My Formula 1 System-Chapter 665: S3 Azerbaijan Grand Prix. 2

Four laps into the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, the race had already courted catastrophe. From the opening frenzy, the battle for position had stretched the field into long, screaming lines of machinery tearing through what were civilian streets weeks ago.

The leaders were beginning to carve out breathing room for themselves, while the midfield remained the most compressed. Like a swarm of locusts, each driver hunted opportunity without rest, yet yielded little to no results. After all, a Formula One race wasn’t only about outpacing the other machines, but maintaining yours and, most importantly, managing the circuit.t pacing out the other machines, but maintaining yours, and most importantly, managing the circuit.

In this case, all three were at level 9 difficulty!

"...still on the fourth lap. The race is still fresh, but smoke’s in the air. Drawing back to the midfield. It’s a tight order as they approach the end of the sector..."

Schhrrshh!

Luckily for Victor, Max Addams and Matteo Bianchi hadn’t swallowed him up like a black hole. Ironically, the two vultures were in a struggle with themselves, allowing Victor to stabilize his line and find a groove behind Rice.

At the narrow entry of T7, Max Addams approached at the edge of the white line, braking so hard, it was clear he must’ve lost control sometime back. The Red Bull’s rear twitched to stabilize its front as the tires finally approached their operating window. Behind Max, Matteo had been watching carefully since the start. The Italian had smelled hesitation for two corners now, and he went for it.

"...Bianchi’s sending it down the inside here...!"

Wrong timing. One mistake here could punish either man. Guilty or not!

Max braked earlier for T8 than Bianchi anticipated. The rear of his car stepped slightly as the front tires briefly locked under pressure. The sudden deceleration compressed the gap instantly, and Bianchi was already committed at the street’s apex!

Crshshh!

"WOOOOHHHH!"

Both drivers twitched their steering in panic as the cars squeezed together into a space barely wide enough for one, their pace gone.

The crowd at that section cheered excitedly as both Red Bulls began to crawl back in the game as if their chassis didn’t just graze the other. But behind them, someone else arrived at the worst possible moment.

Blue. Yellow. Audi. Flashy Helmet. No. 22.

None other than Elias Nystrom.

Seeing the open gap to T9, Nystrom was ready to take his chance. His rivals were slower. He was at an advantage.

But with their Red Bulls blocking the optimal racing line, he jerked right to avoid slamming into the pair.

FWOOOSHSHH!

The enthusiastic lunge threw his grip out the window, and in a matter of seconds, his Audi kissed a stone barrier, sparks bursting from the contact, and fragments of carbon flicked into the air.

"WOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH!"

"...What. A. Hit. Nystrom’s just hit the wall! Is he still in it...!"

**Puncture. Puncture**

**Rear right pressure is dropping. Avoid the curbs, please**

"...an early hit for Nordvind Racing..."

"...less than five laps in, and Elias Nystrom is at the brink of a retirement...!"

"Fuck me," Nystrom hissed as his tire began to collapse immediately, the car wobbling awkwardly as he tried to keep control through the remainder of the section.

Meanwhile, Matteo and Max had left him and his ostentatious sparks in their wake. But they were far from untangled, and their race were no less dirty.

In the final squeeze with Addams at T11 for the straight, Bianchi could have avoided the clip, but a reckless part of him just wanted to let it be.

Too bad, he suffered most of the damage as his front wing bobbed the rear of the green Red Bull, sending his own car into a sudden 2-dimensional shudder. The left wing endplate bent downward, fluttering violently in the airflow like a loose blade, and pieces of carbon scattered behind them across the asphalt.

"...CONTACT THERE! BIANCHI AND ADDAMS! Unfazed, Max Addams finds his pace back just outside the top ten, but Matteo Bianchi and Elias Nystrom are in really bad shape...!"

"WOOOOOOHHHH!"

**Limp it back, Matteo. Keep it off the racing line. We’re ready for you**

Both Velocita and Nordvind garages had become active. No one expected their machines to need servicing this early into the race. But at least, it was better than watching it get towed back to the garage in retirement.

[Notice: Yellow Flag]

[Sector: 1 & 2]

[Verdict: VSC]

Drivers behind lifted slightly as the warning flashed across their steering displays, but nobody dared slow more than necessary. But up ahead, the leaders kept charging.

Luckily for the drivers already in Sectors Three and Four, the yellow flag did not apply to them. Their pace remained unchanged, engines still screaming at full fury as they blasted through the final portions of the Baku National Circuit.

Among them was Hank Rice, still running ninth and hunting the car ahead like a patient veteran who had seen every kind of race imaginable.

Rice had almost two decades of experience and unmatched calm execution. With a camera-engaging fluidity, he guided his modest Audi through the flowing turns, fans cheering.

Once, Hank Rice’s name alone had been enough to intimidate half the grid. Back then, he drove championship-winning machinery from Ferrari, posted terrifying lap times, and even once had a driver OVR of 91. His peak.

But those days had faded long ago. His team now was smaller, the chassis less obedient, the raw pace simply not there. His rating had slipped to 78, and the arrow was still pointing down.

However, Hank Rice knew something his mentor, Christian Aamland, once ingrained in him: Craft survived longer than every other attribute.

Ahead, Buoso Di Renzo powered through the final corner in eighth position, the engine behind him surging with youthful aggression. It was a Ferrari. And who hadn’t heard of the most popular engine in the world: the ThunderKat? Comparing it to the simple AFR Hybrid that Hank had was like pitting a dying ant against a supernova.

Di Renzo had driven well all afternoon, holding off pressure from behind and maintaining a tight rhythm through Baku’s relentless walls. In his mirrors, however, the violet flash of Rice’s car had begun appearing more frequently.

"Hmph," Di Renzo grunted.

At T12’s exit, the main straight opened before them. Smart and quick, Rice closed the gap by exploiting Di Renzo’s slipstream.

"...someone’s getting a tow here! Hank Rice is lining something up on Buoso Di Renzo! What we can get here from here...?!"

Annoyed by the pressure, Di Renzo defended begrudgingly by shading slightly toward the inside line approaching Turn 16, the heavy braking corner at the end of the straight. It was the correct, logical move. But he did it with less care than he would if defending against someone like Luca.

Had a journeyman just underestimated a veteran?

An insult or a gift?

Hank didn’t care. He took advantage so fast, Di Renzo must have pissed his suit when he saw the tides turn!

"...Wait—Rice is still flat...!"

"WOOOOOOOOHH!"

The AFR Hybrid had a top speed slower than even the Ferrari Turbo Hybrid 056, but the surprise attack was enough to shift the plates. Di Renzo’s eyes widened in the mirrors as the Audi drove forward, bordering on madness as the rival he underestimated hurled the chassis toward his line.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

Both cars plunged toward the apex together, wheels inches apart. For a split second, the corner seemed too small to hold them both. But Rice’s perfectly judged timing allowed his car to rotate cleanly across the apex, while the Ferrari merely plateaued.

Di Renzo fought the steering wheel, trying to power back on the exit, but it was too late.

He’d just been hijacked.

"...And he’s through! What a move! What a big move for Iberia in this race...!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOH!"

The Audi accelerated away down the short straight, the crowd erupting.

"THAT... is VINTAGE RICE...!"