Clearly, the SF90 was riddled with problems. The upcoming season was going to be an agonizingly long marathon, and the mountain of issues blocking their path wasn't just a few minor hiccups.
However, the cold, hard reality staring them in the face was that the SF90 was currently Kai's only weapon. Rather than daydreaming about upgrade packages that hadn't even begun development yet, it was far more productive to focus entirely on the present. He needed to figure out how to touch the absolute limit—and perhaps even shatter the ceiling—within the suffocatingly narrow confines of the current machine.
After all, he was entering his sophomore year now. He was no longer the raw, instinct-driven rookie recklessly charging forward like a bull in a china shop. He needed to evolve. Simultaneously, his fundamental comprehension of the car needed to advance as well.
Without a doubt, the SF90 possessed raw potential. The Ferrari power unit remained at the absolute pinnacle of the paddock. Based on the telemetry data collected so far, Kai was confident that Ferrari's straight-line speed advantage was even more pronounced this season. On circuits that prioritized raw velocity and rhythm, they were going to be exceptionally strong.
The surprisingly excellent performances from Alfa Romeo and Haas served as the perfect, undeniable proof.
The massive, glaring problem currently staring them in the face was that Albert Park wasn't a circuit designed for ultimate top speed. It was a highly complex, comprehensive track that placed brutal, exacting demands on aerodynamics. And that was exactly Mercedes-Benz's core strength. Everything from last year's qualifying to today's sessions definitively proved that point.
Here, the SF90 faced brutal tests at every turn—from corner entry, through the mid-corner apex, all the way to corner exit. The flaws were everywhere. Relying solely on a driver's individual brilliance to completely overturn this structural disadvantage was practically impossible.
However, from Kai's perspective, nailing the absolute perfect corner entry timing and hitting the precise entry angle could mitigate some of the problems, allowing him to squeeze out a hundredth, or perhaps even a tenth, of a second.
The catch was that the margin for error was practically zero. In the fleeting, microscopic fraction of a second available, he had to be absolutely decisive and surgically precise. The slightest miscalculation would completely shatter the entire rhythm through the low and medium-speed corners. When that happened, losing 0.001 seconds on entry could easily translate into losing 0.1 seconds on exit.
Therefore, this was a battle against himself. Kai had to filter out every distraction and maintain absolute, 100% laser-focus.
It didn't matter how terrifyingly dominant Mercedes-Benz was, nor did it matter what secret weapon Red Bull was hiding. His sole, singular objective was to extract his absolute personal limit and discover exactly where the SF90's absolute ceiling was at Albert Park.
—ROAR!
A massive wave of noise erupted. From the direction of the main grandstand, a cacophony of gasps, cheers, and awe washed over the circuit. The fanatical supporters of Mercedes-Benz and Hamilton were screaming in ecstasy. Some were even weeping tears of joy, hands covering their mouths in disbelief at the spectacle unfolding before them, completely overcome by manic, uncontrollable elation.
Just moments ago, Hamilton had completed his second flying lap in Q3, projecting the terrifying, absolute dominance of a king surveying his conquered domain.
1:20.486.
The record was shattered once again. From Q2 to Q3, Hamilton had consecutively broken his own fastest lap records three times, entirely transforming this Qualifying session into a one-man exhibition.
His first flying lap in Q3 was already unbelievable. Yet, incredibly, on his second attempt, he managed to shave off another 0.102 seconds!
The paddock: ...
Dead silence.
While everyone else was bleeding, battling desperately just to scrape together a few hundredths of a second, Hamilton was taking a leisurely stroll, effortlessly shaving a full tenth off his own seemingly untouchable record.
A King!
An absolute, undisputed king. He had turned Qualifying into a single-player game.
"Before we even reach Sunday's race, Lewis Hamilton has swept every single session of the Australian Grand Prix with devastating, tyrannical momentum. From Free Practice 1 all the way through Q3, without a single exception, he hasn't missed a beat. He is displaying a terrifying level of absolute dominance."
"His sword is pointed squarely at the championship."
"And not just the championship. He's aiming for a Grand Slam, perhaps even a Total Slam."
"In the season opener, Hamilton has proudly and defiantly delivered the loudest possible statement. Although Qualifying is technically still ongoing, it appears the suspense for pole position has completely vanished."
—Silence!
Faced with this display of absolute, tyrannical, unapologetic dominance, all other sounds lost their color. The entire world seemed to slip into a silent rift in space-time, hitting a temporary pause button, simply letting their racing hearts absorb the relentless, crushing waves of shock and awe.
However, none of this mattered to Kai.
The Number 22 car blasted through Turn 16, launching onto the main straight. He buried the throttle. The turbocharger spooled, instantly injecting the raw power of the engine directly into his bloodstream.
His mind settled into a state of profound calm. The nerve endings of his body extended outward, flowing through the chassis and adhering to the tires, intensely feeling every microscopic dip, bump, and contour of the asphalt amidst the violent chaos of speed.
Turn 1—the Jones Chicane—rushed toward him in a blur of green and golden light!
Surprisingly, Kai didn't hug the left edge of the track to follow the textbook "Out-In-Out" racing line. He stayed closer to the centerline, drifting slightly outward, probing the mechanical grip of the tires without fully committing to the traditional racing line.
Martin Brundle: ???
Kai left absolutely zero room for hesitation. Not only was he ignoring the standard racing line, but he wasn't attempting an extreme late-braking maneuver either.
He had been constantly searching, constantly probing. Relying on observation and trusting his physical perception, he was playing with fire, operating in that incredibly delicate margin of braking a meter earlier or a meter later. The instant the car entered the Jones Chicane, he snapped the steering wheel to the right—and he turned it slightly more than expected, seemingly aiming to violently hug the apex.
But he wasn't actively trying to hug the apex. He was deliberately using the rear end to rotate the car.
You could clearly see the front tires sliding slightly wide, but the rear tires acted as if an invisible hand had gently shoved them toward the apex, violently snapping the car forward.
A deviation of a few centimeters had translated into several meters of explosive momentum.
With terrifying, devastating speed, the car shot toward the right-side barrier at the Brabham curve like a derailed freight train!
Last year, Valtteri Bottas had crashed into the wall right here during Q3, throwing Mercedes-Benz's entire strategy into chaos. Was Kai about to repeat the exact same disastrous mistake?
It looked certain. The Number 22 car was spearing straight ahead, seemingly destined for the wall.
Yet, amidst the violent, terrifying turbulence, Kai utilized a flawless, delicate symphony of throttle control and steering input. With incredibly precise micro-adjustments, he sent the car flying smoothly through the Brabham curve.
Only then did people remember that Turn 2, Brabham, was a high-speed sweeper. From the very beginning, Kai never had any intention of touching the brakes. Instead, he violently unleashed the raw power of the Ferrari engine. Relying purely on pinpoint steering precision, he shaved the absolute edge of the apex. The car felt like it had dropped into an air pocket, the suspension compressed to its absolute physical limit. He kept the throttle pinned. The engine roared, an unbelievable explosion of sound, violently throwing all its torque onto the rear tires.
Two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. Two hundred and eighty kilometers per hour.
Relentless acceleration!
That brilliant flash of Ferrari red darted through the green trees and colorful flowers of Albert Park. He initiated a sharp, cutting entry, hugging the apex of Turn 3. It was a stark contrast to the wide, sweeping approach he had used through Turns 1 and 2. He traced the curvature of the corner with flowing, liquid grace, blasting out of Turn 5 in a single, unbroken breath.
Like mercury spilling across glass. Seamless perfection.
Adapting his entry style dynamically based on the specific characteristics of each corner complex. Sometimes violent and aggressive, sometimes delicate and precise. It was a breathtaking visual feast, utterly intoxicating to watch.
But a closer look revealed the true mastery: the perfect synchronization of entry timing and entry angle. Kai was actively exploring a completely new understanding of Albert Park. He was cleverly exploiting the incredibly stiff suspension setup. Amidst the continuous, violent bouncing of the car, he was searching for the optimal racing line that would allow him to maintain his mid-corner rhythm. He was using every trick in the book, fighting desperately for every extra ounce of grip in the corners, driving with the reckless abandon of someone snatching chestnuts from a raging fire.
Clean. Decisive.
Behind the seemingly instantaneous decisions and flawless execution lay the thousands upon thousands of simulated laps, and the massive, highly detailed 3D map he had constructed in his mind. He was wringing the absolute limit out of every fraction of a second on the rapidly changing circuit, desperately trying to shatter the ceiling hovering above him.
Just when people thought they had already witnessed the absolute zenith of Kai's abilities, this scene violently awakened all those memories of awe, astonishment, and intoxication, sending them crashing back over the audience like a tidal wave.
It was pure enjoyment. An absolute, unadulterated visual and auditory feast that made it impossible to look away. A true, perfect marriage of mechanical engineering and human skill, igniting passion and boiling blood through the sheer thrill of speed. It perfectly encapsulated the true magic of motorsport, and honestly, it was far more captivating to watch than either of the Mercedes-Benz flying laps.
And then, Turn 5 was left in his dust. The only thing remaining was the surging red blur tearing through the air—
"Sector 1! Purple!"
VROOM-VROOM-VROOM— BUZZ-BUZZ-BUZZ—
The roar of the engine was actively converting into adrenaline, injecting straight into his bloodstream. Brundle could physically feel his own body trembling uncontrollably with excitement.
He was captivated. Utterly intoxicated.
Immediately, Brundle's razor-sharp eye caught exactly what made Kai's driving so unique.
A race car's grip is primarily divided into two components: mechanical grip and aerodynamic grip.
Mechanical grip is generated by the suspension geometry and the tires. This is what you heavily rely on through low and medium-speed corners.
Aerodynamic grip, on the other hand, is generated by the air pressure acting upon the rear wing, the rear diffuser, and essentially the entire bodywork of the car. This is commonly referred to as downforce. The faster the car travels, the greater the aerodynamic grip. Generally speaking, a car needs to exceed 80 km/h before it even begins to generate meaningful aerodynamic grip. It becomes incredibly pronounced on the straights and through high-speed corners.
Of course, the two cannot be discussed in total isolation. Race car design is a holistic process. The true challenge lies in finding the perfect equilibrium between these competing demands.
The design of the car is one thing; how the driver actually pilots it is entirely another.
If a car is designed with perfect balance, driving it is effortless and highly intuitive. However, if a car's design pushes to extreme, specialized philosophies, driving it requires constant, suffocating tension. It's like dancing on the razor's edge—perilous and nerve-wracking. The slightest lapse in concentration will result in stutters, slides, and constant deviations from the racing line.
This was precisely why Hamilton's fastest lap, hanging arrogantly on the pole position graphic like a royal decree, wasn't actually all that exciting to watch.
It all looked so incredibly natural. Effortless. Like a casual stroll in the park.
Kai, however, was fundamentally different. He was constantly, actively searching for the optimal transition point between mechanical grip and aerodynamic grip as he shifted from corner to straight, and straight to corner.
On the surface, Kai's driving lines appeared to deviate slightly from the textbook racing line. It wasn't glaringly obvious; only veteran fans with exceptionally sharp eyes would notice that his trajectory was subtly different from the other drivers.
But looking closer, you could see that Kai was constantly adjusting his entry timing and his entry angles. It looked like deviations of mere millimeters, but Formula 1 is an extreme sport that dances on margins of thousandths of a second. Those microscopic, almost imperceptible deviations are the true, intoxicating magic of the sport.
Rather than saying he was searching for the 'correct' racing line, it was more accurate to say he was searching for the correct path through the airflow. In the continuous, rapid transitions from high-speed to low-speed and back to high-speed, he was using his immense driving skill to maintain balance and fluidity between mechanical and aerodynamic grip, doing everything in his power to keep his rhythm unbroken.
Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!
It was an experience that defied verbal description, yet it was visually spectacular and profoundly satisfying to watch. Kai's sheer talent and ability were on full display as he danced within the margins of milliseconds and centimeters. This was the Formula 1 that Brundle truly loved—the desperate search for perfect synchronization between man and machine.
Compared to Hamilton, this flying lap was a true visual masterpiece.
Sector 1. This was Ferrari's strong suit. Kai setting a purple sector here was entirely expected. If Brundle's intuition was correct, even in Sector 1, Kai hadn't resorted to conservative, textbook driving. Everything he was doing was calculated preparation for the impending Sector 3. That was where the true nightmare began.
Thump! Thump!
Hearts pounded uncontrollably, slamming against ribs. Yet, at the absolute peak of this wild ride, a sharp turn arrived. The speed and rhythm slowed down, but the pulsating energy only continued to stack and accumulate. It was a slow, heavy gathering of immense power, completely immersing everyone in the deafening roar of the engine.
Kai was entirely oblivious to all of this—
Total concentration. Man and machine operating as a single entity.
The Number 22 SF90 dove toward the Turn 6 complex. This was one of the critical choke points of Albert Park.
High-speed, medium downforce requirements, highly complex track undulations. It was riddled with invisible, unpredictable landmines. If the entry angle was slightly off, the entire mid-corner rhythm would instantly collapse.
This was exactly where the SF90's chronic disease was most glaringly obvious and difficult to manage. Its high-speed steering stability was terrible, and the rear end threatened to snap loose at any given second.
The standard racing line required the driver to slightly avoid the turbulent air pocket at the entry to Turn 6. However... Kai didn't.
Look!
The scarlet Number 22 Ferrari squeezed even closer to the drain line on the far left edge of the track. In that specific area, the air, disrupted by the cars running ahead, created a small "backflow zone." In theory, hitting this zone should cause the front end of the car to momentarily lose downforce and float. But, if the driver could execute a flawless, incredibly precise steering input in that exact microsecond, they could preemptively lock onto the airflow, actually forcing the turbulent air to act like a blade pressing down on the front wing.
A gamble! A massive risk!
But it was a calculated risk. He was seeking victory within danger, actively hunting for that fleeting, microscopic window of survival.
He snapped the steering wheel to a precise angle and lifted slightly off the throttle—not a full lift, just a microscopic release—giving the front wing and the floor just enough time to "re-bite" the air.
A split second!
The front end of the SF90 violently compressed downward. It was the absolute confirmation that the true power of the aerodynamics had re-engaged the chassis.
—He won the gamble.
Right!
He sliced through Turn 6 like a razor-sharp straight line cleaving through the invisible cliffs of air disguised as a corner. The turbulent air instantly grew docile, flowing rapidly backward over the front wing. The Ferrari red machine carved through the corner's arc like a hot knife through butter, miraculously riding the turbulent waves with impossible speed.
The rear end snapped slightly loose. But the exact instant Kai pinned the throttle again, it snapped violently back into line. A slip angle lasting a mere four-hundredths of a second. Yet, right before it crossed the absolute limit into total loss of control, he dragged it back onto the racing line. In the blink of an eye, he had strolled right up to the gates of hell and danced away.
Goosebumps erupted across Pierre Borreipaire's neck. If that slip angle had been just a fraction of a degree larger, it would have been a catastrophic spin. The flying lap would have been completely destroyed.
Yet, Kai didn't spin. He shattered the deadlock. The path ahead opened up entirely, and the Number 22 car instantly unleashed all its pent-up speed through the ensuing high-speed corners.
Turn 7! Turn 8!
Kai abandoned the traditional "Out-In-Out" line. Instead, he initiated his corner entry slightly early. He was intentionally utilizing the low-pressure corridor created by the airflow between the sidepods and the rear wing to physically "suck" the car toward the apex.
He was actively using his immense driving skill to force the SF90 to behave in ways it fundamentally hated—
More agile. More decisive. Significantly more aggressive.
The "tea tray" underneath the floor sparked violently against the asphalt. A trail of sparks erupted behind the car like the fiery tail of a comet ripping through the atmosphere. The spectators in the grandstands on the left side of the track collectively held their breath.
Whoosh! The howling, furious wind, tangled with the arrogant, overbearing roar of the Ferrari engine, crashed into the crowd. The rolling heatwave instantly singed the fine hairs on their skin. Turn 10, the most iconic high-speed corner of Albert Park, surrendered completely to the brilliant red machine. The sound of air being ripped apart echoed gently against their eardrums.
In a fraction of a second, the spectators' heads snapped from right to left, desperate to track the red blur with their eyes, only to catch a fleeting afterimage as it dove into Turn 11.
"Sector 2! Green!"
Now, the most severe, grueling, and challenging sector finally arrived. All the preceding groundwork and build-up had been a mere prelude to the ultimate test of Sector 3.
While Hamilton, driving the W10, had turned Qualifying into a solitary time-trial mode, Kai was playing his own version of a single-player game—
Albert Park Circuit. Objective: Conquer. Challenge: Accepted!
Turns 11 and 12. The high-speed S-curves.
This was the W10's most terrifyingly dominant sector—
Flawless downforce. The rear end was planted so securely it looked like it was bolted to the tarmac. The entire sequence could be taken almost entirely flat out.
But the SF90 couldn't do it. Every piece of telemetry proved this fact. From Free Practice all the way through Q1 and Q2, every test run and every physical sensation screamed the same warning at Kai:
You cannot take this flat out. You simply cannot.
But he pinned the throttle anyway.
It wasn't blind faith. It wasn't impulsive recklessness. It wasn't hot-blooded, brainless aggression. The way he pinned it was different—
He pulsed the throttle. It wasn't a continuous, sustained output. Instead, he used the engine mapping to deliver the power in three distinct, staggered bursts, effectively using the air itself as a stepping stone.
Kai was gambling. He was driving like a complete lunatic. Relying entirely on a flash of inspiration, he executed a maneuver he hadn't even attempted in practice, desperately trying to smash through the ceiling above him.
Dancing on the razor's edge. The red silhouette, moving with wild, elegant freedom through the howling wind, was actively transforming the storm into his own personal backing track.
So utterly arrogant, yet so irresistibly captivating.
The track was his guitar; the car was his pick—
Kai was performing a solo. The frantic, surging, violent, yet breathtakingly elegant notes cascaded down like a waterfall, sweeping the entire world into his roaring melody.
Like a legendary rock star performing a blistering solo in front of a stadium of a hundred thousand screaming fans. The sheer scale and majesty of it all completely lost themselves in the tidal wave of the rhythm.
Like a silver river plunging three thousand feet from the heavens.
The rhythm and the melody seeped directly into their blood. Their bodies trembled involuntarily. Staring at the Number 22 car tearing across the asphalt, it felt less like watching a sport and more like an act of religious worship.
Who knew racing could be done like this?!
Ferocious yet precise. Violent yet incredibly smooth. The red blur mutated into a streak of pure light, piercing through the storm and leaving it in the dust, completely commanding the attention and soul of every single person watching.
But then, the rear end skipped lightly—
GASP!
Just as it seemed destined to lose control, his hands flicked the steering wheel twice in rapid succession. In the microscopic gaps between milliseconds, inspiration flared. Relying purely on raw instinct, innate talent, and razor-sharp intuition, he executed the exact, perfect micro-adjustments. Almost supernaturally, he realigned the car with the airflow, dancing with breathtaking grace through the turbulent waves, and completely leaving the chaos in his rearview mirror.
The instant Turns 11 and 12 were deposited safely behind the Number 22 car, Brundle felt his heart lodge firmly in his throat.
Beside him, Croft stared at the screen, jaw hanging open, utterly speechless, having completely lost his ability to form words.
"Unbelievable!"
Brundle's explosive shout perfectly filled the dead air.
"Kai is taming the SF90! Kai is conquering Albert Park!"
But the very next second, all sound was violently snuffed out. The world stared blankly at the live timing screens—
"Verstappen! Red Bull!"
"1:21.320! He goes Third!"
Ahead on the track, Verstappen had just completed his second flying lap in Q3. Yet, Mercedes-Benz remained an insurmountable mountain blocking the path.
Despite pushing with absolutely everything he had, Verstappen still hadn't managed to beat Hamilton's pole-setting time from last year, let alone break into the 1:20 bracket.
That was a lofty, utterly unreachable realm, drawing a definitive, unquestionable line separating Mercedes-Benz from every other team on the grid.
On one hand, people were amazed that Verstappen had managed to beat both Ferraris.
On the other hand, they could only sigh in despair at the absolute untouchability of Mercedes-Benz.
As car after car crossed the finish line to complete their flying laps, Q3 rapidly approached its conclusion. Amidst the continuous, deafening roar of engines, the tension escalated relentlessly, shooting straight into the clouds. The highly anticipated, deeply secretive new season was truly living up to the hype. The surprises and shocks came crashing in wave after wave.
Before anyone even had time to catch their breath, millions of eyes snapped back to the Number 22 car, involuntarily holding their breath once more.
However, none of this mattered to Kai. In his world, the only thing that existed was the ribbon of asphalt continuously unspooling beneath his tires, leading toward the edge of the world.
—Turn 13 (90-degree right), Turn 14 (90-degree right), Turn 15 (hairpin). Welcome to the graveyard of weaknesses.
The SF90 possessed terrible traction in low and medium-speed corners. This brutal reality had hung over the Ferrari garage like a thick, suffocating thundercloud throughout the entire Australian Grand Prix weekend. No matter how massive an advantage they built up in the first two sectors, they were virtually guaranteed to vomit it all back up in Sector 3. They were even consistently significantly slower than Red Bull through this section.
Look.
Kai flicked the nose of the car toward the inside line slightly before the actual braking point—it wasn't a drift. He was deliberately inducing asymmetric braking pressure to force a microscopic rotation of the chassis, effectively transforming the deceleration phase into the very first stage of turning.
Obviously, the SF90 was absolutely not designed to be driven like this.
But Kai did it anyway. Relying entirely on his own immense capability. His intuition, inspiration, resolve, and conviction were seamlessly woven into every single movement.
It wasn't about extreme late braking, nor was it about utilizing absolutely every millimeter of track width to the extreme. He was focusing intensely on the micro-details: timing, and angle of attack. What looked like a standard, almost mediocre racing line was actually hiding a continuous, explosive stream of inspiration, allowing him to fly seamlessly between the straights and the corners.
Transitioning from one critical braking window to the next was like leaping from the point of one knife onto the point of another. The slightest miscalculation would result in the car being torn to pieces. But it was precisely because of that immense danger that his elegant, unhurried, incredibly fluid lines radiated such an unbelievable, breathtaking beauty. It grabbed your heart and refused to let go.
People stared unblinkingly, terrified of missing even a fraction of a second. Yet, before their brains could even fully process what they were seeing, the entire sequence of low and medium-speed corners in Sector 3 had been dispatched in a single, breathless, continuous flow. Turn 16 was left in his dust.
The moment he exited the final corner, Kai didn't immediately smash the throttle to the floor. He waited exactly half a second, allowing the airflow to successfully re-attach to the rear wing. Then, like detonating a stick of dynamite, he pinned the throttle to 100%.
The turbo screamed, a sharp hiss tearing through the air. The rear end of the SF90, which had just navigated a brutal sequence of low and medium-speed corners, remained incredibly, unbelievably stable. The main straight opened up before him in all its magnificent glory.
The main grandstand, the pit wall—everyone looked over. Millions of eyes locked firmly onto that single blur of red. The only sound left in the thick, stagnant air was the heavy, rhythmic thumping of hearts. In a world completely frozen in time, the deafening roar of the engine and the concussive shockwaves of exhaust crashed into the crowd like an avalanche.
The engine's furious roar felt as though it were trying to brutally, violently rip open their chests, exposing their raw, beating hearts to the golden Melbourne sunlight, setting them ablaze.
The wind noise, the scream of the turbo, the violent vibration of tires punishing the asphalt—inside the helmet, these sounds layered upon one another, creating an atmosphere of intense, solemn gravity. Only the erratic pounding of his own heart managed to break through the layers of constraint.
Just moments ago, at the final braking point for Turn 16, Kai had hit the brakes exactly half a meter later than the optimal textbook timing. It was the very first time on this entire flying lap that he had executed a deliberate late-braking maneuver. He hadn't pushed his braking points to the absolute limit throughout the lap. He had saved it all for this final, desperate gamble before launching onto the main straight. The synchronization of the brakes, steering, and throttle was an absolute masterclass in perfection.
The tires bit violently into the tarmac.
And then, he held absolutely nothing back. The full, terrifying power and energy of the Ferrari power unit was unleashed. The explosive sound wave swept down the entire straight with the force of a hurricane, violently dragging everyone's hearts right up into their throats. Before they could even begin to process the adrenaline rush, an electric tingle had already shot across their scalps.
The moment the car crossed the finish line, it felt as though all the oxygen had been instantly sucked out of their lungs.
"Absolutely spectacular! Beyond belief!"
Brundle slammed his hands onto his desk, spitting as he shouted.
"A brilliant collision of raw technique and pure inspiration! The perfect marriage of immense courage and cold, calculating rationality! The car and the driver have completely fused into a single, terrifying entity. Every single time this young man awakens memories of Ayrton Senna, he takes it a step further, using his actions on the track to definitively prove that he is the most exceptionally talented driver of this new generation."
"But today, he's taken an even more massive step forward. He is actively breaking free from the shadow of Ayrton Senna. He is loudly and proudly declaring his own identity. He is not 'The Second Coming' of anyone. He is Kai. A generational genius who was undeniably born to race."
"An unbelievable, logic-defying lap! Kai has single-handedly breathed entirely new life into the Albert Park circuit!"
Awe! Astonishment! Absolute reverence!
In a very rare display, Brundle completely lost his composure. He didn't even immediately check the lap time—
Because the lap time didn't matter. The numbers didn't matter. On an F1 circuit, the only way to achieve what Kai had just done was to use sheer, raw personal ability to completely shatter the mechanical limits of the car. To explore a divine, untouchable realm far beyond the vehicle's actual ceiling. He had truly elevated racing into a form of high art, delivering an experience of pure, unadulterated awe.
Just moments ago, Hamilton had delivered his manifesto in his own signature style: He was still the undisputed King.
And now, Kai had delivered his response using his own signature flair: Last season was no accident.
Passionate and blood-pumping. Brundle's entire body trembled uncontrollably. He had a profound premonition: the 2019 season was going to be incredibly, spectacularly brilliant.
Beside him, Croft stared at his broadcast partner in absolute shock. The scene on the track was staggering, but the scene inside the commentary booth was equally intense.
For a moment, Croft whipped his head back and forth between the track monitors and his partner, entirely overwhelmed. But his vast broadcasting experience kicked in, allowing logic to override the shock and dragging him firmly back to reality.
"...My God."
Croft desperately tried to formulate a coherent sentence. Clearly, it wasn't an easy task. He took another deep breath, but his mind remained entirely blank.
"Oh. My God. What on earth are we witnessing right now?!"
—1:20.989.
Just a simple string of numbers. Plain and unadorned. Listed on a blank page, it might not seem to possess any inherent value. But the profound significance hidden within those digits crashed down upon the paddock with devastating, apocalyptic force.
Throughout the entire Australian Grand Prix weekend, the very first, and absolutely only, non-Mercedes-Benz driver to smash through the 1:21 barrier had finally emerged:
Kai. The defending World Champion.
No further explanation was required. That single timing sheet was more than enough to prove absolutely everything.
The most unbelievable, most incomprehensible part of it all? On his very first flying lap in Q3, Kai had already extracted every ounce of potential, violently slamming his head against the absolute ceiling of the SF90. Yet, Hamilton's relentless, arrogant pursuit of breaking his own fastest lap time—displaying the absolute dominance of a true king—had somehow acted as the ultimate, high-octane fuel for Kai. On his second flying lap in Q3, Kai had miraculously improved his time by a staggering 0.442 seconds—
A direct, vertical ascension to godhood.
When you made the comparison, the sheer magnitude of the shock hit you squarely in the face. Only then could you clearly comprehend exactly what kind of monumental, reality-breaking feat Kai had just accomplished on that flying lap.
However... pole position still belonged to Hamilton.
Borreipaire's entire head was buzzing. He felt as though a massive, suffocating boulder had been dropped onto his chest, making it impossible to breathe. If Kai had managed to wring that level of impossible performance out of the car, pushing past the absolute limits of physics, and still couldn't catch Mercedes-Benz... exactly how terrifyingly fast was the W10? How agonizingly far away was Mars from Earth?
Letting out a slow breath, Borreipaire straightened his spine.
The greater the difficulty, the stronger their resolve. The fiercer the storm, the higher they would soar. Perhaps they would fail, but they would never, ever bow their heads, and they would absolutely never surrender.
"Super lap! You're P3, Kai," Borreipaire announced. "Unbelievable job. God, you make me feel entirely inadequate."
P3?
After a flawless, agonizingly perfect lap where he had burned himself out completely... the result was still only P3. Just P3.
The reality was glaringly obvious. Mercedes-Benz had locked out the front row.
"Ha." Surprisingly, Kai sounded neither depressed nor regretful. He let out a bright, unrestrained laugh. "And what about Mercedes-Benz? Mercedes-Benz is giving us plenty of motivation to keep fighting! So, is this inadequacy, or is this greatness?"
It wasn't disappointment, nor was it satisfaction. It was a burning sense of anticipation. The battle was still raging. The challenge was still ongoing. What could possibly be more thrilling than that?
That lap was simply the answer to his own internal battle. But it wasn't the finish line, and it wasn't the final answer. Their true challenge was just opening a brand-new chapter.
This was the F1 he had been waiting for. If Mercedes-Benz had simply collapsed into a pathetic heap and surrendered the throne without a fight, the challenge would have lost all its flavor. If Red Bull had meekly accepted defeat and willingly played the role of a background extra, the brilliant drama of this game would cease to exist. The true magic of competitive sports stems from continuously breaking your own limits, but it also stems from facing down the overwhelming strength of your opponents.
Kai was dead serious. He was genuinely looking forward to this. His anticipation had reached an unprecedented, historic high.
That relaxed, teasing tone completely broke through Borreipaire's defenses, bringing a genuine, full-blown smile to his face.
Then, a third voice crackled over the radio. "Kai, it's Mattia."
It was Binotto.
"An absolutely brilliant lap. Perfect! Everything was perfect! You make all of us feel inadequate. You executed an unbelievable job out there. Leave the rest to us."
The 2019 F1 Season Opener. Qualifying for the Australian Grand Prix officially concluded.
Hamilton secured pole position with absolute, undisputed ease, thoroughly dominating every Free Practice and Qualifying session. Bottas secured second place, locking out the front row for Mercedes-Benz.
Kai was third, Verstappen was fourth, and Leclerc was fifth.
Among the 'Big Three', Albon was the only driver to fall behind. It was a surprise, but also entirely expected. If Kai's miraculous rookie season was that easy to replicate, miracles wouldn't be called miracles anymore.
Everything had proceeded exactly according to Wolff's master plan. Logically speaking, Hamilton and Mercedes-Benz should have been the undisputed, sole highlight of this "boring weekend," completing their total domination with devastating force. However, when Qualifying ended, the entire motorsport world was violently sucked into the hurricane that was Kai.
It was true; Hamilton and Mercedes-Benz had erected an insurmountable benchmark—
Hamilton: 1:20.486.
Bottas: 1:20.598.
Mercedes-Benz had showcased an unbelievable, terrifying level of dominance at Albert Park. Wave after wave of shock and awe swept across the entire paddock like a tsunami.
Just as Wolff had stated, the numbers don't lie. In F1, the numbers are absolutely everything. This is a sport where victory and defeat are measured entirely by data.
Verstappen: 0.834 seconds behind Hamilton.
Leclerc: 0.956 seconds behind Hamilton.
Moving further down the grid, the driver in sixth place was already over a full second slower than Hamilton's pole time. In fact, it was significantly more than a second. Grosjean was a staggering 1.340 seconds behind.
This was the true performance gap. A gap visible to the naked eye. A gap indicating they weren't even competing in the same tier, let alone the same class. It was exactly like a boxing match; the weight classes were so fundamentally different that comparison was impossible. Mercedes-Benz had crushed the field with absolute, overwhelming tyranny. The rest of the paddock could only stare in awe and envy.
Last season, Mercedes-Benz had already demonstrated incredible dominance at Albert Park. But this season... who could have possibly predicted that Mercedes-Benz would take an even more massive leap forward, completely leaving the entire paddock choking on their dust? The gap hadn't shrunk; it had expanded massively! They had utterly, decisively dropped every single competitor!
Judging purely by the final Qualifying results: Mercedes-Benz occupied Tier 1. Ferrari and Red Bull occupied Tier 2. Everyone else occupied Tier 3.
The most absurd statistic of the day? Perez, driving the Williams, sat dead last in Q1 with a time of 1:26.067. His gap to Hamilton's pole time was a mind-boggling five seconds.
Outside of Mercedes-Benz, not a single team was capable of breaking the 1:20 barrier. Forget about breaking it; they couldn't even get close. Every driver from Verstappen downwards was still desperately chasing Hamilton's pole record from last year—and failing. Meanwhile, Mercedes-Benz had already launched their spaceship toward Mars.
Yet, precisely within this narrative of absolute despair, a single figure emerged. A figure who defied logic and completely shattered the established balance of power.
—Kai.
Not only did he shatter the 1:21 barrier with a blistering single lap; he outpaced Verstappen by 0.322 seconds, and outpaced Leclerc by 0.444 seconds.
He existed entirely within a tier of his own, walking a lonely, bloody path amidst the vicious, cutthroat competition.
So, what exactly was going on? Did the Ferrari actually possess the underlying potential to challenge Mercedes-Benz, and Leclerc simply failed to extract it?
It was certainly a plausible theory. Leclerc had looked visibly uncomfortable throughout the entire weekend. Transitioning from Sauber to Ferrari was a massive leap, and he was clearly still in the adaptation phase. Many fans and industry experts arrived at this exact conclusion, firmly believing that Leclerc was holding Ferrari back, much like Albon was holding Red Bull back.
In their eyes: Mercedes-Benz was Tier 1, Ferrari was Tier 2, Red Bull was Tier 3, and the rest were Tier 4, with Williams bringing up the rear in a tier entirely of their own. At least, that seemed to be the reality at Albert Park.
However, the true motorsport professionals, led by Martin Brundle, heavily disagreed.
They believed Ferrari and Red Bull were essentially dead even, with Red Bull perhaps holding a microscopic advantage. Leclerc had likely already extracted the absolute maximum performance he was currently capable of delivering. It wasn't that Verstappen hadn't driven well enough; it was that Kai had executed a mind-bending, superhuman performance, brutally and forcibly wringing performance out of the SF90 that technically shouldn't have existed.
Throughout the entire Australian Grand Prix weekend, Ferrari's agonizing struggles were obvious to anyone watching. They had every reason to believe this wasn't a Ferrari smokescreen; it was a very real, very severe crisis. The pit wall had been desperately hunting for solutions all weekend. In the end, it was Kai who had once again delivered an unbelievable, miraculous feat.
The proof was staring them right in the face. You only had to look at Kai's final Q3 times. The difference between his two flying laps was stark.
First, the final lap time was a massive anomaly. Throughout the entire weekend, Kai's single-lap pace had never even come close to that height. It was an isolated, freak occurrence. Driven by an unbelievable, logic-defying performance, he had violently forced his way into the 1:20 bracket.
Second, even after executing an absolutely perfect, flawless lap, he was still 0.503 seconds behind Hamilton. There was no denying it: Mercedes-Benz was truly an untouchable, top-tier entity.
Because of this realization, the entire social media landscape was instantly sucked into a roaring, mountain-shattering hurricane. Netizens descended into a state of absolute frenzy, their blood boiling with pure, unadulterated hype.
"I knew it! The Defending Champion is still the Defending Champion for a damn good reason!"