Chapter 72: Who was That Rider!

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Issei's eyes widened in a mixture of horror and disbelief as the television screen displayed a high-resolution photograph of him and Crom Cruach, frozen in the adrenaline-pumping moment just as the death-defying race had kicked off. Their helmets were securely fastened, offering a small but significant layer of anonymity, yet the camera had captured an unnervingly clear shot of his motorcycle, every logo and detail illuminated in vivid color.

"The identities of the racers involved in this mysterious event remain unknown at this time," the news anchor intoned, her voice filled with a dramatic blend of gravitas and intrigue. "Moreover, both the motorcycles they were riding are unregistered, adding another layer of complexity to an already baffling situation. Local officials and law enforcement agencies in Kyoto have reported widespread destruction along the race route, the cause of which is yet unidentified."

The channel transitioned to a chaotic scene on the streets of Kyoto. The backdrop was a swirling symphony of flashing police lights, the orange vests of construction workers darting in and out of frame, and the grim visages of firefighters surveying the inexplicable destruction. Amidst this tableau, the reporter thrust her microphone toward a man who looked to be in his late 40s, his eyes wide and his expression an indescribable amalgamation of fear, confusion, and awe.

"I was just working, minding my own business, when all of a sudden, I heard this earth-shattering roar—like a pack of lions crossed with a tornado," the man exclaimed, his voice tinged with incredulity. "I didn't see any motorcycles whizz by, but in an instant, windows in all the stores around me just shattered into a thousand pieces as if hit by some invisible force. Cars—not just one or two, mind you—were literally flipped over, landing on their roofs or sides! It was like a scene straight out of a sci-fi action movie! And fire—don't even get me started on the fire—it was snaking its way along the asphalt, as if tracing the path of these invisible hell-riders!"

The reporter narrowed her eyes, her gaze searching as she posed her next question. "Given what you just described, how do you think motorcycles could be responsible for such widespread, seemingly supernatural destruction? Can any conventional explanation suffice?"

The man leaned in closer to the microphone, his voice rising an octave as he practically shouted, "Conventional explanation? Lady, there's nothing 'conventional' about this! Those bikes, or whatever they were, must be armed with some high-tech military-grade weaponry or some kind of futuristic technology. 'Cause I heard them, clear as day—but I didn't see a thing! They're like ghosts on wheels, leaving destruction in their wake!"

The camera transitioned smoothly back to the news studio, where the anchor sat behind a polished desk cluttered with papers, her face wearing a complex expression of concern and disbelief. She shook her head as if trying to dispel the gravity of the unfolding situation before speaking.

"It's fortunate that no lives were lost in what some are calling a 'death race,' but that doesn't negate the severe consequences," she began, her eyes meeting the camera squarely. "Dozens of people have been reported injured, many seriously. The damage to public and private property is extensive, and the impact on the community is immeasurable. As you can imagine, the police are mobilizing on a large scale to investigate the incident."

She paused, letting the weight of her words hang in the air. "In a somewhat unexpected turn of events, law enforcement agencies are vigorously investigating potential links to organized crime syndicates, specifically the Yakuza. While this is a plausible line of inquiry given the sophisticated level of destruction, their progress has been disappointingly slow, to say the least."

The screen then cut to a pre-recorded segment featuring the police commissioner. Standing against a backdrop of official insignia, his uniform adorned with multiple badges signifying rank and service, he looked both stern and weary.

"We're employing every available resource to uncover the truth behind this unsettling and destructive event," the commissioner declared, his eyes flicking momentarily to a piece of paper in his hand before locking back onto the camera. "However, I must candidly admit that, as of now, we have yet to establish a conclusive link between this act and any specific Yakuza family or branch. Our detectives are working around the clock, pursuing multiple leads, analyzing forensic evidence, and collaborating with intelligence agencies."

His face hardened, as if steeling himself for the statement he was about to make. "We will leave no stone unturned. But until we have concrete evidence, attributions would not only be premature but also potentially misleading. We will update the public as soon as substantial progress is made in this high-stakes investigation."

Issei felt the insistent buzzing of his phone breaking into his troubled thoughts. He glanced down at the screen, his eyes skimming over the text message that had just arrived. It read: [Impressive work on winning that race, Hyoudou. You've scored us a hefty sum and some much-needed street cred. On the flip side, you've also brought us a tsunami of negative press. Bad for business, kid. We're greasing some palms within the police force to divert their attention, but let's just say your anonymity is on thin ice. Might be a good idea to garage that motorcycle for a while, eh? As for your share, consider it direct-deposited. Your contact at the shop was quite helpful. And don't worry about any banking red flags; we've taken care of it.]

For a moment, he considered typing out a response but then thought better of it, lifting his gaze to meet Irina and Xenovia's eyes. Both of them wore expressions that were a complicated blend of amazement, concern, and something he couldn't quite place.

"So, you're moonlighting as an illegal street racer now? Winning fortunes on the side?" Irina inquired, her lips curling into a smirk that surprised Issei. He had expected a more condemnatory reaction from her.

Xenovia, her brows raised, chimed in with her own curiosity. "Who was that mysterious competitor, Mr. Black? It's not often someone gives you a run for your money."

Issei shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, although his eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance. "Just another dragon with too much time on his hands. It doesn't matter."

At this, Irina's expression shifted subtly, from amusement to a more serious, almost concerned look. "Another dragon? What was his motive for racing, then? Any idea?"