F1: The Speed Legend

Focus.

That was the only word left in Kai’s mind.

Absolute focus. One hundred percent. Every nerve pulled tight, every cell stretched to its limit. Adrenaline surged continuously, not explosive, but sustained, like a pressure cooker that refused to release.

La Source was a right-hander.

Which meant the correct racing line was on the right. Pole position sat on the right. Naturally, starting eighth placed Kai on the left side, the dirty side.

But rain changed everything.

On a dry track, the racing line offered more grip. That was basic racing theory. Rubber laid down lap after lap melted into the asphalt, forming a sticky layer that rewarded precision.

Rain erased all of that.

Cold water hardened the rubbered-in line, turning grip into glass. In wet conditions, the dry racing line became the most dangerous place to be. Drivers actively avoided it, searching instead for unused asphalt.

In other words, the right side of the grid, usually gold, was suddenly worthless.

Pole sitter Julian Falchero would struggle to defend against Alesi into La Source. That fight did not involve Kai directly, but in the rain, chaos rippled outward.

If Falchero defended wide and Alesi forced the issue, contact was possible. Even without contact, their changing lines would cascade backward like falling dominoes.

Worse still, wet tires hurled up thick spray, destroying visibility. Decisions had to be made blind.

It was like stepping into a minefield.

Even with Kai’s processing speed, calculating the choices of seven cars ahead over the next few seconds was impossible. And more importantly, thinking about others was pointless.

Focus on yourself.

So Kai did exactly that.

The instant the five red lights went out, he steered sharply left. Not just outside, but all the way outside. He used every centimeter of track width, hugging the very edge, sacrificing the middle and right entirely.

His speed was restrained. His nerves were not.

Immediately, he spotted the ART car ahead. Jack Aitken, starting sixth. His teammate had also chosen the outside, but not as extreme. Jack hovered between the outer and middle lanes, probing.

Spa was old. Built in 1924. Carved into the mountains.

It was not wide. Effectively two lanes. And on one side, there was nothing but air.

Kai remembered that.

No reckless dive. No unnecessary overlap. He maintained his line, avoiding a rear-end collision as engines howled and spray exploded around them.

They charged into La Source like a flood.

Bang. Crack. Boom.

Sound arrived before sight.

Collision.

Kai held his line, skimming the left boundary, flying along the cliff edge. Jack cut outward too, blocking Kai’s path completely.

Kai was ready.

A sequence of delicate threshold braking inputs steadied the car. He avoided contact by inches.

No time to breathe.

Through the spray to the right, he glimpsed twisted shapes. Two cars, maybe three, tangled together, blocking the apex.

Jack and Kai had no choice.

Both left the track, plunging into the grass runoff beyond the corner. Hairpin. Blocked line. Zero speed. Tire damage suddenly mattered.

The wet grass helped. Water softened the punishment.

Then Kai saw it.

Jack’s rejoin angle was off. Too wide. The rear stepped out slightly.

Decision made.

Throttle and steering in perfect harmony, Kai cut right. He slipped between Jack and the wreckage like a blade through fog, threading the gap cleanly.

La Source behind him.

Throttle pinned.

The car leapt downhill like a released arrow, spray erupting behind it.

Whoosh.

Water fanned outward as two cars plunged into the descent. The second car surged forward visibly, bursting out on the right.

Jack reacted late.

He had no idea where Kai came from. No time to check mirrors. No time to complain about teammates stealing opportunities.

He chased.

But the moment was gone.

In his peripheral vision, Jack caught a flash of red and black tearing downhill, slicing through spray like a submerged dragon. Kai vanished toward Eau Rouge, momentum building violently.

Kai did not look back.

Ahead lay Eau Rouge. And someone unexpected.

Boccolacci.

Not Russell. Boccolacci.

What happened at La Source? Where was Russell? No time to ask.

The problem was now immediate.

From the formation lap, Kai already knew there was standing water through Eau Rouge. Not catastrophic, but enough to punish mistakes. Grip was fragile.

He closed rapidly.

Two cars plunged into the valley, Eau Rouge materializing in fragments through mist. The exit of Raidillon was invisible. Kemmel Straight did not exist yet.

Boccolacci braked early. Conservative. He hugged the traditional dry line near the right-hand apex.

But tire temperature was not there. Grip betrayed him.

Kai braked even earlier.

He half-glided along the inside, ghostlike, slipping past Boccolacci’s rear wing in silence. No drama. No noise. Just flow.

Boccolacci had no idea.

He followed his line into the left, already thinking about the climb ahead, when suddenly a red-black shape appeared beside him.

Wheel to wheel.

”God!” Croft screamed. ”Eau Rouge, side by side!”

The paddock froze.

Eau Rouge was not just any corner. The blind crest. Full throttle. Uphill. Any slip became disaster.

Rain amplified everything.

Boccolacci was cautious. He shaded toward the middle, avoiding the slippery dry line, feeding throttle carefully.

That opened the door.

Kai took it.

Ignoring convention, ignoring fear, he claimed the inside. He hugged the apex first, committing fully. The cars ran side by side, tension stretched to snapping point.

No one breathed.

Croft’s voice cracked. ”This is madness!”

Brundle forgot how to speak.

But Kai was empty.

No doubt. No fear. Only instinct.

The car trembled beneath him, traction flickering. Like the last leaf of autumn clinging stubbornly to a branch, refusing to fall.

He felt everything.

A fraction earlier off throttle. A fraction earlier back on.

Grip surged.

The car lunged forward, clawing uphill. Spray detonated behind him as he edged ahead, taking control in a heartbeat.

Two shapes emerged through the mist.

One white leading briefly.

Then red and black surged past.

Raidillon crest.

Lightning tore the sky open.

For an instant, daylight returned.

Boccolacci stared at the crest, stunned, as Kai burst free and vanished onto Kemmel.

”Madman,” he whispered.

Kai heard nothing.

Sight faded. Touch and sound ruled. Rain and wind guided him. It felt like childhood again, running barefoot through puddles, trusting instinct over thought.

The car became an extension of his body.

At the crest, a gentle steering input was all it took. The car surged onto Kemmel Straight, spray exploding behind him.

Perfect.

”Unbelievable!” Croft shouted. ”Absolutely unbelievable!”

”Kai! Zhi! Zhou!”

”A masterpiece! An act of pure control! Eau Rouge has become his stage!”

Croft leapt to his feet.

”And after the chaos at La Source, Kai Zhizhou is now P4!”

”He has conquered Eau Rouge!”

Across the paddock, Christian Horner swore aloud.

Not anger.

Awe.

And then the camera showed something else.

Ahead.

Car number three.

George Russell.

~~----------------------

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