Chapter Seventy-Five: Eager for Quick Success

"Hey, I’m asking you, do you really want your son to join the Celestial Lords of the Six Realms or not?"

Everyone at the scene, watching through the giant screen, saw a man seated in a tall executive chair, his back turned to the camera, speaking.

"Of course I do. You have no idea how much I’ve sacrificed for this," came the reply. Judging by their voices and the clandestine filming, the speaker and the one being filmed were both Zhao Kunlun.

"Heh, then follow my plan. Create a murder case," the man in the chair sneered coldly.

"As long as you can fulfill my wishes, whatever you say—I’ll do it," Zhao Kunlun responded, albeit with some reluctance.

"You know what to do, then. Make sure public opinion pins the identity of the murderer on the Weirmann family," the man said, shocking everyone present.

So, all this time, had the Weirmann family been wrongly accused?

Many racing fans supported the Carbon Black Gold Team, but only out of regional loyalty—it was the only rally team from their hometown, after all. But even so, many fans were secretly ashamed of the heinous rumors that surrounded the team. Online, when other fans mocked them with jibes about “Weirmann colluding with Black Gold,” it was hard not to feel humiliated by their own team's reputation.

But if the Weirmanns had been falsely accused, then who was this speaker? Was it Black Gold’s CEO, Blake Gordon? The voice didn’t quite match, though it sounded strangely familiar. Could it be...?

A single name sprang to mind for everyone present.

A name that would make the entire world roar with excitement.

Indeed, as the footage showed Zhao Kunlun agreeing to the conspiracy, the man in the chair let out a cold laugh and turned around.

Yes, among the thousands in attendance, many were veteran racing fans with decades of passion—they could not have misheard.

Fernando Ken Ruslein!

The living legend of motorsport.

The seven-time ERC World Rally Champion, the monarch of rally racing.

Yet the cold, sinister expression in the footage was utterly at odds with the hero they all thought they knew.

Why?

What was truly going on?

Why would the illustrious Celestial Lord of the Six Realms do such a thing?

Mo Shu narrowed his eyes, calmly watching the man he’d once idolized. If Black Mirror hadn’t stumbled upon this video in his father’s email and told him, Mo Shu could never have imagined that Ruslein, the man he’d spent every day with, the man he trusted most, could harbor such a dark secret.

But until now, neither Black Mirror nor Mo Shu understood why Ruslein had done all this.

Mo Shu glanced over and signaled for Ruslein to step forward and explain himself.

To everyone’s surprise, Ruslein was remarkably composed.

He nodded to Mo Shu, his lips pressed tight as he walked forward. Though his hand shook slightly as he picked up the microphone, his face betrayed not nervousness but the intense surge of long-suppressed emotion.

“Everyone…” Ruslein managed only a word before emotion choked him. He pressed his lips together, swallowing hard, struggling to regain his composure.

“You must be disappointed. Yes, all of this—every last bit of it—is my responsibility alone.

From orchestrating the fake attempt on my life, to framing the Weirmann family as the masterminds behind it all.

From Black Gold helping Kunsheng acquire the old Star team, to me becoming the advisor to the current Divinity Racing Team—

Every move was a part of my grand design, my masterstroke.

And yes, even the recent uproar over Mo Shu’s alleged theft, and the press conference meant to drive a wedge between Weirmann and Black Gold—those too were of my making.”

Pandemonium erupted; everyone was dumbstruck. Why would Ruslein do such a thing?

“Quiet! OK? Let me finish!” Ruslein raised his hand, demanding silence.

“But even now, I refuse to see myself as some depraved villain.

Many of you are probably thinking, ‘How dare you boast after all you’ve done?’

Of course I dare! I have to! I did all of this—for the sake of saving the world of racing, to save this hopeless industry and the people in it!”

He jabbed a furious finger at the cluster of high-ranking officials on the dais.

“For fame. For profit. They signed a ten-year monopoly contract with the Weirmann family.

Friends, did you know?

The six great racing events of the modern world—the six greatest racers, your beloved Celestial Lords of the Six Realms—are all held tightly in the grip of the Weirmann family.

I watched, powerless, as the Weirmanns dominated everything, monopolizing the entire world of racing.

Their power is insurmountable, their methods ruthless, their drivers unbeatable!

Everyone must bow to them; every team, every driver must grovel, or else you get no race, no chance to rise!

But I refuse to accept it!

Do you understand? I, Ruslein, refuse!

Someone had to stand up, to challenge them, to break the rules!

And I—

I, Fernando Ken Ruslein!

I exist to create miracles!

I exist to challenge this world!”

His chest heaved with passion.

Beside him, Mo Shu lifted the microphone and asked in a calm tone,

“So when you saw the Weirmann family standing invincible atop the world of racing, you chose the crooked path, didn’t you?

You used Zhao Kunlun and his son. You used the man I most respected, Mr. Zhang Aimin.

You used the trust of me and my teammates. You exploited the fans’ love for motorsport.”

“Heh, you’re right, clever child.

I was willing to do anything to overthrow them. I worked tirelessly to sow misunderstanding and discord between you and Weirmann.

I risked breaking the law, even ruining the careers of the drivers I most admired.

Ah…

Maybe… I was too eager for quick results…

Maybe… I really am getting old, and a little foolish…”

At this, Ruslein’s voice broke, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears as he met Mo Shu’s gaze.

In the crowd, many fans found themselves weeping for reasons they could not name.

Was it sorrow, was it empathy, was it anger, or was it something else? No one could say, but all felt a deep regret that Ruslein had set out on such a doomed path.

Mo Shu had been ready to unleash a torrent of ugly, spiteful words, to curse Ruslein with all his might.

But now, he found himself unable to utter a single syllable. He could only sigh, long and deep.

“Hurry! Security! Detain Ruslein!” cried an ERC official, sensing this was the perfect moment to regain control.

“Look at them, those hypocrites!”

“Shameless—those are the real villains!”

“Even making money should have some decency. Have they no shame?”

The fans began to hurl insults at the ERC officials.

A few guards hurriedly rushed to Ruslein, grabbing his arms to drag him away.

But Ruslein shrugged off their grasp, his glare fierce as he shouted,

“Don’t touch me! If I’m going to prison, I’ll walk in with my head held high!”