My Formula 1 System

[40th Lap]

Indeed, one driver was entirely at fault for the Addams-Bellingham incident in the 39th lap, which kept the crowd roaring and the paddocks louder than ever. The Squadra Corse Jnr crew jabbed fingers at the Bueseno Velocità Jnr crew in their garage, accusing Max Addams of being too aggressive, a move that could cost their leading driver P1 due to a damaged car.

The stewards remained precise in their review, scrutinizing all angles and analyzing the possibility of which driver initiated the move first. Ultimately, the stewards finalized their decision midway through the 40th lap and relayed it directly to the guilty driver's engineers.

**Max?** Velocità Jnr Head Team engineer said after a while. **You've been penalized. 10 seconds... I'm sorry**

"... Halfway into the 40th Lap, the verdict has been giving and—it's 10 seconds! It's Max Addams! Max Addams has been penalized with 10 seconds in this Saudi Arabian Grand Prix!"

"WOOOOHH!"

"...with just four more laps to go, Steve. This is a real bummer for him. It could take the reigning champion down the leaderboard to who knows? P6?"

Max punched his wheel countless times, frustration coursing through him like a storm. He gripped his wheel tighter, threatening to pull it out of the chassis in his anger. Ten whole seconds?! "This is ridiculous!" Max barked over the radio. "I gave the twat enough space. What the hell were they watching?"

**We pushed too much, mate. I'm sorry** his team engineers replied. **We'll take that penalty when you pit, box as soon as the next lap begins. We'll be fast. Let's salvage something**

Max cussed loudly, his gaze snapping to the still-pack leader, Miles. Both their cars were compromised—neither running at peak performance. If they didn't pit soon, they risked breaking down in the middle of the Riyadh Zenith Circuit.

Miles gritted his teeth, his knuckles white against the wheel. He couldn't believe he was about to suffer for someone else's recklessness. Pitting this late in the race was like handing his P1 away—handing it to... Luca, who was still in P3. The realization made him shout in frustration, his damaged chassis resisting even the force of his SomberCore's power. His side mirror reflected the sight of Luca's red-and-black Dallara, weaving steadily behind Max's.

[Analyzing Dallara (F2 04) and host's distance from 2nd Position]

[You are 1 seconds away, host.]

Luca had long since stayed right behind Miles and Max. He had no intention to overtake them when he was certain they'd give him the lead once they head into the pits. Even Mr. Moritz announced this advantage with enthusiasm over the radio. Moreover, Luca took caution in case Miles' or Max's car might completely give up, skid and swerve recklessly which might collide with him if he pushed forward in their pitiful states.

**41st lap, and P1 is yours, Luca!** Mr. Moritz jubilated.

"...And they go down the bridge straight once again, heading into the chicanes where it all happened! The 40th lap leaders are about to begin the 41st!"

Luca's grip on the wheel tightened. His heart pounded.

Okay, Luca. Your rivals have once again sealed their fate. Three laps to go. Let's finish this...

[41st Lap]

[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL TIME:

-Car Speed: 270 km/h

-Heart Rate: 110 bpm

-Operational Status: 70% (Fair)

-Breathing: Calm & Steady

-Distance covered: 226,500m

-Time: 1hr 10 min.]

"...Miles Bellingham and Max Addams are changing course into the pitlane, pulling out of the race momentarily for a reason neither driver nor their teams ever anticipated! And Luca Rennick holds P3! Luca Rennick moves forward with his rivals out of the way—it's a free climb for Rennick...."

Luca's eyes trailed Max's car as it veered sharply into the pitlane, the neon-lit track casting a ghostly shimmer on the vehicle's polished surface. A quick glance ahead revealed Miles Bellingham already in the pitlane, his front wing scraping sparks against the asphalt as his car limped forward.

Luca shifted his focus back to the stretch of empty track that lay before him. The smooth glow of the streetlamps reflected off the sleek barriers, giving the illusion of an endless tunnel carved out of light and steel. It was a rare moment in the chaos of the race—a clear path. No cars in sight, save for the lapped opponents scattered across the circuit who had yet to finish the 40th lap. With the same momentum, Luca filled in the gap with a blur of speed, catching glimpses of Miles and Max in their respective pit boxes. Surely, Miles would emerge long before Max, whose engineers were counting down his 10-second penalty.

[1st Position]

"...A chaotic turn of events here at the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix! Luca Rennick now stands in P1!"

"WOOOOHH!"

**You're clear! Track's yours, Luca! Track is yours!**

Luca chuckled softly. The realization of possibly winning his fourth Grand Prix in a row was only now settling in.

**It's lonely at the top, isn't it?!**n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Yup. Ha! It definitely is," Luca replied with a faint smile, pushing his car past the grandstands and further into the 41st lap, the illuminated markers guiding him like a constellation through the night.

Trampos' fans began to cheer! "HOOH...HOOOH!" Their Player A could just win his fourth consecutive Grand Prix! And it would surely solidify their gap above Bueseno Velocità Jnr!

A job well done, in Mr. Grant and Ms. Valloton's opinion, as Luca sliced past the screens into the second tunnel. Ms. Valloton took a deep breath of relief, genuinely proud of her drivers and how the new structure had paved the way for a clear understanding of who should be at the top.

Now, twenty-five points from Luca in P1, and eighteen points from Ansel, who was in P2! Unbelievable—both Ansel and Luca were about to top the final leaderboard.

Realizing this, the entire Trampos crew began to inwardly jubilate. Another definitive, commanding victory coming for them in the Constructors' Championship!

"...Luca Rennick holds P1, Ansel Hahn is locked in at P2! Both Trampos drivers dominate the leaderboard as they charge down the home straight to kick off the 42nd lap! This could be a repeat of Monte Carlo! Another night to remember, like Stellar, when Trampos Racing shocked the feeder series and changed the game of F2 forever! The crowd is on their feet, cheering them on!"

"...Miles Bellingham exits the pits, securing P3, but Max Addams can only rejoin the race after Sean Aaronson snatches P4! Both are on cold tires, but they're back in it! What a shakeup, ladies and gentlemen! None of them could have anticipated this outcome, nor could anyone have predicted the sheer fortune of Trampos Racing tonight. Both drivers might just cross the final grid in tandem!"

Enjoy more content from empire

**Nothing but clean lines from now on, chap. You got this**

[42nd Lap]

[Stamina+1]

[Ding!]

[Stamina Attribute is at 30]

"Yes," Luca replied, his voice steady as he guided his car into Turn 1. With his fiercest rivals now out of the picture, a strange calm washed over him. It wasn't the adrenaline-fueled focus he was used to when battling for position, but something softer, almost serene. For the first time in what felt like ages of Grands Prix, he was simply driving.

The street circuit stretched before him, illuminated by the golden glow of floodlights lining the track. Reflections of the Arabic city's glittering skyline danced on his visor, creating a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere. He could hear the hum of his SomberCore—he could feel it too, vibrating through his body—a machine he controlled, though his hands felt weightless.

Now, he believed he was putting up an exceptional performance. A performance worthy of F1—defense, offense, timed aggression, and knowing passivity. If he didn't execute any of these well, he might not be where he was—about to win his fourth consecutive Grand Prix. How wonderful was that?!

If Luca remembered correctly, the record for most consecutive F2 and F1 Grand Prix wins was four, held by Dante Reyes for F2 and Marco Rossi for F1. Winning this would put him on par with such legends of both divisions.

Hehe.

[2nd Position closing in]

The notification snapped Luca out of his daze instantly, and he realized he had been sleep-driving—if that was even a word. He blinked several times, trying to make sense of the alert, because it felt absurd to receive such a warning when he believed all rivals were out of the equation.

[Analyzing 2nd Position's distance from host and Dallara (F2 04)...]

[2nd Position is 2 sec away, host.]

"Is that Ansel?" Luca asked his System, even though he knew it wouldn't reply. He glanced at his side mirror, just in time to see a similar red-and-black Dallara reflected back at him.

A prick of unease climbed up Luca's spine. He couldn't remember when Ansel had gotten this close. Was it the accumulated slowdown from dodging Miles and Max's damaged cars? Or had Ansel simply flipped some switch, igniting a fire within that hadn't been there before? Either way, the approach was unsettling. It was calm, methodical, and unnervingly persistent—adjectives that shouldn't describe Ansel's driving when he was right behind Luca.

In the control room, Mr. Moritz and Mr. Colt exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes glued to the telemetry spikes flashing across the monitors. Ansel's performance had been surging beyond the norm for the past lap. His pace had increased subtly at first, but now, with just two seconds separating him from Luca, the pattern couldn't be ignored.

Mr. Moritz leaned into the two-way transmitter, his voice steady but edged with concern.

**Han? You're moving kind of fast there. Are you aware?**

[Host has unlocked Skills to disclose an opponent]

Ansel, his gaze fixed on Luca's gearbox, nodded softly, as though acknowledging a private thought rather than the voice that emerged from the dashboard. The streets of Riyadh blurred under the city lights as the cars dove deeper into the 42nd lap.

**I know** Ansel replied, his tone calm—almost too calm. **I just want to get as far as possible**

Luca digested Ansel's words with cynicism, especially as his system alerted him once again that 2nd Position was closing in.

Mr. Moritz frowned again, his eyes darting between Ansel's telemetry and the live feed of his car slicing through the night. The numbers didn't match the reassurance Ansel had just offered. His speed remained relentless, his energy deployment system running at near max output, and his ERS usage to his SomberCore—normally balanced—was spiking dangerously high. The only thing Ansel hadn't done yet was hit DRS, because if he did, that would make the difference between wanting to "get far" and outright attempting to overtake Luca.

**Could you just... ease off?** Colt advised slowly, watching Ansel's car this time—not even the telemetry. It trailed Luca like a predator, sizing him up, using his slipstream. It was concerning, subtle things a Player B shouldn't be doing.

Ansel heard the words but didn't reply. His hands tightened on the wheel as they shot through the first tunnel, the artificial light playing tricks with shadows on the track. This tunnel reminded him of when he had relinquished his then-P2 to Luca, Player A.

"...both Trampos drivers make it through the tunnel, still holding a stable delta, but Hahn appears to be picking up momentum. This is unexpected, considering earlier in this Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, Ansel Hahn gave up his position to Luca Rennick. Team orders? Driver strategy? We're not sure, but Hahn is driving like that strategy is out of the window..."

"...And in moments like this, Steve, with both drivers commanding a significant gap at the front, it wouldn't be surprising if they agreed to a fair competition for P1. After all, maximum team points are already secured. Whether Rennick finishes in P2 and Hahn in P1, it's still 45 points for the team. Of course, the battle is just my speculation..."

That was the issue. While the team would secure the same maximum points regardless of who crossed the line first, the Tiered Pursuit Strategy explicitly stated that Ansel was NOT to overtake Luca under any circumstances. Both Mr. Grant and Ms. Vallotton had reinforced this in no uncertain terms.

Mr. Moritz rubbed his temple, shaking his head as his other engineers glanced expectantly at him. "Han wants P1," he muttered, his voice tight with tension as he gestured at the data that told the full story.