My Formula 1 System

Thud-thum! Thud-thum! THUD-THUM!

It sounded like a thousand hearts beating in sync, his padded helmet emphasizing the bass.

Boom-bada-BOOM! Boom-bada-BOOM!

[1ST POSITION]

Luca dismissed the system prompt as he struggled to leave the cockpit, adrenaline saturating him to the extent he believed he might explode if he did not let out a primitive roar.

The vibrations in Stadhaven reverberated through his chest, moved to the rest of his body, and fidgeted his fingers, making it difficult to even remove his helmet.

**You did it! You fucking did it! That's P1, Luca! THAT'S P1! WHAT A FUCKING DRIVE!**

The crowd swelled once Luca emerged from the Ferrari.

DUH–DUH—DAHH! DUH–DUH–DAHH!

He ripped off the helmet with an exhale of relief. The cheers bled into his ears like a thunderstorm, and he could barely even hear his own breath.

"...LUCA RENNICK—HAS DONE IT!! OUT OF NOWHERE, IN THE FINAL SECTOR—HE'S SNATCHED VICTORY FROM SQUADRA CORSE IN THE MOST UNBELIEVABLE FASHION! HE'S WON THE BRITISH GRAND PRIX…!"

"....OH MY WORD—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! WHAT DID WE JUST WITNESS?! LUCA RENNICK PULLED A MIRACLE THROUGH SECTOR FOUR! IT WAS LUIGI'S WIN! IT DEFINITELY WAS! BUT RENNICK DETONATED PAST HIM! THAT'S A MASTERCLASS IN TIMING, STRATEGY, AND BLOODY INSANIT…!"

"WOOOOHHHHHHH!"

Trampos pit wall was filled with tears, laughter, and crew members jumping into the arms of one another. Some just dropped to their knees in stunned disbelief with their mouths open as they watched the screen—watched Luca emerge victorious—like a church miracle had just occurred.

Sync Buff was the hero of the day for Luca, helping him just as he wanted, and he breezed past Luigi at the final lap, at the final sector just before the waving checkered flag and the finish line. Luca couldn't be more happy it was a smooth execution as the system informed him that the Sync Buff had expired.

"...UNBELIEVABLE! ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE! RENNICK WINS AGAIN—TWO IN A ROW! FIRST QATAR, NOW THE UK! THE YOUNG MAN'S ON FIRE AND HE'S DRAGGING TRAMPOS RACING TO THE STARS...!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

"...LUCA RENNICK! WHAT. A. DRIVE. He took a car that shouldn't be on top, stared down a world-class opponent in Antonio Luigi, and STOLE P1 right in the dying breaths of the race!"

"...And for Antonio, it's yet another agonizing heartbreak—Austria all over again! Back then, it was Ailbeart snatching it at the final moment… now it's Luca, screaming down Sector 4 like a bullet from the gods. Luigi hasn't won a single Grand Prix this year, and now twice—twice—he's been passed when the trophy was almost in his hands! You can feel the devastation from Squadra Corse's garage—absolute silence and disbelief..."

Squadra Corse didn't even have the energy to rant or complain. They all fell silent after Luca snatched P1 with the most ruthless DRS activation ever witnessed. Their hearts were thumping with grief, sadness, and some tension, as if the race was still ongoing and could somehow still be saved. But it wasn't. The checkered flag had waved—and it waved for HIM.

"But... how? That chassis is Scuderia Z24. How...?" Mr. Campanella asked softly, almost as if the question was directed at the gods of racing themselves. The red smoke of Trampos flares had begun to saturate the air, dyeing the skies once ruled by Squadra's premature black smoke.

All around him, his engineers stood with clenched jaws, staring blankly at the live timing and refusing to accept it. Trampos wasn't supposed to win here. On paper, Luca's car was decades behind the sheer sophistication of the Mercedes Luigi drove. The Z24 chassis was dated, unbalanced, primitive by top-tier standards. Their wind tunnel figures didn't come close. Their telemetry setups were laughably basic. And yet, Rennick was able to take them to victory for the second GP in a row.

"Either Rennick's driving on a level we've never seen before… or Trampos is hiding their upgrades. We will ask for an investigation to be sure."

Everyone stopped speaking when Antonio Luigi arrived. His helmet was still on, and his frame radiated frustration. With a bitter cocktail of rage, disbelief, and helplessness swirling in him, the Italian marched past the crew without a glance and went straight into their debrief room.

Every mechanic, every strategist, every crew member stood frozen like statues, unwilling to be the first to meet his gaze or trigger the storm still brooding inside him.

"...Meanwhile, look at the scenes in the Trampos garage! They can barely believe it themselves! That's two Grand Prix wins on the trot, and it's LUCA—LUCA RENNICK!—who's done it! From a midfield project to front-runners in the span of a few races! How the hell is this happening?! Their engineering is rudimentary compared to the titans of the paddock, and yet, they've just won Stadhaven! STADHAVEN...!"

"....And let's talk about the championship, shall we? That's his third win of the season. Third! While others bickered, crashed, or crumbled, he delivered. He's now comfortably leading the Drivers' Standings. There's no debates to this now, no hypotheticals because LUCA RENNICK is your new frontrunner. Can we finally admit what we're seeing? This isn't just a hot streak… this is actually a title campaign he's running..."

"...Think about this: Trampos started their legacy in F1 as a dark horse, barely clinging to the points. And now? With Luca's brilliance behind the wheel and that car punching miles above its weight, they're now contending. The Constructors' board just shook violently, and they're now real contenders in a fight no one thought they'd enter...!"

Luca had a wide smile on his face as he celebrated with the Trampos crowd and the team who stormed the track too. The Italian supporters couldn't speak after his victory because he had just shunned them down with the win. So, the moment belonged to Germany alone as Luca revelled in the glory, celebrating for the first time this season in all his three wins.

From one Trampos grandstand to another, Luca made his way like a victorious gladiator, arms wide, soaking in the eruption of German pride that shook the very rails of Stadhaven. He pointed to every section painted in red and yellow, saluting the fans who had chanted his name through the final laps with desperation and belief.

"...Luca Rennick. Remember the name. From Qatar's blistering triumph to today's poetic masterpiece in the UK. He's doing something special here, something historic. He's not here to participate, Rennick's here to take it all for himself...!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

When it was time for the podium and King Thomas himself stepped forward with the medals, trophy and the crowd hushed in anticipation, the moment was met with stunned silence.

Antonio Luigi, the Black Dread, refused the podium, the historical protocol, the royal ceremony. He did not emerge from Squadra's garage, a great disrespect.

Ailbeart Moireach, hearing Luigi's omission, followed suit despite desperate pleas from his own Haddock crew. He would not stand alone beside Luca Rennick, unwilling to occupy the secondary step as though admitting inferiority.

The FIA went ludicrous about this break in decorum, calling it one of the most disgraceful acts seen in modern racing. The podium was more than a formality for Formula 1; it was a ritual, a tribute to the sport's highest honour, and a gesture of respect to the hosting nation and its government or monarchs. To snub King Thomas, who had personally come to crown the victors, was a diplomatic embarrassment, not just a sporting one.

That Ailbeart, a Briton born and raised, joined in the omission only deepened the scandal. His refusal wasn't out of protest against the nation, but a visceral rejection of being seen as second-best. This was clear proof that the competitiveness this season had turned venomous, with pride and ego now outweighing honour and heritage.

"...And it seems… yes, confirmation now—the runner-ups are refusing the podium! Antonio Luigi has not emerged from the Squadra garage, and now word is Ailbeart Moireach won't come out either. Are we about to witness something utterly unprecedented? Will Luca Rennick have to take the podium alone...!"

The absence of the runner-ups for the podium caused some havoc. The FIA knew they could not drag out Antonio Luigi and Ailbeart Moireach against their will. And so, Luca would have to pop his champagne alone. This was just crazy, something that had never been done in like almost a decade.

Before it was time, Luca slipped away into the canopies. From there, he entered the tunnel and navigated to the suites. There were security officials, but on seeing him, they let him through. He found the VIP suite where his loved ones were supposed to be.

Inside, Mrs. Hawthorne was arguing with Mr. Schafer about something. Sophia and Isabella, as expected, were at different ends of the room, but both were on their feet, videoing the podium setup and expecting Luca to climb any moment from now. Adrian was quietly on his phone, Charlotte was strangely asleep on the sofa, while Henry was jumping up and down.

At the sound of the opening door, they were shocked to see the same race-winner right there at the doorpost.

Luca's eyes rested and focused on his girlfriend alone. "Come," he said.

Silence and confusion stunned the family, Isabella most especially. But since Luca emitted a sense of urgency, she quickly dropped her things and scurried towards him. Luca held out his hand and she took it. Together, they moved back into the corridors while others stared in awe as they left the door open.

Mr. Avilés was surprised to see Luca returning not with a TP or another official, but with a young woman. The FIA president, who was still recovering from the chaos of a disrupted ceremony, couldn't help but raise a brow.

Was Rennick seriously intent on turning the royal podium into a lovey-dovey affair?

But then again, with both runner-ups refusing their steps, who was he to deny the winner a bit of sentiment? He leaned to his aide and muttered with a faint smirk, "Well… that's a stunning young lady."

"Thank you," Isabella whispered unknowingly, blushing all the way.

King Thomas, dignified and unshaken by the absence of two drivers, stepped forward and did what was necessary. The ceremony had to go on for the crowd, and for the sport's tradition.

While Luca shook hands with all podium officials, he took Isabella's hand and helped her to the center stage. Isabella couldn't believe she had just touched the King.

Once she stood at the center stage, she felt her heart skip and her breath seize. From that height, the full stretch of the circuit revealed itself in a manner that the sight from the suite could never. It was a monumental coliseum of roaring grandstands that ran almost 6km, tier upon tier of flags and faces, a staggering scale.

She felt uneasy knowing the cameras were broadcasting her to the entire world.

"You've earned this, Luca. I adore your driving," the King said to Luca after draping the medal around his neck.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

With the medal resting against his chest, Luca turned and gently held Isabella by her waist, guiding her to his side as the silver pedestal bearing the British Grand Prix trophy was unveiled.

Together, they gripped the handles of the prestigious prize, and lifted it the moment fireworks and gold confetti erupted.

To seal the dream, both lovers shared a breathtaking kiss as golden flurry danced around them, and as the world watched.

[Congratulations on winning a race]