My Formula 1 System-Chapter 343: Brazilian Grand Prix. 12

"...WHAT ARE WE WITNESSING HERE IN SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL?! LUCA RENNICK IS PUTTING ON AN ABSOLUTE CLINIC AT INTERLAGOS, TEARING THROUGH THIS GRAND PRIX LIKE HE WAS BORN FOR IT...!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

"...THE TRACK'S STILL SLICK FROM THAT EARLIER RAIN, A REAL TEST OF NERVE AND PRECISION, BUT THIS YOUNG ITALIAN MAKING IT LOOK EFFORTLESS—EVERY CORNER, EVERY APEX, HE'S THREADING THE NEEDLE WITH SURGICAL FOCUS AS HE CLIMBS THREE POSITIONS UP THE LEADERBOARD...!"

**You are the man, Luca**

**You are all green! Wonderful! Wonderful!**

[5th Position]

[4th Position]

[3rd Position]

[Downforce +1]

[Aerodynamics +1]

[Yaw Flex +1]

[Ding!]

[Level-up failed. Sync Buff currently in use]

"...Years from now, we'll be talking about this race, mark my words—Luca's got that rare spark, that raw hunger you can't teach, and he's showing the world why he's the name on everyone's lips! LUCA RENNICK IN P3...!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

P1— Davide DiMarco

P2— Marko Ignatova

P3— Luca Rennick ↑

P4— Marcellus Rodnick ↓

P5— Antonio Luigi ↓

P6— Elias Nyström ↓

[You have 30 sec left for Sync Buff]

[63rd Lap]

Rodnick still couldn't wrap his head around how Luca had snatched P3 from him. His mind kept looping back to that sudden moment at Turn 14, a gentle kink in Interlagos' layout where the track's damp surface still tested every move.

An engineer had already warned him that Luca was charging up fast, but Rodnick had taken it as just another double overtake or triple. Double or triple overtakes were something any driver might pull off on a good day with the right tires and grip.

He had no clue Luca was unleashing a performance eerily like his Monaco masterclass, a level beyond normal racing.

Before Rodnick could react, a fellow Ferrari loomed in his mirrors, its silver-blue livery glinting under the grey sky, distinct from Red Bull's own vivid hue of blue. For a split second, Rodnick swore he saw Marco Rossi's ghost from their old racing days when they used to drive together.

Without any real warning, Luca devoured the gap like it was nothing and swung out of Turn 14's apex, his Ferrari slicing past before Rodnick could even think to block, vanishing toward Turn 15 and chasing Marko, who was already hitting the home straight.

Stunned, **Congrats** was all Rodnick managed over the radio, his voice flat. Luca caught it but didn't dwell cause Sync Buff's timer was ticking down fast.

[Analyzing Ferrari (JRX-92B) and host's distance from 2nd Position]

[You are 1 seconds away, host.]

[Slipstream Status: ENGAGING]

Car <— Approaching Slipstream (Minimal aerodynamic effect)

Car <<— Partial Lock (Drag reduction increasing)

Car <<<— LOCKED IN (Maximum slipstream advantage)

[Overtake Window: Optimal]

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"... Rennick is on tear, he has his crosshair on P2! That'd be four positions clawed up from P6—an unreal charge in these wet conditions! He's locked onto Ignatova, and Brazil's holding its breath for this young star's next move...!"

[DRS Engaged!]

[2nd Position]

"…and there it is—Luca Rennick's HAS DONE IT! He's stormed into P2, overtaking Marko Ignatova with a masterclass move of DRS...!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

"...Luca Rennick em P2, Marko Ignatova em P3...!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

**Luca, that was unreal—P2, four spots up! Bloody brilliant, mate, keep pushing!**

Luca wasn't sure how much he could push now.

[Analyzing Ferrari (JRX-92B) and host's distance from 1st Position]

[You are 2 seconds away, host.]

[You have 9 seconds left for Sync Buff]

Could Luca really pull it off? Could he push his supercharged skills and roaring Ferrari engine to catch Davide DiMarco before the clock ran dry?

Sure, he was just 2 seconds back, but that was the gap, not the time it'd take to reach him—DiMarco was no sitting target, he was moving. His Red Bull carried the glowing #1 hologram, a blazing symbol of prestige that seemed to shimmer brighter across Interlagos' damp, open stretches of green.

[Analyzing Ferrari (JRX-92B) and host's distance from 1st Position]

[You are 1 seconds away, host.]

[You have 5 seconds left for Sync Buff]

[Analyzing Ferrari (JRX-92B) and host's distance from 1st Position]

[You are 0.5 seconds away, host.]

[You have 4 seconds left for Sync Buff]

"…oh my word! Rennick and DiMarco are so close now, only half a second keeps both drivers away from each other....!"

[You have 3 seconds left for Sync Buff]

DiMarco was ahead, so he swung onto the inside line at Turn 3, trying to box Luca in and force him to trail behind. But that was his fatal error. Luca's edge was still razor-sharp, he was still running on Sync Buff,meaning:

Any damn part of the track was his to command—inside, outside, it didn't matter! Any line could work for him!

DiMarco should've just kept blocking, holding his ground. Instead, he'd handed Luca a wide-open path on the outer line, smooth as glass.

[Calculating host drift exit...]

[... successfully calculated!]

[Gripper +1]

[1st Position]

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

"... GRACIOUS ME! LUCA RENNICK HAS DONE IT! HE HAS SEIZED P1 IN SÃO PAULO....!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

"....BRAZIL IS WITNESSING HISTORY! A CLIMB FROM P6 TO P1 UNDER TWO LAPS....!"

"...Luca Rennick em P1, Davide DiMarco em P2...!"

A sudden impulse gripped Davide DiMarco, urging him to lash out and reclaim his spot by any means. Though he barely held it together, resisting the reckless thought, Luca was already tearing down the 900m straight, a quarter of the way gone, too far for any desperate move.

Right then, Sync Buff finally gave in and ran dry.

[Sync Buff has elapsed!]

[SYNC BAR: [][][][] 0%]

**Absolutely unreal, Luca! You've taken down the whole field!**

**You're in P1!**

It had only been 1 minute 45 seconds, and Luca already felt the void of Sync Buff's power fading, but relief washed over him—he'd made it to P1.

In the distance, he spotted a few lapped drivers weaving through the chicane's tight turns. Lapped cars always signaled the race was nearing its end, a sign time was running short.

The 63rd Lap was already underway. The Brazilian Grand Prix was indeed drawing to a close with seven more laps to go.

Pre-podium celebrations had already sparked in the stands—bright flags waving, chants rising for the frontrunners. Banners hailing Luca's name now clashed with the bitter, hostile ones still flapping in anger. The ones lifting him up were clutched by Jackson Racing fans, their support hitting Luca like a wave, easing his mind with the knowledge he had a crowd behind him.

Now more than ever, Velocità would be fuming. Luca had wrecked their race completely. First, he had pressured Jimmy Damgaard into a crash early on, and now he had just snatched P1 from DiMarco, who'd been poised to pocket 25 points.