Chapter 103: He was really brave
For Wu Shi, pushing the tires to their absolute limit for an entire lap meant one thing—catastrophic wear. Every corner would squeeze out every last bit of grip, skating on the razor's edge of slip. A few such corners and the tire would deform so badly it'd turn to junk.
The team's plan was simple: two stable pushes. Set a time faster than 1:32.169 on both laps, secure a second-row start for Race 2, and guarantee pole for Race 3. Safe. Conservative. Reasonable.
But Wu Shi had no intention of being reasonable.
Two factors made him ignore the plan:
First, the final set of new tires could only be unsealed in Race 3. Which meant for that race, everyone would be on equal tires. And when the equipment was equal, it came down to the driver. The rawest, purest skill.
Second, if he could beat Blomqvist on worn tires, without slipstream, he would prove something crucial—something F1 teams cared about more than anything:
He wasn't just fast. He was special.
And someone in F1 was already watching him.
Buzz! Swish!
On the main straight, the engine unleashed everything it had. With a low-drag setup, the top speed shot past even Silverstone's numbers.
Turn 1 approached fast—an obtuse-angle corner, smoother than 90 degrees, encouraging higher speed.
This was Wu Shi's territory.
Seven years of racing had carved a reflex into his nerves: use every grain of grip, every centimeter of track, to carve the fastest possible arc.
Whoosh!
He clipped the curb. The stiffened chassis snapped back onto the asphalt.
All four wheels hooked up instantly. Torque slammed into the rear axle, the front tires pulled the nose, and the car exploded out of Turn 1.
In the pit room, Alan rubbed his fingers together—hard.
The crew stared motionless at the monitor.
He exhaled heavily.
He knew. Even if the others didn't—he knew this guy wasn't following orders.
He wasn't setting up a safe lap.
He was hunting Tom Blomqvist.
Van Amersfoort's car isn't as strong as JAWC's! You have no slipstream! How are you going to match him?
Even Verstappen needed a tow to hit those numbers. Without it, there was no way…
The monitors vibrated from the rumble of the car hitting bumps.
Wu Shi didn't care. He couldn't care. Being faster meant being perfect—no hesitation, no corrections, no safety margin.
Break all three sectors, or go home.
He replayed the racing line in his mind. Calculating. Adapting. F3 lines were different from F1—higher ride height, less speed, more aggression allowed.
But he hadn't forgotten how that American crashed earlier.
The grass and sand beyond the kerbs were deadly. One wheel off the track and grip would vanish for an instant—enough to send the car spinning.
His skull felt like it was burning. His eyes, however, were ice.
Swish!
Turn 2. Near-perfect.
The rightmost tire skimmed the absolute edge of the track—sidewall brushing weeds.
Dust erupted behind him.
No cameras caught it; only a dirty plume appeared on the broadcast.
The commentator blurted, "He's on the grass? No, the car's stable—Wu continues! First timing split incoming!"
Alan leaned over the data display.
Timing split flashed.
He slammed the comms:
"0.143 slower! Only 0.143!"
And the room erupted.
Because everyone knew—Blomqvist had used slipstream to get his time, and this segment favored drafting.
If Wu Shi was only 0.143 behind without a tow, then he was in striking distance.
"Unbelievable! He's 0.1 quicker than his previous quali lap—without slipstream! How is this possible?!"
Meanwhile, Blomqvist had already returned to the pits.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, then froze mid-motion as Wu Shi's split time appeared.
He shot toward the monitor.
He swore the lap he'd just done was one of the best of his career.
He'd outdone Prema's car using everything—experience, perfect racing line… even an overclocked engine map.
Yet Wu Shi—
If Wu Shi matched sectors two and three, the pole could slip from his hands.
He watched the broadcast in stunned silence.
Wu Shi's car danced on the limit—nearly losing control every turn yet never actually stepping beyond the line.
Drivers noticed details the audience couldn't.
Racing is a sport decided in millimeters.
And Wu Shi left none of those millimeters as margin.
"If he drives like this on a street circuit," Blomqvist muttered, "I'd respect him for life."
The second sector appeared.
-0.121
He'd clawed it all back—and more.
At that speed, a wrong steering angle by a single degree meant crashing into the guardrail.
Most drivers instinctively left space—those tiny invisible buffers of survival.
But Wu Shi?
He erased the buffer.
He trusted his hands, his tires, and his courage more than the track itself.
Blomqvist exhaled. "He… he's really brave."
Whoosh!
Car #32 crossed the finish line.
1:31.632
Twenty-three thousandths faster.
And every one of those thousandths was carved out of pure nerve.