Chapter Two: Rampage

Zhang Aimin performed admirably in the first stage, ranking third. As luck would have it, the second stage started in reverse order, so the time left for Mo Shu and Zhang Aimin wasn’t tight. While the caravan packed up and moved to the next campsite, Mo Shu and Zhang Aimin made their way smoothly to the starting line.

At the referee’s signal, Mo Shu floored the accelerator, and the car shot into the boundless desert like an arrow, racing toward the blazing newborn sun. Setting off on time, Zhang Aimin was in high spirits, roadbook in hand, offering Mo Shu constant updates about the route ahead. No longer burdened by his role as the boss, he was as giddy as a twenty-something youth.

Mo Shu, however, was entirely different—lips pressed tight, eyes focused, the engine’s thunderous roar betraying the tempest within him.

A victory—he could feel it.

Zhang Aimin, head down and laser-focused on navigation, had no idea Mo Shu was already charging toward the finish with everything he had. Only when he noticed Mo Shu’s intense focus and lack of response did he finally glance sideways at his young new teammate.

The sight made Zhang Aimin’s jaw drop.

“Heavens, Mo, we’ve just started and you’re already pushing over 160 kilometers an hour?” he exclaimed.

“Relax, Uncle Zhang, I know what I’m doing,” Mo Shu replied.

Unaware of Mo Shu’s plan, Zhang Aimin hurried to advise, “Mo, I think you should slow down. This is a rally, you know—we’ve got over 700 kilometers to cover today. If you keep up this pace in the desert, you’ll run into trouble…”

But Mo Shu had no time for Zhang Aimin’s lengthy lecture. He had activated his “Endurance Sprint” skill the moment the race began.

“In Endurance Sprint mode, the system’s alien power boosts the vehicle’s structure, increasing both strength and performance by 20%. Note: this skill doesn’t enhance the driver’s ability, so caution is needed to avoid losing control and damaging the car.”

Mo Shu kept this warning at the front of his mind. He was well aware that his current speed was approaching that of world-class drivers in premier competitions, yet he was just a rookie with a civilian license. The amateur course was relatively straightforward, but if they encountered more advanced terrain—stones, valleys, rivers, ravines—neither his skills nor the mass-produced vehicle would be enough.

“Thirty meters ahead, there’s a sizeable sand dune drop. Slow down and take care,” Zhang Aimin warned nervously over the intercom.

Yet the engine’s roar didn’t falter. If anything, the speed increased.

“Mo!” Zhang Aimin shouted, flinging the roadbook to the floor and gripping the handle with both hands. “Are you trying to send me to an early grave?”

The final words were swallowed by the sudden, soaring whine of the engine. Zhang Aimin even considered just closing his eyes.

But then, abruptly, the world fell silent. No more engine, no more rattling—just calm.

Looking out the window, Zhang Aimin felt as if they were soaring close to the clouds in the endless blue sky. A few startled sand foxes darted across the bottom of the dunes below, and a small oasis shimmered at the edge of his vision.

Beautiful—exactly what his heart longed for.

In that instant, Zhang Aimin understood at last the mysterious pull the desert had always exerted on him.

A thunderous crash of the engine yanked him back to reality.

“That rascal’s got some skill—knows to give it a bit of throttle on the jump to keep the nose up,” Zhang Aimin thought with a twinge of admiration.

With a curtain of golden sand billowing behind, the car landed smoothly and surged forward, devouring the desert ahead.

Zhang Aimin, still shaken, announced, “A hundred kilometers ahead is all flat and clear, barely any dunes or pits. Just head northeast in a straight line.”

Mo Shu’s lips curled in a smile. “Sorry for the fright, Uncle Zhang. Didn’t mean to scare you at your age.”

“Hahaha, don’t worry about it! I should thank you—it helped me see some things clearly and stirred up some old memories.”

“Really? We’ve only been out here a few minutes and you’re already so inspired? Am I really that capable?” Mo Shu’s embarrassment showed at the compliment.

“You absolutely are! You fix cars and drive with such skill—truly impressive, truly impressive!” Zhang Aimin’s hearty laughter filled the cab.

Listening to Zhang Aimin’s laughter, Mo Shu couldn’t help but reflect: appearances could be deceiving—beneath his rugged exterior, the old boss had a sentimental heart.

“Hey! Car up ahead! Watch out!” Zhang Aimin called suddenly.

Lost in conversation, they almost missed the car in front. Mo Shu braked and swerved left, their own car barely scraping past the other’s tail lights.

“Whew… that was close,” Mo Shu muttered in self-reproach, but Zhang Aimin just chuckled.

“What is it, Uncle Zhang?” Mo Shu asked, puzzled.

Zhang Aimin shot him a pleased glance. In rally races like this, with staggered starts, most of the time you’re alone on the course—it’s not like a circuit race with constant jostling and overtaking.

Encountering another car mid-race usually means one of three things: you’re too fast, too slow, or someone’s broken down.

Clearly, they were the fast ones. Zhang Aimin, who’d been playing with cars for over a decade but only competing for a year, had never before experienced overtaking in a rally—either age or lack of skill held him back. But today, paired with Mo Shu, everything was a delightful surprise; his old regrets simply vanished, and his happiness bubbled over.

Mo Shu, racing for the first time, couldn’t understand the ups and downs of Zhang Aimin’s automotive life. Rather than interrupt, he focused on chasing victory.

For the next ten minutes, they drove in silence—until, with a whoosh, they passed another rally car.

“Number 37. Should be Old Li’s son’s car,” Zhang Aimin noted, checking the rearview mirror with a satisfied grin.

Meanwhile, inside car 37, complaints flew.

“How did Zhang Aimin get ahead? Did you navigate wrong?” the young master demanded.

“I watched the roadbook the whole time—no way I made a mistake.”

“Maybe the old man’s having a good day?”

“Don’t forget—the driver’s that Mo kid, the one who does photography or whatever.”

“Damn, Mo Shu! That punk forced the old man to navigate for him, and he’s this good?”

“Let’s chase them down!”

“Chase them! No way I let him steal the spotlight!”

Li Xun gritted his teeth. A poor kid beat him? Over his dead body!

He floored the accelerator, pushing the revs into the red.

Li Xun was the classic reckless youth—he hated having a car in front of him even in city traffic, let alone in the vast desert. If word got out, his friends would never let him live it down.

For the sake of face and pride, he had to overtake Mo Shu and reclaim his honor.

The speedometer crept up to 180 before Li Xun’s car began to close the gap.

“Do we really need to go this fast in the desert?” his navigator said nervously. “Young master, this is dangerous. These are stock cars, not built for this. If they want to risk their lives, fine, but we shouldn’t.”

“Scared? Jump out, then!”

“My life’s not worth much, but yours is, young master!”

“Shut up!”

On Mo Shu’s side, the mood was much lighter. The upside of a stock car was that all creature comforts remained intact. The old and the young, air conditioning blowing, music thumping, were hurtling through the wasteland at over 170 kilometers an hour—a feat most would find unthinkable.

Lost in the rhythm, Mo Shu started dancing in his seat.

Zhang Aimin glanced over, bemused. “Kid, you put on cruise control?”

“Yeah, with this 100-kilometer straight stretch, figured I’d give my feet a rest.”

“Well, I’ve seen it all now. Why not set it to 260?” Zhang Aimin teased.

Missing the sarcasm, Mo Shu replied, “What if we hit another big dune? This is the safest speed I calculated, Uncle Zhang.”

Zhang Aimin just clicked his tongue and said no more.

A desert rally—amateur, stock class—at 170 kilometers per hour, on cruise control? Safe speed? Was he just a coward, or were today’s young people really that much better? Zhang Aimin wondered if he was falling behind the times.

Lost in thought, he noticed car 37 closing in.

That only confirmed his suspicion: the youth of today were fearless.

“Ha! Caught up to you!” Li Xun cackled triumphantly.

His navigator, meanwhile, was green in the face, stomach heaving—ten years in rally, and never had he met such a madman.

Zhang Aimin tapped Mo Shu, nodding toward the mirror.

Mo Shu merely smiled. He’d noticed Li Xun’s challenge long ago. “Uncle Zhang, check the roadbook and GPS. We should be nearing the next waypoint, right?”

“Yeah—one more kilometer, then northwest.”

“Alright, buckle up, Uncle Zhang. Looks like the real show’s about to start.”

Mo Shu turned off the music, lightly braked to cancel cruise control, and steered left to open up some space from the pursuing car.

Li Xun, seeing this, boasted to his navigator, “See? They’re letting us pass! They can’t keep up!”

His navigator, battered by the relentless shaking, moaned, “Young master, careful—turn coming up.”

“Whatever! I’ll pass them first!” Li Xun mashed the accelerator harder.

The car was pushed to its very limits, while Mo Shu’s side slowed, as if inviting the overtake.

Forget everything—Li Xun was born to be a king.

Finally, car 37 regained the lead, and Li Xun’s lips curled in satisfaction.

But in that brief moment, he caught a glimpse of Mo Shu’s expression—an ambiguous little smile, tinged with a hint of pity.

What did it mean? Li Xun couldn’t figure it out.

Before he could dwell on it, his navigator, suddenly revived, screamed, “Brake! Brake now!”

Directly ahead, a massive desert crater—300 meters wide—yawned in front of them, less than a hundred meters away.

And at their current speed, even if they stomped the brakes to pieces and had a hundred oxen pulling, there was no stopping in time.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Li Xun’s shrill cry echoed across the desolate wasteland.