?<strong>Chapter 745:</strong>


    The vige chief let out a weary sigh, muttering, “Here theye again.”


    Despite the vige’s tranquility, the raucous cheers of audacious racers frequently pierced the air.


    Curious, Fannie turned to the chief and inquired, “What’s happening over there?”


    With a resigned shake of his head, the chief exined, “It’s been the same story for years. Each season, thrill-seekers from Illerith storm our mountains to race. We’ve attempted to halt them several times, but to no avail.”


    As Fannie savored a bite of the sweet, juicy persimmon, she asked, “Don’t the police intervene?”


    “Those racers have connections in high ces. The police might make a show of scolding them, but ultimately, nobody truly steps in to stop them.”


    Setting his cup down with a frustrated sigh, a businessman added, “They’repletely spoiling the atmosphere. Without these disturbances, our vige could attract even more visitors.”


    Fannie mulled over her purpose deeply.


    She was in Greenfield primarily to lead a charity initiative, addressing the town’s annual dilemma of excess unsold persimmons. The purpose of today’s assembly was to devise potential solutions.


    Yet, the recent havoc wreaked by unruly racers had cast a shadow over the vige’s good name.


    She turned to the chief. “Where are they now? Could you take me to them?”


    “I’d rather you didn’t. It’s hardly a ce for a young woman.”


    “I’ll be fine,” Fannie countered resolutely, rising to her feet. “I hail from Illerith as well. Perhaps I’m acquainted with them. If it’s difficult for you to intervene, allow me the chance.”


    After a moment’s hesitation, the chief relented. He instructed his two sons to apany her.


    They made their way through the dense woods, arriving at a chaotic scene illuminated by a bonfire. Four heavily modified cars skidded wildly around the mes, their tires sending showers of sparks into the night air.


    A group of scantily d women, bottles in hand, cheered on the spectacle.


    The racers’ identities were obscured by their helmets, making it impossible for Fannie to recognize anyone.


    Then, the scene intensified with the sudden growl of a motorcycle engine from atop the nearby cliff.


    In the moonlit night, a figure d in ck leather, mounted on a Harley, made a striking appearance.


    Though his face wasrgely concealed by a helmet, Fannie still recognized him.


    Bobby, with a flick of his wrist, intensified the roar of his engine. “Go for it, Bobby!” yelled an onlooker from the crowd.


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