F1: The Speed Legend

Jack Aitken had set the fastest lap, claiming the top spot.

Matteo Vitale was ecstatic. This was what he wanted to see! How could that baby be the fastest? He couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. He must be panicking right now. The expression under that helmet had to be priceless.

If only he could see it.

In reality, if Matteo could see him, he would have been even more disappointed. Kai’s face showed no anxiety, no panic. He was in a state of total focus, talking calmly with Borreipaire, waiting for a window in the traffic.

The track was a parking lot. With 19 cars on a sub-five-kilometer circuit, there was no clean air. His next flying lap would have to wait.

”Kai, push. Window is clear. Push now.”

Kai was just entering Turn 13 when the call came. He remained perfectly calm. ”Received.”

He was still in the corner, but he was already adjusting his braking point for the next lap, pushing it later, carrying more speed onto the straight.

As he exited the final corner, his foot went flat to the floor. The red and black car transformed into a streak of light, an arrow released from a bow.

Martin Brundle was in the middle of analyzing Aitken’s impressive lap when he saw that streak of light, a blur of motion.

His heart skipped a beat. He cut himself off. ”Hold on, David, let’s watch this lap from Lu.”

The main straight. The S-curves of 1 and 2. The long, high-speed arc of Turn 3.

Kai’s driving was light, fluid. He was braking early, letting the car understeer slightly, but using his dynamic control to find the perfect balance. His line was flawless. It was a symphony of mechanical violence, yet it had the soft, elegant grace of a ballet shoe on a high wire.

First sector... Purple! Fastest of all!

It was perfect—not an inch too much, not an inch too little. The car was completely stable, as if it were riding on the wind. He flowed through Turn 4 and into the next complex, using the car’s momentum, lightly kissing the kerbs but avoiding any unsettling vibration. He sliced through the apexes, and before you could even breathe, he was through Turn 9.

It was like a silent, invisible force, a ribbon of light wrapping itself around the corners before vanishing, pulling the spectators’ eyes with it as it dove into Turn 10.

Second sector... Purple! Still the fastest!

The gentle stream had become a raging river. The harmony of brake and throttle, of steering and balance, was now a roaring tempest.

The downhill complex of 11 and 12. The slow S-curves of 14 and 15. The car was on the absolute limit, the tires screaming, but he was using ”trail-braking” to carry his speed deep into the apex, the rear of the car teetering on the edge of control. He was a whirlwind of corrections, and before anyone had time to process it, he was already out of the final corner.

The car, which had been balanced on a knife’s edge, was stabilized by a firm boot on the throttle, and its speed exploded onto the main straight, a blur of red light hurtling toward the finish line.

VROOOOM—

Time itself seemed to freeze, and then the timing screen flashed, solidifying the moment into history.

”1. LU. 1:33.889”

The third sector was purple. He had swept all three.

The storm that the other drivers had just started to build was extinguished in an instant. The chaos was over. Order was restored.

Matteo, in the stands, hadn’t even had time to react. He just stared, dumbfounded, like a wooden puppet.

”POLE!” Borreipaire shouted, his fist clenched. He slammed his hand on his thigh, so hard he almost made himself jump.

The passion and adrenaline erupted. It wasn’t just the lap time; it was the sheer shock of what Kai had just done.

”Kai! That’s P1! Pole!”

After the initial burst, Borreipaire controlled himself, repeating the message, his voice professional.

But, unexpectedly, there was no reply.

Kai was surfing a tidal wave of adrenaline. Street racing was a thrill, but this... this was different. This was the absolute limit of speed, the limit of human potential.

The wind and the golden sun rushed at him. The heat of the car surrounded him. He felt like Icarus, flying toward the sun on wings of wax and feathers, lost in the sheer joy of flight, ecstatic, forgetting everything else.

Right up until the sun melts the wings.

It was magnificent. Glorious.

His heart was hammering. He could hear the blood thundering in his ears. The sunlight on his body felt like liquid fire. The roar of the engine, the sound of the wind... it all blurred into a single, rushing torrent of speed.

And then, his voice finally came over the radio.

”Baby, baby, baby, oh...”

Borreipaire froze, his face a mask of confusion. He tried to hold it in. He failed. ”Pffft. Hahaha! HAHAHAHA!”

Kai’s voice came back, laughing. ”Come on, Pierre, show me what you’ve got! Just pretend it’s a Britain’s Got Talent audition!”

Borreipaire almost sang along. He just barely stopped himself, burying his head in his hands, completely defeated.

”It’s okay,” Kai said, his voice still bright. ”I’ll keep working on it. Qualifying isn’t over. Let’s stay focused.”

The smile in Borreipaire’s eyes was now threatening to take over his whole face.

He wasn’t the only one. In the Sky commentary box, David Croft was red-faced, as if drunk, his eyes bulging at the screen.

”Brilliant!”

”Absolutely brilliant! That was a perfect lap!”

”Unbelievable! The ART rookie has just delivered an astonishing performance, setting the fastest time in all three sectors to take provisional pole!”

”And ladies and gentlemen, you need to know, we have just witnessed history! The GP3 lap record at Barcelona was a 1:34.193, set by Kevin Korjus in 2013. For four years, no one has been able to beat it. Until... now!”

”Lu has not only set the fastest lap, but he is the first driver in GP3 history to break the 1:34 barrier at this circuit!”

The praise was flowing. Croft was completely swept up in the moment, jumping to his feet, pumping his fist, and bringing the paddock’s excitement to a fever pitch.

The chaos was over. But a new storm had just begun.

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