Chapter 239: I Should Have Never Wagered Against You

The starter pistol cracked through the crisp stadium air—BANG!

Exploding off the blocks, Winny immediately surged forward with everything she had, her form tight and aggressive as she drove her legs into the track. Beside her, May launched smoothly into her stride, matching Winny step for step through the first thirty meters.

From the high vantage point of the VIP box, Peter Pear leaned forward against the glass railing, his hands gripping the metal so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Look at that!" Peter shouted, a desperate, eager grin breaking across his face as Winny maintained a half-step lead through the fifty-meter mark. "She’s leading! Winny’s taking the first heat!"

I didn’t say a word. I just swirled my drink, watching May’s stride with a trained eye.

She wasn’t even pushing.

May was executing a cold, calculated masterpiece. She was holding back just enough—coasting on about eighty percent of her true output, letting Winny exhaust her peak explosive energy in the preliminary heat just to stay an inch ahead. To the untrained eye and the shouting stadium commentators, it looked like a neck-and-neck brawl. But to anyone who knew May’s telemetry, she was simply playing with her food.

At eighty meters, May tilted her head slightly, flashed a effortless sideways glance at Winny’s red, straining face, and casually let Winny cross the finish line a fraction of a second ahead.

[HEAT 1 PRELIMINARY RESULTS] 1. Winny — 10.82s (QUALIFIED) 2. May — 10.85s (QUALIFIED)

The stadium erupts into deafening cheers. Down on the track, Winny puffed out her chest, raising her arms to the crowd as if she had just won the entire championship.

Up in the skybox, Peter practically threw his hands in the air, turning to me with a loud, mocking laugh. "What did I tell you, Ethan?! 10.82! Winny took first place! Your girl couldn’t even catch her in the opens!"

He reached out toward the table, his fingers twitching toward my supercar key fob. "You might as well hand those keys over right now."

I casually slid my hand over the matte-black fob, covering it before his fingers could touch the metal. I looked up at Peter, my eyes dark and completely unbothered, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across my lips.

"Keep your shirt on, Peter," I said softly, my voice cutting right through his excitement. "That was just the appetizer. May was just reading her stride."

Peter sneered, scoffing loudly as he pulled his hand back. "Keep coping! Winny’s got the momentum! She’s going to crush her in the finals!"

Down below, the sprinters walked back toward the warm-up tunnel. As May passed the camera line, she looked directly up at the VIP skybox—straight at me. She gave a subtle, razor-sharp wink, then raised two fingers in a silent, playful count.

Two more gears left.

The semi-finals flew by in a blur, with May doing just enough to qualify easily without exposing her top speed, keeping Peter hooked on his own delusion. Now, the stadium lights dimmed slightly before flaring into a brilliant, golden spotlight show.

The stadium announcer’s voice boomed over the public address system:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... WELCOME TO THE GRAND PRIX 100-METER FINAL!"

The crowd of fifty thousand went absolutely feral. Winny took Lane 4, slapping her thighs, her face tight with adrenaline. May stepped up to Lane 5 right beside her. This time, May stripped off her secondary breathability sleeves, revealing her toned, sculpted arms. The relaxed smile was completely gone—replaced by the absolute, predator-like focus of a sprinter about to rewrite history.

In the VIP box, the air turned suffocatingly tense. Peter was standing right at the glass, his breath fogging up the panel, clutching his own supercar key so tightly it looked like it might snap.

Down on the track, eight elite sprinters lowered themselves into the starting blocks.

"On your marks..."

Silence descended over the entire stadium like a heavy blanket.

"Set..."

May’s hips raised into position. Her body coiled like a steel spring, every nerve locked into the starter horn.

The electronic starter horn shrieked through the stadium.

BANG!

The instant the sound hit the air, May exploded off the blocks. It wasn’t just a start—it was a physical shockwave. While Winny and the rest of the field fought for their initial traction, May tore out of the gate with absolute, terrifying acceleration, her legs churning like pistons against the specialized rubber track.

Within twenty meters, the race was already over.

May had completely eaten up the distance, pulling a full two meters clear of Winny before the halfway mark. Her form was a masterclass in biomechanics—flawless, effortless, and moving with the raw, untouchable velocity of a bullet train.

Up in the VIP box, Peter Pear’s jaw literally unhinged. He slammed both hands against the glass, his eyes bulging as he stared down at the track in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

"W-what...?" Peter stammered, his face draining of all color. "How is that even possible?! She wasn’t running like that in the heats!"

Down on the track, May crossed the finish line in a blur, throwing her arms up as the stadium clock flashed in blazing red digits:

[OFFICIAL 100M FINALS] 1. MAY — 9.15s (NEW WORLD RECORD) 2. WINNY — 10.79s

A 9.15. She had shattered the official world record right there on live international television, falling mere fractions away from her legendary private estate run.

The stadium erupted into a deafening wall of cheers, camera flashes blinding the infield as reporters scrambled to capture the historic moment. Winny crossed far behind, stumbling to a halt with a shell-shocked expression, staring at the scoreboard as if her entire reality had just fractured.

I picked up my glass, took a slow sip, and turned my gaze toward Peter.

He was trembling, his fingers clutching his carbon-fiber key fob like it was a lifeline. His entire entourage of analysts had backed away from him, realizing just how catastrophically their boss had miscalculated.

"Nineteen-fifteen," I said smoothly, my voice cutting through the ringing silence of the VIP box. "Looks like my champion wasn’t washed up after all, Peter."

Peter swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He looked down at the matte-black key fob resting on the table next to mine, then back out at May, who was currently draped in a Hidden Gem flag down on the track, smiling up right at our box.

Slowly, defeatedly, Peter pushed his car keys across the marble table toward me.

"I knew i shouldn’t have wagered agianst you." He said in total regret.