Jeddah Circuit. Dead silence.
Everyone looked up, necks craning, staring at the giant screen where a blinding purple number burned into their retinas:
1:26.600
Below it was the second place, Max Vesper: 1:27.400.
Gap: +0.800 seconds.
In a 100-meter sprint, 0.8 seconds is a blink.
In FX Qualifying, especially on a short track like Jeddah, 0.1 seconds is a gap. 0.3 seconds is a beating.
But 0.8 seconds?
That is Despair.
That is taking the faces of every World Champion on the grid and rubbing them against the coarse asphalt until they bleed.
"My God..."
In the commentary booth, Nico Rosberg, a former World Champion, dropped his microphone. His voice trembled, as if he had just witnessed an alien invasion.
"This isn't FX anymore. Ye Tian just split the grid into 'Formula X' and 'Formula 1.5'. He is driving a spaceship. Everyone else is driving a tractor."
Crimson Energy Garage.
Max Vesper stared at the screen. His face went from pale to purple.
He had driven the perfect lap. He risked his life. And he was almost a full second slower?
"That Hawk..." Vesper gritted his teeth, digging his nails into his palms. "What engine is in there? Is it a rocket?!"
At that moment, Ye Tian's voice crackled over the global broadcast, breaking the suffocating silence. It was lazy. Bored.
"Gary. How was the lap time? I felt a bit of a slide in the last corner. Might have been slow."
PFFT!
The Team Hawk engineers nearly vomited blood.
Slow?
You just gapped the Four-Time World Champion by a second, and you think you were slow? How are other people supposed to live?
Koma fell to his knees, incoherent. "Ye... you are a god... no, you are our ancestor! Pole! Another Pole! We completely won!"
Ten minutes later. Parc Fermé.
The Top 3 cars parked in front of the position boards.
The GIA Technical Delegate and Christian (Crimson Energy Team Principal) sprinted toward Ye Tian's steaming Hawk car.
They didn't believe it.
Without cheating, how could a Hawk be that fast?
"Check it! Check the floor! Check the suspension!" Christian roared.
However, as the mob approached the car, the noise died down.
It became quiet.
Grave-like quiet.
A GIA official pointed a shaking finger at the right-side tires of Ye Tian's car.
"This... look at this..."
Everyone looked.
On the sidewalls of the four Pirelli Soft tires, the bright yellow "P Zero" logo was gone.
In its place was a layer of shocking White and Blue paint.
It was the paint from the Jeddah circuit concrete barriers.
And it wasn't just the tires.
The rim edges. The side mirror casings. Even the endplates of the front wing.
They were all coated in a smooth, uniform layer of wall paint.
It wasn't a scratch from a crash. It was a perfect, continuous layer.
What did this mean?
It meant that for the entire lap, Ye Tian didn't just accidentally graze the wall.
He drove against the wall.
"Zero millimeters..."
Louis Hamson walked over. He took off his sunglasses, staring at the painted tire with a look of pure reverence.
"He used the wall as a guide rail. One millimeter closer, the suspension snaps. One millimeter further, he loses grip. He was threading a needle at 300 km/h."
"That's not human precision. Is he a machine?"
Christian, the Crimson Energy boss, opened his mouth to scream "Illegal," but his throat went dry.
Cheating?
If this is cheating, go find a driver brave enough to cheat like this without dying.
This was pure, despair-inducing technical domination.
Ye Tian climbed out of the cockpit. He took off his helmet, shaking out his sweat-soaked hair.
He looked at the stunned crowd staring at his tires. He smirked and pointed at the white paint.
"What do you think? I told you I'd paint the walls with my color."
"The paint quality here is decent. Quite durable."
CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!
The photographers went insane.
The image of Ye Tian leaning against his "painted" wheel, smiling effortlessly, became an instant classic.
The headline was already written: The Man Who Painted The Walls.
The Royal Yacht Club VIP Box.
The air was frozen solid.
Prince Salman slumped on the sofa. He looked at the arrogant young Chinese man on the giant screen. Then he looked at the pile of expensive champagne prepared for his celebration.
Irony.
Pure irony.
Minutes ago, he mocked Ye Tian as a "morning flower." Ye Tian just slapped him with a 0.8-second backhand.
"Your Highness..." The butler whispered, terrified. "The bet... do we still honor it? That is our sovereign oil field. Flying another country's flag... it's..."
"Shut up!"
Prince Salman smashed another glass. Shards flew everywhere.
He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving.
He was arrogant, but he was royalty. He valued his reputation above all. If he reneged on a bet now, he would be the laughingstock of the European elite.
"I accept the loss."
The Prince gritted his teeth, squeezing the words out.
"Go! Notify the field managers!"
"Plant the flags! Plant them all!"
"If I lose, I lose like a man! Don't let that Chinese kid look down on me!"
One hour later.
Drone footage exploded across global social media.
On the outskirts of Jeddah, in the massive oil fields, thousands of pumpjacks were churning.
And on every single rig, a bright Five-Star Red Flag was fluttering in the desert night wind.
It was a sea of red.
Post-Qualifying Interview Zone.
Ye Tian had just arrived when he was swarmed.
Snow Jiang was at the front. She was wearing her jacket (obediently), but her beautiful eyes were shining with undisguised worship.
"Ye Tian! Congratulations on another Pole! That lap was a miracle!" Snow excitedly shoved the microphone forward. "Everyone online is calling you 'The Wall Painter.' What do you have to say for tomorrow's race?"
Ye Tian opened his mouth to reply.
Suddenly, a voice dripping with sarcasm interrupted them.
"Miracle? I'd call it something shady."
The crowd turned.
It was Esteban. Ye Tian's teammate.
He had qualified P12. He didn't even make Q3. His face was twisted with jealousy and bitterness.
"Ye, I don't believe your car is the same as mine."
Esteban stood in front of the cameras, publicly destroying his own team's unity.
"Your straight-line speed is 10 km/h faster. Your cornering is impossible. I suspect the team gave you all the resources. Maybe even... illegal modifications."
"Without those, how could you beat me?"
The crowd gasped.
Civil war? This was juicy drama!
Snow Jiang turned pale with anger. She wanted to argue back.
Ye Tian stopped her.
He turned slowly. He looked at his clown of a teammate. The smile on his face vanished.
Replaced by a coldness that made the temperature drop.
"How?"
Ye Tian took a step forward, looking down at Esteban.
"Because I dare to drive against the wall. And you only dare to eat my exhaust."
"Since you think it's unfair..."
Ye Tian leaned in close to Esteban's ear.
But he spoke loud enough for the boom mics to catch it.
"Tomorrow. At the race start."
"I will show you what real unfairness looks like."
"I will let you experience some... 'brotherly love' from your teammate."
"I hope your life insurance is paid up, Esteban."
Ye Tian patted Esteban's stiff shoulder.
He turned, wrapped an arm around the stunned Snow Jiang, and walked away.
"Come on, Reporter Jiang. Let me take you to see my 'masterpiece' at the oil field."
He left Esteban standing there, alone. Cold sweat soaked the Frenchman's race suit.
He suddenly had a feeling.
Tomorrow... might be the darkest day of his career.