My Formula 1 System

Luca spent most of his week training—keeping up with his Daily Routine and Tasks, while spending some reasonable time at the simulators. He had driven physically and raced nearly thirty times around a modest training track at the Trampos Racing headquarters, pushing himself to refine every corner and apex.

Each lap was a chance to shave off milliseconds, and the constant repetition made every gear shift feel like second nature.

Just as his System had warned, attribute and skills progression now required 3.5% more effort due to the Intermediate Bundle, and Luca felt the burn. He noticed how little EXP his attributes gained, forcing him to put extra effort into his Strength and Agility to satisfy his OCD. He wanted all his Attributes to break into double figures, making sure no single stat would lag behind.

Now, his Attributes looked like this:

[Strength: 10

Stamina: 11

Endurance: 16

Agility: 10

Intelligence: 10 ]

His training scheme was tight, and so was Mr. Grant. The man was a no-nonsense Team Principal with a military-like approach to training. He demanded precision, discipline, and unwavering focus from all the racers under his guidance. Luca found his methods rigid, but helpful, believing more Team Principals in this racing endeavor might turn out worse.

The season was already considered here by many, and Luca could feel the tension in the air. The tension was thick and sensitive, but it wasn't what he had had in mind. Yes, all the staff, training managers and engineers have upped their work and efficiency, seriousness etched on everyone's face.

But Luca's dreams had always been more tense, making him believe he'd have to face the press anytime he left his quarters, a barrage of questions being thrown at him.

Instead, the atmosphere remained cool, with warm rays of the sun beaming down on the headquarters every day as the time to the first race approached.

Maybe it's because I'm in F2, Luca thought. In F1, I'm sure there's more to this.

Speaking of F1, Luca's mind drifted toward the highest division of this motorsport. F2 was just a feeder series, and its season always ran in tandem with F1's. This week, both championships were kicking off together, and although F2 usually raced before F1, the schedule this time was flipped. That gave Luca the rare chance to attend the opening F1 race at the renowned Bergwaldring Circuit.

He didn't even have to buy the ticket himself—Mr. Fisher had taken care of everything. "You all need to attend the first F1 race," Fisher had insisted, "it's essential prep before ours kicks off the next day." With that, the Trampos Racing headquarters' bus took Luca and the other three drivers to the circuit.

Luca hadn't yet spoken much to the team's lead driver—the German number-one racer of Trampos Racing—though they had trained together for two days. Luca kept the relationship strictly professional for now, preferring to observe from a distance.

The German's experience and skill were undeniable, and Luca couldn't help but wonder if he would eventually be of value to his teammate–or if this his teammate would keep carrying the team.

The bus arrived at the Bergwaldring Circuit where a spectacle of fans surpassing the 100,000 mark were cheering already. As he had hoped, Luca and the team were seated in a more prestigious stand away from the normal people. He glared around in search of maybe Harry's team watching the game, unsure if Harry was even selected as a periodic driver.

Remembering the race in Stadhaven that had nearly cost him his life, Luca wondered why F1 teams had raced there during preseason. Was it some form of competitive training, or a way to test out the newly revamped Stadhaven Circuit? He mulled over the thought as they settled into the stands, waiting for the race to begin.

Luca paid close attention to the race as it began, studying the intricate choreography of the cars as they maneuvered around the track. The roar of the engines filled the air, a symphony of power and precision that set his heart racing.

He observed the drivers' tactics, their aggressive overtakes, and the subtle nuances of their racing lines, noting how each competitor pushed their vehicle to the limit. This was peak motorsport racing and Luca could tell. The mastery on display was stunning, leaving him with a bittersweet wish that he'd recorded his own drives to compare with this artistry he was witnessing.

Luca almost cheered aloud when Nevada HanSama—the team his father was involved with—executed a spectacular overtake. He bit back the urge, suddenly aware of his surroundings. It felt surreal to be sitting here, in the stands of an F1 race again.

From their prestigious vantage point, it was like having front-row seats to a thunderous concert, the engines growling like heavy musical instruments, and tires screeching like cymbals. The vibrant colors of the cars blurring as they raced past was what instigated the excitement in people, and Luca found himself cheering within.

As the race settled into a rhythm, Luca relaxed into his seat, letting the sound of engines ebb into the background. He glanced sideways and was surprised to find his teammate beside him—the one he hadn't yet spoken to properly. Ansel Hahn, 22 years old, had a quiet demeanor that often made him seem distant or lost in thought, though his sharp eyes were always focused, taking in every detail.

Luca had heard bits about him; despite his calm and almost aloof presence, Ansel was known for his precision on the track. Yet, off the track, he seemed almost like a ghost—present but not entirely there.

Believing it was the perfect time to break the silence, Luca cleared his throat and initiated the conversation. "My dream team is Nevada. What about you?" He half-expected to be met with silence.

To his surprise, Ansel responded, turning to him with a calm, neutral expression. "That's actually my second choice. My first is Squadra," he said in an even tone.

Luca's mind instantly flashed back to the incident with a Squadra Corse driver, but he quickly dismissed it. There was no denying Squadra Corse's reputation. They were an exceptional team, often locked in fierce competition with Nevada HanSama and Jackson Racing. In fact, many considered Squadra Corse to be the superior team.

Luca, though, was drawn to Nevada purely for the nostalgia—his father's legacy fueling his loyalty. But in the eyes of most, Squadra Corse stood out as the stronger contender.

"How long is the board giving you to stay in F2?" Luca asked. "I hear you've held this position for a while."

Ansel bit his lip briefly, his gaze steady as he exhaled. "This season—this year. If I don't perform exceptionally, the feeder is where my career ends," he replied bluntly. "You, on the other hand, still have some time. And you've already been granted the opportunity to be a periodic driver early on."

"I'm glad I got lucky joining a team that needed a good first driver," Luca said, then paused as doubt flickered in his mind. Was 'luck' the right word? He recalled the endless grind after squeezing and clawing his way into Grey-Husson's Academy. He wouldn't have made it here without sheer effort.

Shaking off the thought, he shrugged and added, "I just hope I get good enough this season and make it to the next level."

Ansel smiled, looking somewhat astonished by Luca's bold words. It was rare for a driver to make it out of the feeder series in his first season, but not impossible. Deciding not to disregard Luca's hopes, Ansel nodded. "I hear you're only eighteen, so be careful. Formula 1 racing isn't completely about fun or sportsmanship, either on or off the track," he said.

"Let's say it's just like a simmering undercurrent, it's kind of a silent bad energy between people. That's to be expected when the stakes are so high. They pay a lot, and that demands even more sacrifice. You get what I mean?"

"I think I do," Luca replied, though his mind was still reeling from Ansel's words. Bad energy? he thought. "What would you do about the situation if you—when, when you make it?" The unsettling glimpse into Formula 1 caught Luca off-guard. It was hard to believe that the drivers on the track were entangled in a cold war behind the scenes.

Ansel smirked mischievously, his eyes following the blur of single-seaters streaking by. "I'll have no choice but to play the game," he said. "To survive and win, you adapt—there's no other way. Look at the glass rooms over there." He gave a subtle nod toward the VIP suites overlooking the track. "The team principals, sponsors, agents... they're all having their own race.

Behind the cheers and podium celebrations, it's a battle for influence. It's about getting the best tech, producing the most powerful engines, the sharpest strategies, even the best treatment. If you're not aligned with the right people, you might end up racing against more than just the clock."

Luca blinked, stunned by the reality Ansel had laid out. What the heck? "So, it's not just about skill, is it?"

Ansel gave a calm nod. "Don't get me wrong—skill matters in F1. But it's not everything." He studied Luca for a moment, raising a brow. "So, do you think you're ready to be one of the youngest F1 racers? You seem a bit shaken by all this."

Luca leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers over his stomach, sinking deeper into thought. Best treatment, he repeated silently. "I hope F2 isn't like that. I'm ready to adapt... but not right away—not in my first race. I've never physically raced 50-plus laps in one go."

Ansel gave a slight chuckle. "Don't worry. F2 is a bit more peaceful—and safer. The competition grows tougher every year, but it's still more balanced compared to F1. Here, the engines and tech are mostly the same, so skill makes a bigger difference. If there's any place where talent still completely holds sway, it's here."

Luca snickered, casting a sly glance at Ansel. "So, as my teammate, are you a racer of skill or a racer of good treatment?" he asked with a playful grin.

Ansel smiled briefly. "Anyone can turn out to be both," he replied, his eyes drifting back to the track as the race progressed beyond its halfway point.

On the leaderboard, Marko Ignatova of Squadra Corse held the lead, just a few seconds ahead of Jackson Racing's Marcellus Rodnick. The third spot was occupied by another Squadra Corse driver—Antonio Luigi, the same racer who had run over Luca. Luca watched as Luigi's face flashed across the massive display screen.

Nevada HanSama, disappointingly, wasn't represented in the top four. But Luca noticed a certain name creeping up: Hank Rice, running fifth and steadily gaining ground. The tension thickened as the 52nd lap of the Bergwaldring Circuit neared its end.

Luca leaned forward, eyes glued to the live feed on the giant screen as the battle on the track intensified. Ignatova, with his commanding lead, danced through the circuit's intricate curves, his every move measured and precise. But Rodnick wasn't backing down, pushing his Jackson Racing machine to its limits, inching closer with every turn.

Fourth place was occupied by a Haddock Racing driver, but Luca could tell he was losing momentum. Nevada's Hank Rice was right on his tail, pushing hard, now racing wheel to wheel in a thrilling battle.

The roar of the engines echoed across the stands as other drivers behind them fought relentlessly, each maneuver executed with surgical precision, their eyes set on climbing higher before the next lap. Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the stands was electric, the crowd's cheers swelling with every overtake and daring move on the track.

The impulse to cheer as well was daunting, but Luca disciplined himself.

As pitstops came into play and teams executed their strategies with military precision, the positions began to shift. Marcellus Rodnick took the lead, surging ahead of the pack, with Antonio Luigi moving up to second, just inches behind his teammate Ignatova, who had astonishingly fallen to third. The tension was almost unbearable now, every lap squeezing Luca's nerves tighter.

He watched in disbelief as the leaderboard flickered, the slightest mistake potentially spelling disaster.

"That's what I'm talking about," Luca whispered eagerly, watching Hank Rice secure fourth. Push yourself and get into third—two laps left!

His excitement crashed, however, as the leaderboard updated. His eyes darted to the front runners.

"...and Rodnick has just lost the lead! Luigi claims it with two laps to go! Rodnick in second, Ignatova charging from third..!"

What in the—! Luca swore under his breath, stunned by how rapidly everything shifted on the track. He could barely believe how quickly fortunes changed in a matter of seconds.

He was able to catch the last glimpse of how Antonio Luigi had executed a perfect maneuver, slipping through the inside line on a sharp turn and catching Rodnick completely off-guard. It was a bold and flawless move, one that had now given Squadra Corse the race lead.

Luca gently lowered himself back into his seat after realizing he had stood up halfway, his heart still racing. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head in frustration. There was no changing it now. The final leaderboard was set, and the Nevada HanSama racer, Hank Rice, hadn't managed to climb to third in time.

The checkered flag waved with honor, signaling the end, as the single-seaters zoomed across the finish line one after another.

"...and what a finish! Antonio Luigi for Squadra Corse crosses the line in first place! Marcellus Rodnick, after leading most of the race, takes second for Jackson Racing, and Marko Ignatova secures third for Squadra Corse. A stunning last-lap overtake by Luigi—what a...."

Luca sighed in disappointment as the commentary echoed through the grandstands. He checked his phone after receiving a notification. It was a live update of the Formula 1 season, with the points for this race already tallied. Scrolling down, he noticed the F2 database was still empty—tomorrow would be their day.

Minutes later, the celebration for the top three began, and the podium was prepared. Luca stood with the crowd, clapping along as the top racers ascended the stage. His gaze locked onto Antonio Luigi, whose confident grin was unmistakable as he accepted the trophy.

Luca's eyes narrowed as he observed every detail of the Squadra Corse driver—the same one who had struck him in Stadhaven. The recklessness of his driving then and the refusal to check up on the marshal he had hit, had already given Luca a profile of who he was.

Luca watched as Luigi raised the trophy, basking in the cheers, utterly unfazed by the crowd's adulation. Luca couldn't wait to make it into F1.