F1: The Speed Legend

Whisper, whisper...

That ART rookie... he looked like he was completely intimidated by the sheer scale of GP3.

As they said, the track doesn’t lie. It exposes you for what you are.

However, inside Car #2, Kai was in a state of total focus, completely absorbed in his own world.

On the second lap, Kai began to lightly test the brakes, feeling for the bite point of the front axle. As he exited Turn 9, the rear of the car gave a slight twitch.

He was on the radio instantly. ”Slight slide on exit of the high-speed corner. Recommend moving brake balance forward 0.5%.”

Borreipaire replied on instinct. ”Received. Continue. Keep monitoring tire temps.”

As he finished, he pursed his lips, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders. Clearly, Kai knew exactly what he was doing.

As Kai was about to start his third lap, Borreipaire keyed the mic, ready to tell him to start pushing. But he paused, and changed his mind. ”Good work. Keep it up.”

He watched the monitor intently.

Just as he’d thought. He didn’t need to be told. Kai was already entering his ”push” phase. But it was slightly different from what Borreipaire had expected.

Kai wasn’t pushing for a full, flat-out lap. He was methodically testing his rhythm in the corners, searching for the perfect harmony between his racing line and the tires.

Take Turn 3, a long, high-speed, crescent-shaped right-hander. It had almost no real difficulty, but it was a notorious tire-killer.

Rookies would get to it, floor the accelerator, and hold on. But in such a long, sustained corner, the left-front tire would rapidly overheat. Running wide and hitting the kerb would only damage it further. If a driver did that lap after lap, the wear difference between the tires would grow, and the car’s balance would be destroyed.

So, Kai wasn’t searching for the limit of his speed. He was searching for the balance—the perfect equilibrium between pace and tire preservation.

He turned in half a car-width early, cutting in from the outside. He dialed in the steering, then applied half-throttle. It wasn’t perfect; he could feel the friction on the left-front tire increasing. But he didn’t panic. He just adjusted his line, cutting it even tighter, dancing on the very edge of the kerb.

He was finding speed with his line, not by burning up his tires.

He did the same for every high-speed corner that followed. He was saving the tires in these sections to have something left to attack the final, complex sector of the lap.

But it was his first time, and there were still flaws. Even with the track temperature dropping, he could feel the wear.

Then, on Lap 4, his line through the high-speed sections was suddenly fluid. He keyed the radio.

”Entry is stable, slight twitch on exit. Left-front temp is rising, but within controllable limits.”

Borreipaire was about to respond, but he saw Kai’s approach to Turn 9. He had changed his style completely. He dove in, braked at the absolute limit, and as he hit the apex of the Turn 10 hairpin, he initiated a flick of oversteer. The tail of the car snapped out, and in a split second, he caught it.

It looked like a precarious, near-spin, but in reality, it was a display of pure, flowing grace.

The transition between Turn 9 and 10 was seamless. He wasn’t even at full pace, but he was already showing his fangs. The car was a streak of light, and the fluid motion was a visual treat.

Clearly, Kai knew exactly what he was doing. And his ability to read and interpret the track in such a short time was stunning. His ”absolute car feel” was no longer a rumor; it was right there on the track for them to see.

Is this really, Borreipaire thought, his first time on this circuit?

Kai’s voice came over the radio again, still perfectly calm. ”Next stint, I suggest moving the brake balance one full step forward. I want to test the car’s behavior under oversteer.”

In the Trident garage, Alesi had just finished his first stint and returned to the pits. He was about to debrief with his engineer, but he couldn’t help himself. He just had to ask.

”What’s the data on Car #2?”

In GP3, car numbers are fixed by the team’s finishing position from the previous year. The reigning team champions (ART) get #1, #2, #3, and #4. The runners-up get #5-8, and so on.

Aitken was #1, Russell was #3, Hubert was #4. And Kai had been given #2, the number that was supposed to belong to Fukuzumi.

Alesi’s race engineer just shot him a tired look.

Alesi didn’t care. He clapped the engineer on the shoulder, his eyes demanding an answer.

The engineer finally relented, glancing at the timing screen. ”I don’t know why you’re so curious. He’s not even in the top ten. The other three ART drivers are all in the top five. Hubert is looking very strong. Number 2 is an infant, still learning to walk.”

The air caught in Alesi’s throat. ”Don’t underestimate him,” he growled. ”You look away for one second, and he’ll punch you in the face.”

Before the engineer could ask what that meant, Alesi had already changed the subject. ”I was having a problem in Turn 10...”

He had to focus. Only the race mattered. He didn’t just need to beat Kai; he needed to beat Aitken. They were both GP3 veterans, left behind while others moved up to F2. For them, this was a make-or-break season.

It wasn’t just Alesi. The entire paddock was watching. This was a tiny, insular world. Every new driver was put under a microscope. And Kai, the outsider, the street racer, was an anomaly.

To be blunt, most of them were waiting to see him fail.

After all, street racing wasn’t real racing.

And just as they’d predicted, the wild troublemaker had been instantly tamed by the world of professional motorsport. He was so... obedient. It was almost cute.

Kai’s first stint had been ”baby steps.” He had ”NEWBIE,” ”CAREFUL,” and ”CLUELESS” written all over him. He was like Alice in Wonderland, wandering around, making sure everyone knew that ART had signed a total rookie.

One practice session, and he was already exposed. He probably hadn’t even learned the track yet, let alone given any useful setup feedback. He was probably hiding in the garage right now, trying not to cry, his knees knocking.

He’d been the center of attention before the session, and the laughingstock of the paddock after it.

It was, in its own way, a ”grand entrance.”

They all just wondered what, exactly, Ferrari had given Nicolas Todt to take on this scam.

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