NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 1: Prologue
Yougou, Narukami Prefecture. February 202X. Two Years Prior to the Events of Team Speed Stars.
The day was somber, wrapped in a thick blanket of cloud that obscured any hint of sunlight. The skies overhead hung heavy, as though the heavens themselves were mourning. Clorinde walked along the winding sidewalk of Lake Yougou, her footsteps muted on the damp pavement. She was dressed in an all-black dress, the fabric billowing slightly in the chill breeze, a stark contrast to the usual vibrant energy she carried with her. Today, she was not the confident young woman with a future full of possibilities; today, she was a daughter lost in grief, still reeling from the weight of the loss she'd just endured.
She had just left the cemetery. The final resting place of her father, the legendary 1983 WRC Group B Champion, had been a quiet place for a moment of reflection—a place where she said her goodbyes. The wind picked up, tugging at the hem of her dress, but Clorinde hardly noticed. Her hands were tucked deep into the pockets of her coat, and her mind was lost in thought, replaying the final moments of her father's life, the way he had always promised her that he'd be there for every race, every corner. But now, silence had replaced those promises, and all she was left with was the haunting question of what came next.
She arrived at the house, the one that had belonged to her father—a house that now belonged to her. The key turned in the door with a soft click, and she stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a quiet, almost reverent motion.
The home felt empty, though the walls still carried echoes of her father's presence. She leaned back against the door for a moment, the cool wood pressing against her spine, and brought her fingers to the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. Her mind felt like it was swirling in a vortex, uncertainty and sorrow colliding with every breath.
"What am I going to do now..." she muttered softly to herself, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the house.
The weight of those words hung in the air for a moment. What could she do? Her father was gone, the championship was just a memory, and the future—what was it even worth? But as the thoughts swirled, she drew in a steadying breath, pushing the doubts to the back of her mind. She had to keep moving. For him. For herself.
Clorinde gathered herself, her shoulders squaring with determination. She walked through the house, the silence now a heavy companion. She shed her coat, draping it over the arm of a chair as she scanned the room. But then her eyes landed on something—something that shouldn't have been there, but was. On her bed, a letter, its presence unexpected but almost... comforting.
She crossed the room slowly, the letter seeming to pull her in. Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked it up, the handwriting on the front simple, yet unmistakably familiar: Garage Keys.
Curiosity mixed with the bittersweet ache in her chest as she opened the letter. Inside, a small set of keys lay nestled against the paper, the cold metal glinting in the dim light. The weight of those keys was somehow heavier than the grief she carried in her heart. She knew exactly where they would lead.
Clorinde made her way outside, the chill of the air biting at her skin as she turned to her left, heading toward the garage. The path felt longer than usual, as though time had slowed, but she couldn't stop now. The letter was her only clue, her only tether to whatever her father had left behind for her. She approached the garage door, her hand gripping the keys as she slid one into the lock, turning it with a soft click. The door creaked open, revealing the faint outline of something hidden underneath a dusted cover.
For a moment, she just stood there, her breath caught in her throat, unsure whether she was ready to face whatever waited behind that cover. But something compelled her forward. She reached for the cover, her fingers brushing the material before pausing, her mind racing. It felt like she was about to uncover a part of her father that had been lost. With a deep breath, she gripped the cover and yanked it away.
The sight before her took her breath away. There, under the dim light of the garage, sat the sleek design of a car she recognized all too well—the Martini livery unmistakable on its curves, the body almost shimmering despite the dust that had accumulated over the years.
"Lancia... Rally... 037..." she whispered, her voice filled with awe and disbelief. It was as if time had stood still for a moment, allowing her to take in the sheer magnitude of what stood before her. Her father's car. The very one that had carried him to glory in 1983. The one he'd cherished like nothing else.
She took a step closer, her heart pounding in her chest. The car sat there, perfectly preserved, like it had been waiting for her all this time. Her eyes moved over the immaculate exterior, tracing the lines, the curves, and the intricate details of a machine that had once dominated the rally world. But as she moved to peer inside, through the Lexan driver's side window, something caught her attention—a letter, tucked into the seat.
Clorinde's breath hitched. With a quiet determination, she opened the driver's side door, the familiar creak of the hinges sending a wave of nostalgia over her. As she swung the door open fully, the faint scent of alcantara and metal filled the air, and she reached for the letter resting on the seat. She unfolded it carefully, as if it might crumble in her hands. On the outside, the words To my Clorinde were written in her father's unmistakable handwriting.
Sitting in the driver's seat, she felt a strange sense of connection—a feeling that she wasn't alone. The car was set up for her, as though her father had expected her to take this step. To drive. To carry on what he had started.
She opened the letter and began to read, her voice trembling as she read aloud, her heart aching with every word:
"To my dearest daughter, Clorinde. By the time you are reading this letter, I'm no longer here. But I don't want you to fall into disrepair from losing me. Instead, I want you to have something I've treasured since 1983. And it is the one you are sitting in—my Championship-winning 1983 Lancia Rally 037. This is not the homologated street version. The car you are sitting in is the genuine Group B Rally car."
She paused, her eyes filling with tears, but she forced herself to continue.
"My only wish for you, dear, is to continue improving your driving techniques. Refine them, and become one of the fastest in Yougou. Carry on my legacy. And if you ever find yourself thinking about me, just remind yourself that when you are driving my car, I'm right there beside you. In the co-pilot's seat."
The tears finally spilled over, but Clorinde didn't try to wipe them away. Her chest tightened with emotion, and she clutched the letter to her heart.
"Note: The car is already registered under your name. And the gear layout is a dogleg. First is left and down."
Love, Dad.
She crumpled the letter slightly in her hands, bringing it to her face as sobs wracked her body. The weight of her father's words, the legacy he had left behind, and the car—her inheritance—were more than she could bear in this moment. It wasn't just a car. It was his legacy. And now, it was hers to carry.
As time flowed forward, Clorinde remained seated in the Lancia's bucket seat, her posture slumped with exhaustion, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. The car's cockpit, though familiar, felt almost alien to her now. The dashboard stared back at her like an unsolved puzzle, its numerous gauges and switches a reminder of her father's legacy, of the racing world that had been his life, and now—by extension—hers.
Clorinde's fingers curled loosely around the steering wheel, and she inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling with the weight of the moment. Her eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, as if trying to find some form of comfort within herself. She exhaled slowly, the breath a release of tension, but also of something more—an acceptance, perhaps. The silence in the garage was thick, broken only by the distant sound of the wind outside.
Her eyes snapped open as her hand moved toward the keys on the dashboard. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the ignition key. The thought of starting the car, of taking the first real step in continuing her father's legacy, made her stomach churn. What if she wasn't ready? What if she couldn't live up to the expectations—both hers and her father's? But she knew she couldn't stay in this moment forever.
With a quiet resolve, Clorinde slid the key into the ignition, the cold metal clicking into place. She twisted it, hearing the satisfying sound of the engine's accessories kicking on. Her hand trembled for a moment, her grip tightening on the key as she paused again, uncertain. But the weight of her father's words, the letter still fresh in her mind, gave her the strength she needed.
With a reluctant breath, she twisted the key further, and the Lancia's engine sputtered to life. The roar of the supercharged 2.1-liter Lampredi twin-cam four-cylinder echoed in the garage, a beast waking from its long slumber. The vibrations of the engine seeped into Clorinde's bones, sending a rush of adrenaline through her veins. The sound was both terrifying and exhilarating.
She gave it a few gentle revs to keep the engine alive, her foot easing off the gas after each one. The car settled into a smooth idle, the rumble of its power now a steady pulse beneath her. Clorinde's heart pounded in time with the engine's growl as she sat back for a moment, closing her eyes. Her fingers brushed against the five-point harness, and she pulled it over her body, fastening it with a click. It felt strange, yet comforting—like she was taking her place in the driver's seat of a destiny that was suddenly hers.
The handbrake came down with a soft clink, and Clorinde hesitated for just a second longer. She shifted the car into first, the dogleg gear shift clicking into place with a satisfying precision. With a deep breath, she eased her foot off the clutch and gave the gas a gentle tap, the Lancia rolling forward.
She drove slowly out of the garage, every inch of the car feeling alive under her fingertips. The road ahead seemed endless, but she didn't feel fear. For the first time since her father's passing, she felt connected to something bigger than herself—something that was hers to carry forward. As she drove around the familiar curves of Lake Yougou, she took in the car's responsiveness, the way it gripped the road like a wild animal eager to be unleashed. It was like she had become one with the machine, her movements in sync with its power.
The sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the lake and reflected in the mirror-like water. Clorinde continued to drive, feeling the engine's hum beneath her, taking the time to understand its nuances, its power, and the subtle shifts of its handling.
Eventually, she found herself outside Navia's place. The drive had been cathartic, but there was still something weighing heavily on her chest. She needed to talk to someone who understood—not just about racing, but about the legacy that was now hers to uphold.
She stepped out of the car, her boots clicking against the pavement as she approached the door. She hesitated for a moment before raising her hand to knock.
The door opened, and Navia was standing there, her face softening when she saw Clorinde. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around Clorinde in a tight hug.
"Clorinde," Navia said, her voice gentle. "Hey... How are you holding up?"
Clorinde sighed, a long exhale filled with more than just sorrow. "Decent," she muttered, though the word felt empty in her mouth.
Navia gave her a look, crossing her arms. "What brings you here?"
Clorinde turned her head, her gaze falling on the car she had just driven. "That," she said simply.
Navia's eyes widened as she followed Clorinde's gaze. She pushed past her quickly, walking toward the Lancia. "Whoa. You got a Lancia Rally 037?" she said, her voice full of disbelief and admiration.
Clorinde gave a small shrug, her shoulders rising and falling. "My Dad handed it down to me," she said, her voice low and almost hesitant. "I found out about it just a couple of minutes ago. More of... a legacy of him. Passed down to me."
Navia nodded, her expression softening. "That's very nice of your dad."
Then, with a knowing look, Navia turned back toward Clorinde. "Pretty sure your dad told you about my dad, right?"
Clorinde nodded. "Yeah. Your dad trained you in tuning setups, right? Especially in Group B Lancia's?"
Navia nodded, a small, proud smile on her face. "Exactly."
Clorinde's hand rested gently on the Lancia's front hatch, her fingers brushing the cool surface. She closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of everything hitting her all at once.
Navia, who had walked around the car to inspect it more closely, leaned against the side of the Lancia next to Clorinde. She seemed to know exactly what her friend needed. "I can tell you about its specifications, if you need."
Clorinde turned toward her, offering a small nod. "That'll help a lot."
Navia grinned, then ran a hand through her hair. "Alright. This Lancia is most likely the Evolution II Spec. So this engine has an upgraded displacement of 2.1 liters. The supercharger boost can go up to 1 bar. It puts out about 325 horsepower. It's got a dogleg five-speed manual, and let me tell you—this thing is a helluva tarmac dominator. A 'formula rally car,' if you will."
Clorinde raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, though still processing all the information.
Navia noticed the skeptical look and shrugged. "What? Walter Röhrl said it himself in an interview."
Clorinde straightened up, her gaze fixed on the Lancia at a distance. A small smile tugged at her lips, one that spoke of both sadness and hope. "I'll do you proud, Dad," she whispered again, this time more firmly.