It's a Sign of Great Ill Fortune

Buzz!!

Buzzzzz---

At the crack of the starting gun, seventy riders charged forward on their off-road motorcycles, the deep, rumbling roar instantly igniting the crowd and setting the valley ablaze with excitement, pushing the atmosphere to its peak as the audience howled like ghosts and wolves.

The cheap black fatso, limited by conditions, had no video livestream—the only way to broadcast the race was through his phone. With such poor signal, the livestream was riddled with misreports, but that didn't dampen the audience's enthusiasm. The valley served as both start and finish line; spectators could stay put and see the winner, and most of them were gamblers who only cared about results. True off-road motorcycle fans were few and far between.

The valley exit opened onto a desert scrubland. The sandy ground offered poor traction, and the wide-open course had a flag every hundred meters, making it easy to fall behind. Within moments, the seventy riders split into three tiers.

The first tier had exactly ten riders, with no clear gap from the second tier. The two groups were close together, and with the race just beginning, this ranking was far from guaranteed to hold.

The third tier wasn't worth mentioning—over half the riders were there, just along for the ride, there to soak up the adrenaline-fueled atmosphere.

Russell held a steady spot in the first tier on his motorcycle. He'd never ridden in sand before, but with Vehicle Driving Mastery as his foundation, it was more than enough to handle a bunch of amateurs.

The motorcycle rumbled and vibrated, its engine roaring low and steady, covering dozens of meters in the blink of an eye and kicking up a trail of sand in its wake.

Dozens of bikes churned up clouds of yellow dust. From above, they looked like scattered arrows bursting forward, with sand and gravel flying behind them—an intensely thrilling sight.

Underground motorcycle races were hit-and-run affairs, so the venues were improvised, and the obstacles were all natural.

Green! Eco-friendly! Cheap!

Deserts, steep slopes, wastelands—even highways were fair game. The fatso had organized this race with nothing more than a shovel to dig pits along the way and plant flags.

After passing through the desert, the first turning point of the race appeared. Guided by the flags, the first tier rode onto a highway. Out in the American wilderness, traffic was sparse, but sparse didn't mean safe. These hot-blooded youths rode like they had nothing to lose, gunning their engines as tires screeched against the asphalt, black smoke belching out as they shot forward like beasts unleashed from their cages.

This stretch tested the bikes' performance. Riders with poor tires or engines were quickly left behind. In short, it was a money game—without cash, you couldn't close the gap.

No gap meant no victory, no victory meant no prize money or girls, and the end result was going home a loser.

Skip the middle process and sum it up in one sentence: no money equals being single; cash gets you girls!

No money = single!

The first and second tiers split further into sub-levels. The performance gap between high-end and ordinary bikes reshuffled the rankings, and the changes were stark.

The riders in matching gear gradually pushed into the first tier. Russell's off-road bike was average, so he dropped to the second tier. Of the dozen or so young punks from Prosperity Town, only Brett remained in the first tier—after all, he was the mayor's son, so his bike's superior performance was a given.

Along the way, scattered spectators appeared by the roadside. After the first two tiers passed, they'd drive back toward the starting point, hoping to catch a glimpse of the winner.

This behavior was unfriendly to the third-tier riders. Their path was blocked, and by the time they detoured, catching up was hopeless. Most just gave up and turned back too.

The second turning point of the race appeared: a man-made ditch about ten meters wide, with some age to it. The bottom was overgrown with shrubs, and the deepest part was five meters. Thanks to the sandy buffer, there was no risk of dying from a failed jump.

A crowd of spectators had gathered here, waiting specifically for the stunt show. They didn't care who came first—they'd be satisfied just seeing the tricks.

A clear slope in front of the ditch served as a ramp, making it an ideal jump point. With enough speed, guts, and skill, clearing it was easy. But not everyone dared to try, and not everyone had the confidence to land safely. Some chose to jump and fall into the pit, while others drove straight through it.

In the first tier, including Brett, five riders successfully cleared the jump. Those who crashed into the pit or climbed out found their path blocked by sliding sand on the uphill slope, taking a long time to escape.

Boos and cheers rang out in waves. Every clean jump drew screams from the audience, while riders who messed up got merciless jeers.

Few riders took the detour. The ditch was long, far exceeding the track's width, and returning would take who knows how long.

Russell led the second tier, his off-road bike steady and composed at high speed. He accelerated on the slope and launched off the ramp. Midair, he pulled off a clean aerial move, drawing a roar of applause. Unsatisfied after landing, he rode a bit further, then gunned the throttle again, popping a wheelie that earned him a chorus of whistles.

Soon, the third turning point came into view: a rugged valley trail.

The valley was littered with rocks, shrubs, giant cacti, steep slopes, and hidden pits. This section was a true test of skill. Unable to go full speed, the first tier slowed down. They were all amateurs, forced to tread carefully on this stretch.

Rumble—rumble rumble---

Russell eased off the throttle, leaping over a pile of rubble, weaving left and right past cactus obstacles, and gunning the throttle to pop a wheelie over a pit. Vehicle Driving Mastery was still a step away from master or legend status, but to rookies, he was already an untouchable pro.

Under the watchful eyes of the five riders in the first tier, Russell came from behind, overtaking them all to take the lead. The pressure hit them hard—two riders tried to mimic his jump, only to flip and get stuck in a pit.

Amid the roaring engines, Russell's bike shot out of the valley at top speed. The moment he cleared it, he left a trail of exhaust like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Cheers erupted outside the valley—clearly, the crowd was rooting for Russell to take the win.

Beyond the valley was the return highway, followed by the desert. Russell's lead from the valley trail was massive, putting him far ahead. By the time he left the highway, there wasn't even the sound of pursuit behind him.

The motorcycle entered the desert zone. Russell spotted the finish-line valley. He twisted the throttle, the bike's rear spat smoke, and he kicked up sand as he charged full speed toward the goal.

"Champion! Ladies and gentlemen, our first-place winner is about to be crowned—cheer for him!!!"

The cheap black fatso shouted at the top of his lungs. The crowd waved their arms, spilling beer and soda everywhere as they watched Russell cross the finish line.

"Awesome, that was incredible!"

"He was the fastest out of the canyon—I knew he'd be first from the livestream!"

"..."

Some rejoiced, others mourned. Those who lost their bets crumpled their tickets, cursed a few times, and drove off. Quite a few stayed to see who'd take second and third.

Russell stopped his bike. The moment his feet hit the ground, a few pretty girls swarmed him, squealing as they touched his solid muscles.

Surrounded by a crowd of blonde, blue-eyed girls, Russell wanted to refuse, but he was outnumbered. His hands were pinned by their... assets, and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't break free.

If he really forced his way out, with his strength, these girls wouldn't stand a chance. But he didn't want to hurt anyone, so he just let them have their way... He really was refusing!

About five minutes later, the second-place finisher appeared.

It was Brett. He took off his Helmet, staring at Russell in disbelief, as if seeing him for the first time.

Third and fourth place finished almost neck and neck, half a minute behind Brick. Third got a consolation prize, while fourth drove off dejectedly with his head down.

The fat bastard confirmed through his phone that Russell hadn't broken any rules, grabbed a wad of greenbacks, raised it high, and stuffed it into Russell's shirt pocket amid the cheers. Before pulling away, he gave it a not-too-light squeeze, and as Russell stood there dumbfounded, shot him a wink.

Russell: "..."

"Kid, you're damn good. This 500 bucks is from me personally!" The fat bastard cheerfully added another 500 to Russell's take. Thanks to Russell being a dark horse, plenty of people had lost their bets, and his book had cleaned up.

Brick got his 500 bucks, got groped by the fat bastard, and then got a disdainful eye-roll in return.

Fat bastard: "Tsk, you're—"

Brett: "..."

Third place took home a consolation prize of 100 bucks—good enough to recoup the entry fee and pocket a little extra after gas.

Just as the valley was celebrating the winners, the fat bastard's phone rang. He answered, cursed a few "shits," grabbed his bullhorn, and howled like a wolf: "Scram, the cops are coming!!!"

In an instant, as if the sirens had already hit their ears, the valley erupted into chaos. Everyone bolted for their cars, scattering like birds and beasts, tearing off at full speed.

Brick was the fastest to flee. The moment Russell saw him about to leave, he hurriedly put on his Helmet and gave chase—he still didn't know where Prosperity Town was. But the second he jammed the key in, there was someone in the back seat.

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

With that, two pale arms grabbed hold of Russell's clothes. He sucked in a sharp breath of cold air—the voice sounded young, but damn, the malice was deep.