F1: The Speed Legend

”Why?”

In the Fiorano pit garage, an impetuous young voice was loudly and fiercely making its point, the thick Portuguese accent unable to hide its South American origins.

”Why do they get to participate in the test, but I can’t? I didn’t join Ferrari to stand on the sidelines. I. Need. To. Drive.”

Enzo Fittipaldi was arguing his case, his acne-covered, baby face still showing its youth, but now flushed crimson and looking like it might explode.

Monfardini felt a headache coming on.

Fittipaldi had just officially joined the academy in December, only two weeks after Kai. At that time, Ferrari had invited five drivers to test, ultimately keeping only two. The other was Marcus Armstrong from New Zealand.

Both drivers were very young; Armstrong was sixteen, and Fittipaldi was fifteen.

However, Armstrong was already very experienced. He had not only tested an F2 car for Renault but had also competed in regional F3.

Fittipaldi, on the other hand, was fresh out of karting. He wasn’t even at an introductory Formula level yet and had a long way to go before he’d be ready for the track.

But clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to be patient.

After all, his grandfather was Emerson Fittipaldi—a two-time F1 World Champion and two-time Indy 500 winner. He was a household name, a Brazilian legend, and an inductee into the Hall of Fame.

Monfardini, however, was no pushover. His face was cold. ”They are ready. You are not.”

No sugarcoating, no attempt to soften the blow. The words hit Fittipaldi like a slap, and Monfardini refused to coddle him.

The air caught in Fittipaldi’s chest. He shot a venomous glare at Armstrong—a rival he had lost to more times than he could count in his karting days, to the point where he was just numb to it.

He then shifted his target, pointing at Kai. ”What about that guy? Is he ready? Or did he only get this chance because he’s Jean Todt’s illegitimate son?”

Pfft.

Nicolas Todt, who had just walked in, heard that exact sentence and nearly choked.

Zhou Guanyu looked over at Kai, worried.

But Kai was the picture of calm. ”Well, I guess Mr. Fittipaldi never drove for Ferrari, did he? Maybe you should call your grandpa and complain.”

”Haha!”

A boisterous laugh from the back cut through the argument. The students’ heads all snapped in that direction, and they saw Frédéric Vasseur, bent over with laughter.

In an instant, all the drivers stood up straight. They immediately recognized Nicolas Todt and Vasseur, and their minds began to race.

Kai was the only exception. He didn’t recognize the two men, but seeing Marchionne with them, combined with the sharp intake of breath from the other drivers, he could guess this wasn’t a simple visit.

Today’s internal test had four participants: Alesi, Zhou Guanyu, Marcus Armstrong, and himself.

Drivers like Fuoco and Leclerc, who had already secured F2 seats, weren’t participating. And rookies like Fittipaldi, who were still at the F4 level, were also excluded.

Putting all the pieces together, the answer was obvious: an F3 or GP3 team was here scouting for drivers.

Zhou was currently torn between Prema and Motopark in F3. Alesi had been unhappy at Trident last season. And Kai and Armstrong didn’t have teams yet. It all fit.

Monfardini, seeing his bosses, deliberately skipped the introductions and got straight to the point.

”There will be no qualifying. Grid positions will be determined by a random draw. The race will be twenty laps.”

In just a few words, Kai understood.

It’s a test for GP3.

The F3 and GP3 race formats were slightly different. In 2016, F3 ran three races per weekend. GP3 ran two—a Feature Race and a Sprint Race.

The Feature Race grid was set by qualifying. The Sprint Race grid, however, was a reverse-grid of the top eight finishers from the feature race.

This was because the junior formulas are ”spec series”—the engine, chassis, and tires are all identical. The only difference is the team’s setup. To make the racing more exciting and truly test driver skill, they used reverse grids to shake up the order.

This meant that in GP3, while grid position was important, it wasn’t everything. A driver had to show their skill in both attack and defense.

And that’s what this test was simulating: no qualifying, a random draw, and no time to strategize, testing their on-the-spot adaptability. The last-minute arrival of the two mystery guests only added to the pressure.

No wonder Monfardini had been so firm in keeping Fittipaldi off the track.

Fittipaldi, realizing he had no chance, was now even more incensed. He muttered something in Portuguese, then stomped over to Alesi and bumped his shoulder, shooting Kai a hateful look.

It seemed the ”second-generation” and ”third-generation” drivers had formed an unspoken alliance. They both looked down on Kai, the ”mudblood” with no racing lineage.

Alesi pulled a ping-pong ball from the bag. A smile spread across his face as he showed the number: 1.

Fittipaldi pumped his fist.

Alesi shot a provocative glance at Kai. Once I’m in front, you can all just enjoy eating my dirty air.

Kai ignored him, looking instead at Zhou. They showed each other their numbers: Zhou was P2, Kai was P4.

Zhou leaned in and whispered, ”Don’t worry, I’ll stick to him from the start.”

Kai just grinned. ”Forget him. This is our first real fight. How about... winner buys dinner?”

Zhou’s eyes lit up. ”Hotpot?”

They both laughed.

Kai took a deep breath. He’d made up his mind. He was going home this weekend for his exams, and he was going to sit down and tell his mother his decision.

He would be leaving Maranello. He would cherish these memories, but today’s internal test... this would be his graduation ceremony.

One last memory. He would go all out, hold nothing back, and leave with no regrets.

The four young drivers were in their cars, lined up, and followed each other out onto the track for the formation lap, warming their tires. They filed into their grid slots, waiting for the five red lights to go out.

Snap.

Kai was completely immersed in the car. He felt a fizz of excitement, but it all sharpened into a cold, absolute focus.

His clutch control was textbook-perfect. The instant the lights went out, the red car shot forward.

0.25 seconds.

An elite, world-class reaction time.

Kai’s foot was flat to the floor. His car was a streak of red light, instantly closing the gap, his nose already glued to Zhou’s gearbox.

In the control room, Vasseur’s eyes lit up. What’s that Number 4 car planning?

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