Chapter 152

Chapter 152
Lyra's POV

The other guard took over, his tone slightly more polite than his companion's but equally unyielding.

"According to the rules, no preliminary results means no finals. This is the organizer's regulation, not us making things difficult for you."

A few club members who didn't know the full story came over. One of them grabbed my arm and urged in a lowered voice,

"Lyra, forget it. It's just a race—no need to insist on this one. Wait for next time. With your skills, you'll definitely pass the preliminaries."

They didn't know about Varyn. They were just worried I'd get into a conflict with the guards.

Just then, a male voice came from the direction of the track entrance. "Race me. Win, and you're in."

I looked over in surprise.

A stranger—early twenties, short dark brown hair, wearing a jacket with the event logo, leaning against the iron gate with a casual smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

The two guards at the entrance changed their attitude the instant they heard his voice. Their previously arrogant posture vanished completely, replaced by exceptional deference.

"Young Master Orson Falk, what brings you out here?"

Orson straightened up and waved them off casually.

"The race hasn't started yet anyway. Might as well let me run a couple laps."

From his surname and the guards' attitude, I could roughly guess his identity.

Probably someone from the hosting organization, a young master from some racing family who held a title in the club and was used to being fawned over by these guards.

"Let's do it then." I nodded.

Cian beside me froze. He turned to look at me, his voice rising half an octave.

"Lyra, you didn't even bring your bike. How are you going to race?"

I pointed at the modified motorcycle parked behind him. "Isn't your bike right there?"

Cian paused for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing, his voice suddenly catching.

"But you're not familiar with this one at all. Bore diameter, suspension, braking points—these things are different on every bike. You haven't even warmed up."

I patted his shoulder, signaling him to relax. "I'll get familiar as I ride."

The two bikes lined up side by side at the starting line.

Orson's ride was a custom racing bike, its paint gleaming with a cold metallic luster under the lights, every component radiating expensive quality.

Beneath me was Cian's old companion that had been with him for years—small bore diameter, soft suspension, throttle response with an extremely slight lag.

The contrast was painfully obvious at this moment, but I didn't pay it much mind. I just lowered my body, gripped the handlebars tightly, and focused all my attention on the track ahead.

The starting gun fired.

Orson's start was extremely fast. His bike had a clear advantage on the straightaway, staying firmly ahead of me through the first two turns.

But at the third consecutive turn—the most technical section of the track—his line began showing slight instability, with a trace of unnecessary sway each time he cut the corner.

I caught it in my peripheral vision and immediately spotted the problem. His suspension was tuned too stiff, causing insufficient rear wheel grip when cornering.

A smile tugged at my lips. I found my opportunity at the fourth turn.

On entry, instead of following his line, I used a deeper cutting angle to overtake from the inside, then opened the throttle fully on exit.

Though Cian's bike had a smaller bore diameter, its light body weight actually became an advantage in this technical section.

When I crossed the finish line first, I released the throttle. The bike bounced twice over the speed bumps and came to a steady stop.

The two guards stood frozen in place, mouths slightly open, clearly not expecting this result.

I swung my leg over and dismounted, removing my helmet and handing it to Cian.

Only after Orson rode back and stopped did I address the two guards. "Now, can we go in?"

Both guards looked to Orson in unison.

He removed his helmet, a thin sheen of sweat still on his forehead, but his lips curved in an undisguised playful smile.

"Let them through."

We followed Orson through the iron gate. The atmosphere of the official track hit us immediately.

Engine roars rose and fell in the near distance, the air thick with the smell of motor oil and burning rubber.

Racers in various colored suits clustered in groups of three to five around the maintenance area, tuning their bikes.

Orson turned around, helmet tucked under his arm, and said to me, "I really didn't expect your skills to be that good. Hope you win this race."

I thanked him but had no intention of actually winning the competition.

The trophy wasn't why I was here.

After that match with Orson, I could feel many racers looking our way, whispering about the woman who'd just beaten the organizer's young master in a warm-up race.

"Who is that? She beat Orson on Cian's bike."

"That bike's bore diameter was clearly at a disadvantage. I held my breath when she took those corners, but her handling was so smooth. With her here, who knows who'll take the championship trophy this time."

I ignored those stares and began wandering around the venue in circles, my gaze sweeping across every face.

Beside me, Cian spoke up quietly, his voice extremely low.

"Strange. I know most of these racers, and they all seem pretty normal—could Varyn's disguise really be flawless to this degree?"

"Be patient," I said. "I have a way."

He looked at me in shock. I made a shushing gesture and continued walking around the venue.

I walked casually until I passed a man in a dark blue racing suit who was leaning against the maintenance area fence drinking water.

He looked no different from the surrounding racers—hair damp with sweat, breathing slightly labored, like he'd just finished a warm-up lap.

But the pen-style detector in my pocket suddenly emitted a continuous, faint beeping as I approached him.

My footsteps didn't stop, my expression showed no change, but my left hand had quietly reached for the cork of the pendant.

The next second, I splashed the entire bottle of vervain solution at him, then grabbed his arm before he could react, twisting both hands behind his back and pressing him to the ground.

"What the—" He spat out a curse, struggling violently, his voice high and broken from the sudden attack.

"Are you fucking crazy?!"

Cian froze for an instant, then quickly rushed forward to help me hold him down.

I lowered my voice, speaking each word deliberately. "Varyn, stop pretending."

The man pinned to the ground looked utterly shocked, struggling even harder.

"Who's Varyn?! I don't even know him—let me go!"

As he twisted violently, a small tracking device fell from his pocket, bouncing twice on the ground before stopping at the dusty edge of the track.

Cian glanced at the tracker, then increased the pressure in his hands, his voice carrying long-suppressed fury.

"Varyn, you still dare to deny it?"

But I stiffened, staring at the man's face for a long time before my heart sank.

I belatedly realized that after being splashed with vervain, he'd shown no sign of pain.

No burning, no screaming, not even reddened skin.

Vervain was toxic to vampires. Direct contact would leave visible burn marks.

Yet this man before me showed nothing except anger and confusion.

At this realization, I suddenly released my grip.

"Cian, let go," I said, my voice dropping.

"We've been played by Varyn. He already discovered that tracker and planted it in this guy's pocket. No wonder you couldn't find him before."

"Maybe he was never here at all."