F1: The Speed Legend

”Ladies and gentlemen, motorsport fans around the world, welcome to Sky Sports as we kick off the opening round of the 2018 Formula One season.”

”The first qualifying session of the year is about to begin.”

”There is no doubt this will be a season full of tension and uncertainty. How will the rookies perform? Which team will emerge on top? How will the new power unit changes reshape the order? And will the HALO system become a genuine game-changer?”

”But above all else, it comes down to one rivalry.”

”Lewis Hamilton and Sebastian Vettel. Vettel and Hamilton.”

”For the first time in Formula One history, two four-time World Champions line up on the same grid, both mounting a serious assault on a fifth title.”

”We are witnessing history. Who will take the first step toward Michael Schumacher’s almost mythical seven championships? Who will lead their team to the summit and claim the crown this season?”

”Ladies and gentlemen, buckle up. This season promises tension, drama, and thrills.”

Excitement surged, dizzying and electric.

Not just in the broadcast booth, but across the entire paddock.

Lu Cheng took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. It did nothing to slow his racing heart. The roar of engines battered his ears, his blood heating with every pulse.

This was it. This moment. The highest stage in the racing world.

He was about to watch Kai step onto the Formula One grid and chase the very limits of speed.

”Jack,” Sergio Marchionne said with a grin, ”Kai’s nerves of steel didn’t come from you, did they?”

Lu Cheng turned to see Marchionne’s smiling face and tugged awkwardly at the corner of his mouth. ”No. That comes from his mother.”

Marchionne laughed openly. ”But his racing talent came from you. And he’s gone even further. You should have faith in him.”

For the season opener, Marchionne had cleared his schedule entirely, flying to Melbourne in person to show his support.

On paper, Kai’s three practice sessions had been unremarkable. Inside the paddock, the tone had shifted from hostility, to mockery, and finally to a sort of patronizing pity. Some commentators even joked about whether Formula One was ”bullying a child.”

After all, Lewis Hamilton was one of a kind.

Yet Marchionne remained relaxed, unfazed by the noise. ”Lorenzo,” he said lightly, ”your prediction for qualifying?”

Lorenzo grinned. ”Pole.”

Lu Cheng nearly choked.

Lorenzo burst out laughing. ”Jack, come on. The whole world doubts him. That just means we should believe.”

Lu Cheng still looked tense. ”Let’s make Q3 first.”

Marchionne spread his hands calmly. ”Any result is fine with me. He always surprises us. And our ambitions go far beyond Melbourne, don’t they?”

A simple sentence, heavy with meaning.

The air in the paddock crackled with tension. When the pit exit light turned green, the world seemed to pause as everyone held their breath.

Then qualifying began.

A wave of sound erupted like a volcanic blast. Heat, color, and noise flooded Albert Park as the crowd roared, welcoming the new season in a riot of motion and sound.

Cars poured onto the circuit, engines screaming.

A queue formed at the pit exit as drivers prepared to strike. Some hunted for clean air, desperate to avoid traffic and secure a clear banker lap. Others wanted to strike early, setting a time that would apply pressure before the track evolved.

Q1 lasted eighteen minutes, more than enough for multiple runs. But with knockout rules and race tyre implications looming, nothing in Formula One was ever simple. Strategy always mattered.

A qualifying run followed a simple rhythm. An out-lap to warm the tyres. A single flying lap where everything mattered. Then an in-lap back to the pits.

Most teams aimed for two windows, each yielding one serious lap. Miss those chances, and even top drivers could be knocked out early.

That was why Q1 often began with a scramble. Secure a solid lap early, then let pressure do the rest.

Ferrari and Mercedes, however, stayed put. Red Bull sent Daniel Ricciardo out early, playing to the home crowd.

A few glances drifted toward Kai.

He had only raced in GP3. In Formula One, where everything hinged on extracting perfection from a single lap, doubts were inevitable.

Yet both Ferraris remained parked. Vettel was one thing, but Kai as well?

Was he rattled already?

Outside, speculation ran wild. Inside Ferrari’s garage, calm prevailed. Cameras were kept out. No one knew what was happening.

Three minutes passed. The first runners crossed the line and began cooling down. Only then did Greenwood find Kai a window.

Car number 22 rolled out.

Cheers surged from the stands, quickly swallowed by boos and laughter.

Kai completed his out-lap cleanly. Through the final sequence of ninety-degree corners, the stiff suspension fed every vibration straight into his hands. The car stayed composed. Full throttle.

The lap began.

Jones Corner and Brabham Corner formed a flowing sequence, sharp then fast. The bumps were pronounced, the ride busy, yet Kai avoided riding the kerbs.

He lifted early.

No late braking. No bravado. He eased in ahead of the apex.

From the cockpit, the logic was clear. Early lift, clean entry.

Kai widened his line into Jones, guiding the car with throttle rather than braking. Steering inputs were precise, the Ferrari drawing a smooth arc through the sequence like ink on paper.

No kerbs. No drama. The car flowed through the middle of the track, tyres and suspension calm and stable.

Speed sacrificed for stability. The throttle fed in gently, and the red Ferrari surged forward, clean and composed.

The engine note rose, the car blurring into motion.

”Lovely,” Martin Brundle murmured.

To many viewers, Kai looked cautious, even timid. Gone was the flash of Spa. Perhaps the pressure had finally crushed the rookie.

That was how the sport worked. Youthful fire dulled by reality.

Brundle disagreed.

Either Kai still had not adapted to the car, or he was already in full control.

Whiteford Corner came next, another right-angle complex flowing into yet another ninety-degree turn. Albert Park was a rhythm of heavy braking zones and linked corners, each demanding precision rather than brute force.

Here, drivers could attack late on the brakes. Or they could drive like Kai.

He braked half a car length earlier, balancing throttle and steering in perfect harmony. The car floated through the corner, bumps absorbed quietly, tyres warming evenly. Grip remained constant, the line smooth and unbroken.

Gentle, controlled, relentless.

Some fans wanted chaos and spectacle, explosions and violence. They could not appreciate this kind of driving. Yet beneath the calm surface lay absolute control.

After Clark Corner, Kai reached the high-speed heart of the circuit. Turns ten through twelve could be taken flat by the best, firing the car into another heavy braking zone.

Kai stayed conservative, holding a neutral line, the car gliding as though parting water rather than cutting through it.

Despite the stiff suspension, there was no instability. No lock-ups. No slides. Like a cheetah stretching its legs, effortless and restrained.

Then came the most punishing section. Four right-angle corners stitched together by short straights, brutal on brakes and tyres.

Kai made it look simple.

Braking points, steering, throttle, all aligned perfectly. He never chased the edge, never wasted motion. Confidence radiated from every input, producing a clean, disciplined lap.

Like watching a work of art unfold.

Brundle barely breathed as the red Ferrari flashed across the line.

”1:24.073.”

Eleventh.

Ferrari’s number 22 sat just behind Alonso and Magnussen.

Not terrible. Not safe.

In the booth, Croft glanced at Brundle, who was deep in thought. There was no time to discuss it.

Online, though, the reaction was merciless.

The hyped prodigy delivered a bland lap after a quiet winter and conservative practice sessions. Was that it?

Wang Lin laughed openly, turning to Song Bo. ”So this is the genius? Can’t even crack the top ten.”

Song Bo, oddly relaxed, replied calmly, ”Still comfortably into Q2. Honestly, he might be the only rookie to make it.”

Wang Lin scoffed. ”It’s not over yet.”

And he was right.

Kai returned to the garage, debriefed briefly, then went out again five minutes later. Same plan. Same approach.

”1:24.005.”

A personal improvement, mostly in sector two. He edged Magnussen, but others improved as well. Still eleventh.

Mockery flared online.

Then disaster struck.

Pierre Gasly pushed too hard at Turn Three and missed the braking point, running wide and losing his final chance.

For Gasly, the first chapter of his rookie season went wrong early.

Q1 ended shortly after.

Stroll snuck through in fourteenth at the last second. Ocon claimed fifteenth.

The eliminated list followed.

Räikkönen. Hartley. Leclerc. Sirotkin. Gasly.

Five rookies. Four out. All at the bottom.

”And the lone survivor,” Croft said, ”is Ferrari’s Kai. Martin, do you think he can reach Q3?”

Brundle’s eyes lit faintly. ”I’ve been reviewing his laps. I could be wrong, but I think he’s building toward something. His runs are balanced, controlled. He’s prioritizing tyre and suspension stability, setting the foundation.”

Croft blinked. ”High praise.”

Brundle shrugged. ”Or I’m completely wrong.”

Fans were unconvinced. To them, this was Kai’s ceiling.

He advanced because of the car, not the driver.

Vettel’s Ferrari sat second behind Hamilton. The contrast was obvious.

Online celebrations began early. Meanwhile, Ferrari supporters held their breath, hoping merely for Q3.

After a brief break, Q2 began.

Inside the cockpit, Kai reviewed data with Claire, recalibrating his approach. The margin for error was thin. Gasly’s mistake at Turn Three was fresh in his mind.

Claire snapped his fingers. ”All set.”

Kai noticed Claire’s hands trembling. ”Jock, are you nervous?”

Claire glared. ”Yes. I’m nervous for you. So you’d better stay relaxed.”

Kai laughed, tension easing.

As he left the garage, Claire muttered to himself, wiping sweat from his brow.

Q2 demanded tyre preservation as well as speed. Everyone ran ultrasofts. The goal was clear. Reach the top ten without destroying the tyres.

Kai held back on his first run.

”1:23.666.”

Tenth. Right on the edge.

The second run came later. This time, Kai pushed.

He clipped the apex at Jones, leaned on the kerbs, the stiff suspension holding the rear planted. A brief twitch, corrected instantly. Momentum carried through Brabham.

He braked later than in Q1, trailing the brakes into Whiteford, carrying speed, widening the exit, flowing like a bird skimming water.

Green in sector one.

He built rhythm through sectors two and three, precision replacing caution.

”1:22.222.”

Seventh.

The Ferrari garage erupted in relief. Q3 was real.

Wang Lin stared at the screen in disbelief. Seventh was Kai’s best result in the Ferrari to date.

Song Bo remained calm.

”Luck,” Wang Lin muttered to himself. ”Just luck.”

Q2 continued. Alonso fell out. Force India collapsed. Vettel topped the session.

The top ten were set.

Ferrari. Mercedes. Red Bull. Renault. Haas.

Brundle leaned forward. ”I have a feeling,” he said, ”that Kai is finally ready to show his hand.”

Online, outrage followed.

Hiding pace? Absurd.

After a short pause, Q3 began.

This time, Kai did not wait.

He rolled out first, aiming for an early lap, planning to analyze and then strike again later.

He was ready.

The out-lap ended. Full throttle down the straight.

Then Greenwood’s voice cut in.

”Red flag. Kai, red flag.”

What the hell?