THE REAL PROTEGE Chapter 221: SHE RACE TO DEFY THE FATE ITSELF

Pharsa arched a brow at him, lips twitching in mild amusent. Goldie raced, sure — but not like her, not like Mushu. There was a gap between them, a chasm of skill and instinct that couldn’t simply be bridged by enthusiasm.

"You think they can handle watching on this track?" Pharsa asked, tilting her head slightly. Her voice was laced with a challenge, a test of their nerve more than a genuine question.

Fatty scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “What, you think we’ll pass out watching you drive?” he said, feigning bravado, though there was an undeniable flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he glanced toward the unforgiving track below.

Murphy remained silent, his gaze locked on Pharsa with a quiet intensity. He wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, but he also wasn’t reckless. He needed to understand it — to see every possibility, every consequence.

Chatty, still smirking, leaned forward slightly. "I’ve seen plenty of impressive driving,” he said. “I doubt it’ll be anything shocking."

Pharsa exhaled through her nose, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Is that so?" she murmured.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and changed into driving suit and strode toward the waiting pit area, where her custom-built race car stood gleaming under the bright stadium lights.

It wasn’t just a machine.

It was a weapon.

As Pharsa climbed into the driver’s seat, the pit crew moved like clockwork, locking her in and checking every detail with ruthless precision. The roar of the engine ca alive, sending vibrations through the ground beneath them. The sound alone was enough to silence any lingering doubt.

Fatty gulped.

Murphy narrowed his eyes, watching every movent, every fraction of hesitation that might betray a hidden weakness.

Chatty leaned against the railing, his smirk faltering just slightly.

Then Pharsa launched onto the track.

And suddenly, everything they thought they knew about racing shattered.

Pharsa isn’t just a racer — she’s a force of nature. Her motivation to dominate the track stems from a combination of personal ambition, a deep-rooted desire to prove herself, and an unrelenting need for control.

For Pharsa, racing isn’t just about speed — it’s about mastery. She doesn’t race for re adrenaline; she races to conquer. Every turn, every calculated risk, every split-second decision is an assertion of her dominance over the machine, the terrain, and the competition. She thrives in the chaos of high-stakes racing because it sharpens her, forces her to be the best version of herself.

But beneath her fierce exterior lies sothing deeper — a history she rarely speaks of. She was only days old when she was abandoned at the steps of a quiet temple, left with nothing but the rcy of fate. The monks took her in, and the temple’s head — a man of wisdom and patience — chose to raise her as his own. In the serene halls of the monastery, Pharsa learned discipline, resilience, and the art of silence, but she also felt the gnawing emptiness of unanswered questions. ‘Who had left her behind? Why had she been discarded?’

It was with Ling Li’s family — through his adoptive father, a respected monk known as Shen Sei — that Pharsa found a semblance of belonging. Yet, even within that acceptance, there was a lingering restlessness in her soul, a hunger for sothing beyond quiet devotion. Pharsa discovered racing through Ling Li, but once she touched the wheel, once she felt the surge of power beneath her hands, she knew — this was what she was ant for.

Racing was her escape. Her rebellion. Her way of silencing the ghosts of a past she couldn’t change. On the track, she wasn’t the abandoned girl at the temple’s doorstep — she was unstoppable, unshaken, a storm tearing through the asphalt. Every victory was proof that she wasn’t just surviving — she was thriving. She wasn’t just taking part — she was ruling.

She wasn’t racing to win.

She was racing to defy fate itself; and she is there to own it.

Pharsa gripped the wheel of her modified red Ferrari, the smooth leather molding perfectly to her fingers. This wasn’t just a machine — it was an extension of her very soul, a blazing streak of fury cutting through the night. The engine growled, its roar reverberating through the jagged cliffs, demanding the world to bear witness to her dominance.

Without hesitation, Pharsa slamd her foot on the accelerator.

The car lunged forward with a deafening roar, tires screeching as they clawed at the asphalt. The VIP lounge trembled slightly from the sheer force of her launch, and Four Eyes, Chatty, and Fatty instinctively stiffened, their bodies tensing as if they themselves were bracing for impact. The world blurred past Pharsa in streaks of neon and moonlit rock faces, but her focus remained razor-sharp.

She was in control.

She was always in control.

The first set of steep twists ca at her like vipers, their angles sharp enough to demand perfection. Pharsa didn’t hesitate — she downshifted, her grip steady, her movents precise. The Ferrari obeyed her every command like a beast tad only by its master, sliding effortlessly through each treacherous curve. The tires skimd dangerously close to the edge, sending loose gravel tumbling down the sheer cliffs, vanishing into the abyss below.

Watching from the lounge, Chatty let out a sharp breath through his nose, his smirk vanishing as the brutal reality of Pharsa’s driving unfolded before him. Fatty swallowed hard, gripping the railing with white-knuckled fingers. Four Eyes blinked rapidly, afraid to look away yet terrified of what he might see next.

Then ca the climb — the unforgiving, near-vertical incline that kissed the sky. Pharsa shifted gears again, the engine snarling as she pressed forward, the raw horsepower of her Ferrari surging up the mountain like wildfire. The vehicle shuddered slightly, but she barely noticed — her hands remained steady, her pulse unwavering. The track narrowed dangerously, a single miscalculation spelling certain disaster.

The three spectators hadn’t realized it yet, but they had stopped breathing entirely.

And then — the suspended hanging bridge.

Suspended over a deep canyon, the steel structure looked almost impossibly fragile against the backdrop of swirling mist and darkness of the forrest. The gap beneath it yawned like a mouth waiting to swallow anything reckless enough to slip.