F1: The Speed Legend

”...On the last lap, and an overtake on the straight!”

”It was a matter of milliseconds. I’m telling you, it was razor-thin.”

”Wow, mind blown. From the start, it was just insane...”

”Seven positions! Can you imagine? Seven positions gained, and aside from Hyman’s mistake, every single one was a pure skill overtake.”

”...I can’t believe that was Barcelona. The overtaking was beautiful!”

”Boring? No way! It was exciting from the first second to the last. I don’t remember ever seeing a race this good.”

”Verstappen? No, no, no, you can’t compare. Last year, if Rosberg hadn’t crashed into Hamilton, Verstappen wouldn’t have had a chance. Today’s race was pure racing.”

”Pole Position! Feature Race Win! Sprint Race Win! Fastest Lap! A GP3 Grand Slam!”

The buzz was deafening.

Everywhere you looked, people were discussing the same topic, focusing on the same name:

Kai Zhizhou.

On an F1 race weekend, this scene was rare. The F2 Sprint Race and the F1 Grand Prix were about to start, but the paddock was going crazy over GP3.

Enthusiastic Spanish fans were passionately recounting Kai’s miraculous performance, determined to make their late-arriving friends regret sleeping in. They described the Sprint Race as if it were a gift from the heavens.

The excitement was explosive. Even though it was still morning and the stands weren’t full, the fanaticism in the air was palpable, igniting Barcelona like a carnival.

Matteo Vitale, however, looked like he wanted to die.

His eyes were hollow, his limbs weak. He couldn’t even muster anger. He looked like his soul had left his body.

He had thought the professional drivers in GP3 would teach Kai a lesson. He had wanted to see Kai dejected, his arrogant head bowed low.

But the result?

Not only did he not see what he wanted, but he had become a witness to the ”Miracle of Barcelona.” The wound from that night in Rome hadn’t even healed, and now he’d been dealt another heavy blow. The ”Barcelona Weekend” was going to haunt his nightmares for a long time.

If this continued, Malèna would never notice him.

Matteo sat there, dazed, feeling abandoned by the world.

Suddenly, a surging crowd bumped into his shoulder. The person apologized, but Matteo didn’t even register the impact. He slowly came back to his senses, grasping the tail end of his reason.

He couldn’t stay depressed. He refused.

The world of racing wasn’t that simple, was it?

Matteo bolted upright, left his seat, and dove into the bustling paddock crowd, sprinting toward the DAMS hospitality unit.

The people he bumped into didn’t say much, too busy chattering about the GP3 Grand Slam. No one should have missed it!

But Matteo ran on, clutching at his last straw.

Teams like DAMS, ART, Trident, and Campos had both GP3 and F2 squads. With the GP3 race over, the F2 teams were now prepping. They had no time to dwell on the GP3 results.

In the crowd, Matteo spotted him immediately—wearing a confident smile, flirting with a group of tall models.

”Nick! Nick!”

Nicholas Latifi, the F2 driver for DAMS, looked up. Seeing Matteo, his first instinct was to turn and walk away, pretending he hadn’t heard.

Too late.

Matteo sprinted up to him. ”Nick, your challenger is here. I’m serious.”

Latifi smiled helplessly, his tone sarcastic. ”You’re finally ready for GP3? Your dad allowed it?”

Matteo waved it off. ”No. But he beat me first. I told him that you and Lance could easily crush him, but he didn’t believe me. Not only did he not believe me, he mocked you guys, calling you ’vases with silver spoons in your mouths,’ just pretty faces.”

Latifi frowned, skeptical. ”Isn’t that because of you? The line of people who have beaten you could fill the Colosseum.”

The disdain was palpable. Despite Matteo bragging about his friendship with Latifi and Stroll to others, in front of Latifi, the young master had no backbone. Even if they were friends, they certainly weren’t equals.

Latifi, 22, was the son of Michael Latifi, the billionaire owner of Sofina Foods. Like Lance Stroll, he was a true ultra-wealthy heir, chasing the F1 dream.

Unlike Matteo, who was all talk, Latifi and Stroll didn’t want to be seen as jokes.

Matteo didn’t argue. ”I thought so too. But he’s here. Really. In GP3. He swept pole, both wins, everything this weekend. A perfect weekend! A Grand Slam!”

Latifi froze. As a proper F2 driver, he knew the weight of those words. ”Really?”

Matteo nodded furiously, the fire in his eyes burning. He eagerly fanned the flames, acting like a loyal friend looking out for his buddy. ”Of course. You can check yourself. He’s here, and he’s ready to beat you guys to prove that without your fathers, you’re nothing.”

Insults were common in the paddock, and Latifi knew people thought these things. But having them thrown in his face was different.

Instantly, Latifi’s expression darkened. He ignored the models and Matteo, turning to walk away.

One stone, a thousand ripples.

In a short time, the rumor evolved through eighteen different versions, spreading through the paddock like wildfire.

One told ten, ten told a hundred. The stories became more outrageous, proving that the paddock, despite its size, was no different from a high school drama or a palace intrigue.

”...Clearly, Max is the same. Just another ’Nepo-Baby’...”

”Nepo-Baby.” A derogatory term for those who use nepotism to seize resources without having the talent to back it up.

Rich kids, celebrity kids.

And in racing, ”driver kids.” Alesi, Fittipaldi... and Verstappen.

Verstappen’s father was Jos Verstappen, a former F1 driver. Under his guidance, Max had received immense resources.

In 2014, after winning six consecutive F3 races over two weekends, Max burst onto the scene. Red Bull then promoted the 17-year-old straight to F1 the following year, causing the FIA to change the rules to require drivers to be 18.

As the youngest and most unique presence in the paddock, the attacks on the ”Nepo-Baby” had never ceased.

Max Verstappen caught snippets of the conversation. He stopped dead, his voice booming. ”What are you talking about?”

The gossiping staff scattered like rats, no one daring to answer.

But Verstappen soon found out the rumor.

Apparently, it was all directed at him.

The rumor was that a ”genius driver” had claimed Verstappen’s win at Barcelona last year was pure luck—a result of the Mercedes teammates crashing each other out—and not a reflection of true skill. But this driver was different. His dominant weekend proved he was the real genius, far superior to those ”Nepo-Babies.”

The gunpowder was lit.

Last season, in 2016, Red Bull had promoted Verstappen mid-season. His debut for the team was the Spanish Grand Prix.

Mercedes teammates Rosberg and Hamilton had crashed on the first lap. Verstappen seized the opportunity to win, setting a string of records: Youngest winner, youngest podium sitter, first Dutch winner.

It was his pride. He was proud of that victory, fulfilling the dream his father never could. It was his proof against the ”Nepo-Baby” insults.

Luck? Accident?

Verstappen didn’t care. Luck was part of racing. Victory was victory.

But now, this so-called ”genius” was dismissing his win? Looking down on him?

Absurd. Laughable.

A guy who just won a GP3 race, who wasn’t even close to F1, dared to provoke an F1 race winner?

Verstappen wasn’t smiling. ”What’s his name?”

The gossiping bystanders realized the gravity of the situation and kept their mouths shut.

Verstappen repeated, ”What is his name? Whoever he is, he has a name, right?”

Someone tried to calm him down. ”Max, it’s just talk...”

Verstappen ignored them. He turned, looked at the timing screens, and easily found the name.

Kai Zhizhou.

Without hesitation, Verstappen marched toward the ART garage.

Red Bull Team Principal Christian Horner had just arrived and saw the furious Verstappen. ”Max? Max!”

Verstappen just waved a hand, not looking back, and certainly not stopping.

Horner was confused. ”What’s wrong with Max? Where is he going?”

The staff kept their mouths shut, shaking their heads like rattle-drums, desperate to avoid the fallout.

Verstappen marched straight into the ART garage.

He was about to ask which one was Kai when he saw a figure walking side-by-side with Hubert.

Asian face, tall and lean like a pine tree, an effortless, clean aura, wet black hair hanging loosely. Even from a distance, his dark, clear eyes were striking.

”...Hey, you.”

Verstappen was trying to figure out how to pronounce the name, but the words came out first.

”You’re the GP3 double winner from this weekend?”

Hubert looked up and saw the furious F1 star.

Kai had just been comforting Hubert, telling him not to beat himself up over mistakes, that racing was about how you respond to them. Hubert’s mood had just brightened. He instinctively stepped forward, shielding Kai. ”Max?”

Verstappen glanced at Hubert, gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, then looked back at Kai.

Kai was confused. ”Yes, that’s me.”

Verstappen stepped closer, aggressive. ”So, you called me a ’Nepo-Baby’? You think your win was better than mine? If you have an opinion, say it to my face. I’m right here. Why don’t you share your thoughts?”

Verstappen was tense, radiating a storm of energy, ready to collide.

Kai didn’t back down. He stepped forward to meet him. But Hubert stood firm between them, blocking the path.

The confrontation stalled.

Kai looked helpless, his tone softening. ”Sorry, but... who are you?”

Verstappen: ...

Instantly, Verstappen’s eyes bulged, veins popping on his forehead. ”What? You talk trash behind someone’s back but don’t even know who they are?”

Kai spread his hands. ”Is there another possibility? Maybe I don’t know you, so I never said anything bad about you or anyone else?”

Verstappen froze.

Hubert jumped in. ”Yes, Max. Kai knows nothing about the paddock. He doesn’t recognize any drivers. And he’s been with me the whole time. He hasn’t said anything bad about anyone.”

Verstappen looked at Hubert again.

He didn’t know Kai, but he knew Hubert. Hubert was a ”good boy.” He never bad-mouthed people, and he never lied.

Verstappen hesitated. ”Then why is everyone saying he was trash-talking me?”

Hubert shrugged. ”I don’t know. I don’t understand why they do it. But Max, this is the paddock. We shouldn’t be surprised, right? They’re jealous of you, they’re jealous of Kai. Rumors start for no reason.”

Verstappen looked at Hubert, then at Kai. He pursed his lips, seemingly sulking, or perhaps just conflicted.

Then, without warning, Verstappen turned and walked away.

That was it?

The conflict fizzled out before it could even spark. Disappointing.

Kai watched the retreating figure of the hot-headed young man and called out. ”Hey! Aren’t you going to introduce yourself? What’s your name?”

Verstappen choked. He really doesn’t know me?

He couldn’t resist turning back. ”Do your homework. You should have plenty of time to stare into space in GP3.”

Oooooh!

The pit lane onlookers hooted and whistled.

Verstappen strode away.

Hubert looked anxiously at Verstappen’s back, then at Kai. ”Max is just like that. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

Kai’s eyes were full of laughter. ”Don’t worry. I won’t bully him.”

Hubert looked at Kai and burst out laughing.

Clearly, Kai wasn’t just attracting the attention of drivers. The paddock was small, and the sharp-eared ”old foxes” heard the news immediately.

For example, at Mercedes.

Toto Wolff: ”He won the Sprint Race too? He passed George?”

Toto Wolff. Businessman.

The Austrian had been obsessed with racing since childhood, but at 195cm (6’5”), he was too tall for single-seaters. His height was an asset in basketball, but a curse in racing. So he gave up his dream and utilized his other talent:

Business.

He was a genius, earning his first 30 million dollars by age 28.

Wealthy, he returned to racing as an investor and manager. In 2013, he took over the Mercedes F1 team, leading them to dominance in 2014, 2015, and 2016.

But 2017 was tough.

Internal conflict. Last season, Rosberg and Hamilton’s rivalry had gone nuclear. Rosberg won the title... and then immediately retired, stabbing Wolff in the back.

Wolff was furious. He scrambled to sign Valtteri Bottas from Williams (a team Wolff still owned shares in) as a stop-gap. But he wasn’t satisfied.

So, Wolff was always watching the market.

When Kai won the Feature Race, Wolff noticed. A rookie beating his own protégé, Russell? Interesting. But just one win could be luck.

But today? Winning the Sprint Race from P8? Now it was very interesting.

Sitting across from him was James Vowles, Mercedes’ chief strategist.

”Toto, looking at the data, this young man is incredibly skilled. His pace management and strategic layout are top-tier...”

Vowles showed him the graphs. Wolff glanced at them. ”How good?”

Vowles: ”Look at the braking points...”

Wolff interrupted. ”Compared to Max Verstappen?”

Vowles thought. ”We’d need to compare after today’s F1 race, but his rhythm is more mature than Max’s. Max is more aggressive.”

Wolff nodded, silent. Then, he spoke again. ”James, if I recall, he’s Chinese, right? Maybe he could be our key to opening that market. Does he have sponsors?”

Vowles froze. He knew cars, not marketing. ”I... don’t think so. His suit only has ART sponsors.”

Wolff tapped the table. Another surprise. A driver like Kai usually attracted attention. Like Jake Hughes, who started late but got sponsors quickly because people love an underdog story.

But Kai had none? And Ferrari was behind him?

”Keep watching,” Wolff said. ”Find out about his situation in Maranello. His family, his schooling... actually, never mind, I’ll have someone investigate.”

”I’ll find time to chat with Fred. If he has no sponsors, what deal did ART make with Ferrari?”

Typical Wolff. Always planning three steps ahead.

He wasn’t the only one. Christian Horner at Red Bull noticed, too. He remembered Verstappen’s rise from F3, and he saw the parallels.

Red Bull was complicated. 51% owned by the Thai Yoovidhya family, 49% by the Austrian Mateschitz side.

The racing operations (Marko, Newey, Verstappen) were aligned with the Austrians. Horner was caught in the middle, leaning toward the Thai side to maintain his power.

He was constantly playing politics against Helmut Marko.

So, when Horner heard about a Chinese driver winning double in GP3, his eyes lit up. The Thai Red Bull owner, Chaleo Yoovidhya, was of Chinese descent.

This could be a gift for the Thai owners. And even if it didn’t work out, it would annoy Marko, which was always a bonus.

He didn’t even look at the data. In a pre-race interview, he casually dropped a grenade. ”The paddock is lively today. I heard there’s a ’Little Verstappen’ running around?”

The reporters’ ears perked up. Horner was always good for a quote.

”Of course,” Horner beamed, ”it’s an incredible achievement. Winning a double at Barcelona? That’s impressive. If Ferrari isn’t interested in youth, Red Bull is always open. I’m sure Max would love a partner like that to help us beat Mercedes.”

He didn’t even say Kai’s name. Kai was just a tool to him.

But Horner’s casual comment threw the media into a frenzy.

The GP3 season opener was suddenly the hottest topic in the paddock.

Some praised it: ”A genius! Better than Max!”

Some dismissed it: ”Just luck. Don’t compare him to Max.”

”ART is a rocket ship, anyone could win in it.”

But regardless of the sentiment, the traffic arrived.

Kai Zhizhou.

The name was out there. And in the sea of confusion, a video account named ”Dr. Song” appeared, passionately explaining GP3 and Kai’s achievements to a confused public, like an oasis in the desert.

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