity Town, only Brett remained in the first group. As the mayor's son, it was only natural that he had a superior motorcycle.

Scattered spectators appeared along the roadside. Once the first two groups had passed, they drove back toward the original starting point. If they hurried, they could still see who won.

That was very unfriendly to the riders in the third group. Their path was blocked, and after detouring around, it would be difficult to catch up. They simply gave up and returned the way they had come.

The second turning point of the course appeared: a roughly ten-meter-wide ravine, dug by human hands and weathered by time. Plenty of shrubs grew at the bottom, and it was as deep as five meters in places. With sand below to cushion the fall, there was no need to worry about dying if a jump failed.

Many spectators had gathered here specifically to watch the motorcycle stunts. They did not care who came in first; seeing some tricks was enough to satisfy them.

There was an obvious slope before the ravine that could be used for a run-up, making it an ideal jumping point. As long as they had enough speed, courage, and skill, clearing it was easy. But not everyone dared to risk it, and not everyone was confident they could land safely. Some chose to jump and fell into the pit, while others simply drove through the bottom.

Five riders from the first group, including Brett, successfully cleared the ravine. The riders who had fallen in or tried to climb through were blocked by sliding sand on the uphill slope and took a long time to crawl out.

Jeers and cheers came one after another. Every impressive jump drew shrieks from the spectators, while riders who embarrassed themselves received merciless boos.

There were not many riders who took the detour. The ravine was too long, and going around it would take them far off the course. No one knew how long it would take to get back.

Russell led the second group by a wide margin. His off-road motorcycle looked exceptionally steady at high speed. He accelerated up the slope and launched off the jump. While airborne, he even pulled off a beautiful aerial maneuver, drawing loud cheers. Still not satisfied after landing, he rode ahead for a distance, then twisted the throttle again and lifted the front wheel, earning a chorus of whistles.

Soon, the third turning point came into view: a rugged mountain path through a valley.

The valley had rocks, shrubs, giant cacti, uneven slopes, and pits. This section heavily tested riding skill. Unable to travel at full speed, the first group had no choice but to slow down. They were all amateurs, so they had to proceed with great care.

Rumble—rumble rumble—

Russell slowed down, jumped directly over a pile of jagged rocks, swerved around the cactus obstacles, and blasted the throttle to lift the front wheel and clear the pits. Vehicle Driving Mastery still had a way to go before it reached the level of a true master or racing god, but to novices, he was already an unattainable expert.

Under the watchful eyes of the five riders in the first group, Russell came from behind and overtook everyone, rising from the back to first place. That put considerable pressure on them. Two riders tried to imitate Russell's jumping moves, only to flip over and get stuck in the pits.

Amid the roar of engines, Russell's motorcycle tore out of the valley at top speed. The instant he left it, he shot away like an arrow leaving the bow, leaving exhaust fumes in his wake.

Cheers rose outside the valley. Clearly, the spectators all believed Russell would place highly.

Beyond the valley was the highway for the return trip, followed by the sandy terrain. Russell had opened too large a gap on the valley trail and was far ahead. By the time he left the highway, there was not even the roar of pursuing engines behind him.

The motorcycle entered the desert zone, and Russell saw the finish-line valley. He twisted the handlebar, and the rear of the motorcycle belched smoke, kicking up yellow sand as it charged toward its destination at full speed.

"Champion! Spectators, our first-place winner is about to be decided! Cheer for him!!!"

The fat Black guy shouted at the top of his lungs. The spectators waved their arms, splashing beer and drinks everywhere as they watched Russell cross the finish line.

"Awesome! That was beautifully done!"

"He was the fastest rider out of the valley! I knew from the livestream that he'd come in first!"

"..."

Some rejoiced while others despaired. Those who lost their bets threw down their tickets, cursed a few times, and drove away. Quite a few others stayed to wait for second and third place.

Russell stopped his motorcycle, and the moment his feet touched the ground, several pretty girls surrounded him. They touched his firm muscles and screamed excitedly.

Russell was surrounded by a group of blonde, blue-eyed girls. He was unwilling, but they had strength in numbers, and his hands were pinned by deadly weapons. Even after putting all his strength into it, he could not break free.

If he had forced his way free, these girls would have been no match for Russell's strength. But he did not want to hurt anyone, so he simply let them have their way... He really was unwilling!

About five minutes later, second place appeared.

It was Brett. He took off his helmet and stared at Russell in utter disbelief, as if he were seeing him for the first time.

Third and fourth place arrived almost one after the other. They were half a minute behind Brick. Third place at least got a consolation prize, while fourth place drove away with his head hanging low.

After confirming through his phone that Russell had not broken any rules, the fat guy held up a stack of American dollars and stuffed it into Russell's shirt pocket amid cheers. Before he was done, he gave it a light squeeze, then threw Russell a flirtatious wink as Russell stared in stunned disbelief.

Russell: "..."

"Kid, you're impressive. These five hundred American dollars are from me personally!" The fat guy cheerfully gave Russell an extra five hundred American dollars. Because Russell was such a dark horse, many people had lost their bets, and the fat guy's pool had made a fortune.

Brick received five hundred American dollars, got touched by the fat guy, and then received a disgusted eye roll.

The fat guy: "Tsk tsk, you're already..."

Brett: "..."

Third place received a consolation prize of one hundred American dollars. Nice—his entry fee was recovered, and after gas money, he had even made a small profit.

Just as they were celebrating the winner in the valley, the fat guy's phone rang. After answering it and cursing a few times, he grabbed a loudspeaker and howled, "Run! The cops are coming!!!"

In an instant, as if they had heard police sirens, the valley descended into chaos. Everyone ran for their vehicles and scattered like frightened birds, speeding away.

Brick ran the fastest. When Russell saw him about to leave, he hurriedly put on his helmet and chased after him. He still did not know where Prosperity Town was. But just as he inserted the key, someone climbed onto the back seat.

"What are you standing around for? Get moving!"

As she spoke, two pale arms tightly grabbed Russell's clothes. He immediately sucked in a breath of cold air. She sounded young, but how could she be so devious!