F1: In Ferrari, Schumacher at the start.

Chapter 103 High Temperature Alert, Weichang Loudspeaker

"No, no, no, no!"

Lin Feng rolled over in bed and suddenly opened his eyes.

He felt like a piece of pork belly sizzling on a grill, every inch of his skin radiating intense heat. His head felt like a hundred bees were buzzing around him simultaneously, making him feel heavy and dizzy. His limbs were so weak he barely had the strength to even lift the thin blanket.

"This damn system, it says the temperature and it's exactly the right temperature, not a second off."

Lin Feng gritted his teeth, got out of bed, and stumbled into the bathroom.

He looked at his flushed face in the mirror and splashed cold water on it.

The iron bladder finally came in handy. Without hesitation, Lin Feng picked up the two bottles of mineral water on the table, tilted his head back, and gulped them down in one go.

There's no need to worry about needing to pee during the race; all he needs to do now is hydrate like crazy to avoid turning into a dried-up corpse on the track.

Nine o'clock in the morning, the Williams team's rest area.

Lin Feng, dressed in his team uniform and wearing sunglasses, huddled tightly in the corner of the sofa, trying his best to maintain steady breathing so that others wouldn't notice anything unusual.

However, it is always futile to pretend in front of your closest teammates.

Alexander Alben walked over with a plate of croissants and plopped down next to Lin Feng.

"Lin, you don't look right today. Your face is as red as a tomato." Alben chewed on his bread and casually reached out to touch Lin Feng's forehead.

The next second, Alben pulled his hand back as if he had been electrocuted.

"Holy crap!" Alben exclaimed in a low voice, "Why are you so hot? You have a fever?! It must be at least forty degrees Celsius!"

Lin Feng covered Alben's mouth with his hand, glaring at him fiercely.

"Shut up! Alex, keep your voice down!" Lin Feng warned through gritted teeth. "I just had a slight fever from too much air conditioning last night, it's nothing serious!"

"You call this a low-grade fever?" Alben forcefully pried Lin Feng's hand away, his face full of disbelief. "You're like a walking radiator! Are you crazy? You started from pole position today, and you're going to drive with a high fever? Are you trying to kill yourself!"

"I know what I'm doing." Lin Feng pressed down on Alben's shoulder, his tone extremely serious. "Alex, you absolutely cannot tell James about this. If he finds out I have a fever, he will definitely disqualify me from the competition. I worked so hard to get this pole position, and I absolutely cannot give it away."

Alben shook his head repeatedly: "No, that's too dangerous. What if you pass out in the car?"

"If I pass out, that's my problem. But if you dare to tattle—" Lin Feng sneered, unleashing his trump card, "I'll post the photo of you secretly playing a racing game in the simulator last week, falling asleep and drooling, directly on Twitter and tagging everyone."

Alben swallowed hard, weighing the pros and cons.

"You win." Alben raised his hands in surrender. "I won't tell James, but I still think you're absolutely playing with fire."

"Don't worry, just drink more water," Lin Feng said dismissively, then leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes to rest.

Lin Feng clearly underestimated the speed at which news spreads in the F1 paddock and overestimated Albon's ability to keep secrets.

Alben didn't tell team leader James directly, but he turned around and went to the bathroom to call his girlfriend, He Muni.

"Lily, I have something scary to tell you. Lin Feng has a fever of 40 degrees Celsius today, but he still wants to play in the race. He even told me not to tell the team," Alben complained on the phone.

Upon hearing this, He Muni was shocked. She hung up the phone and immediately sent a long voice message to her best friend, Gu Ailing, on WeChat.

It was late at night in Los Angeles, USA.

Gu Ailing was not asleep when her phone vibrated and woke her up.

She groggily opened the voice message, and after listening to He Muni's tattling, she instantly woke up and sat up straight in bed.

"That reckless madman!"

Gu Ailing was so angry that she slammed the pillow in her hand onto the headboard. She had heard Lin Feng say that he felt like he was going to have a fever during the video call yesterday, but she didn’t expect it to be so serious. Moreover, this bastard actually forced himself on the team without telling them!

She immediately dialed Lin Feng's number, but it was switched off.

At this point, the drivers are mostly preparing for the race, and they have already handed their phones to their assistants.

Gu Ailing stared at the black screen, pacing anxiously back and forth in the room. She knew Lin Feng's temper; once he made up his mind, nothing could change it. Even if she could fly there now, it would be too late.

In the preparation area for the drivers' grand parade, twenty drivers were chatting in small groups.

Alben spotted George Russell drinking water right away.

"George, when the bus departs, stay away from Lin. He's not feeling well today," Alben kindly reminded him, leaning closer.

Russell turned his head and glanced at Lin Feng, who was huddled in a corner wearing sunglasses, with a curious look on his face: "What's wrong?"

Wasn't he so arrogant yesterday? Saying he was going to lead the whole field.

"He has a fever of 40 degrees Celsius, and he's so delirious. I'm worried he won't be able to brake at turn one and will take you all off the track," Alben said in a low voice, earnestly instructing him. "Don't tell anyone about this. He told me to keep it a secret; even our team leader doesn't know."

Upon hearing this, Russell's expression immediately became very serious, and he nodded solemnly: "Don't worry, I'm very tight-lipped, I definitely won't tell anyone."

Two minutes later.

Russell casually strolled over to Lando Norris's side.

"Lando, watch out at Turn 1. Don't play too defensively. Lin's got a fever of 40 degrees today. He's probably seeing double right now. Don't let him bowl you like a bowling ball."

Norris was shocked. He turned to look at Lin Feng, gasped, and ran to McLaren's camp to share this important information with his teammate Piastrelli.

"Oscar, Lin Feng is burning up today. Let's stay away from Turn One."

After listening, Piastrelli nodded as he walked toward the restroom, casually telling Zhou Guanyu, who was passing by, along the way.

"Guanyu, your fellow villager has a fever of 40 degrees Celsius but still wants to play despite being sick. You should persuade him not to push himself so hard."

In just twenty minutes, the news that "Lin Feng has a fever of 40 degrees Celsius but still wants to start from pole position" spread like wildfire throughout the entire paddock driver community, and even the mechanics of various teams were whispering among themselves.

Everyone looked at the Chinese rising star, wearing sunglasses and with a flushed face, as he boarded the parade truck, with the eyes of someone looking at a monster and a time bomb.

The drivers' parade trucks were slowly making their way along the track. On both sides of the stands, there was an endless sea of ​​red people, with cheers and boos from the Iron Buddha Temple mingling together, creating a deafening roar.

Lin Feng huddled in a corner of the truck, his hands in his pockets, head down, feeling as if the noise from the stands was a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing in his head.

Zhou Guanyu couldn't hold back any longer and squeezed through the other end of the truck, grabbing Lin Feng's arm.

"Brother, are you out of your mind?" Zhou Guanyu asked in a low voice, his face full of anxiety. "I heard you have a fever of 40 degrees Celsius? Your face is as red as Guan Yu's. Hurry up and tell the team you're withdrawing from the race. It's better to live than to risk it all for one round."

Lin Feng struggled to lift his head, glanced at Zhou Guanyu through his sunglasses, and weakly tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Brother Guanyu, don't listen to their nonsense. I'm perfectly fine." Lin Feng took a breath and patted Zhou Guanyu's hand. "Calm down. Today, I'm not only going to run, but I'm also going to take that championship trophy home—just wait and see."

Seeing Lin Feng's unyielding attitude, Zhou Guanyu sighed anxiously.

This kid usually seems pretty clever, but he turns into a stubborn mule on the track.

The truck just drove past the main grandstand.

The live broadcast camera thoughtfully switched to Lin Feng, who was sitting in the corner. His face, flushed red and covered in sweat, immediately appeared on the big screen.

When Ferrari fans in the stands saw this "public enemy number one" who had just made some harsh remarks yesterday, they immediately erupted in a deafening chorus of boos, with countless middle fingers flying across the stands.

Lin Feng's head ached terribly from listening to the hissing that was almost piercing his eardrums.

He was too lazy to stand up and respond, but he weakly raised his right hand and gave the middle finger to the big screen.

This listless middle finger, paired with his sickly expression, wasn't particularly harmful, but it was incredibly insulting.

The boos from the crowd instantly rose eight octaves, and several agitated monks from Tiefo Temple were so angry that they almost jumped over the fence and rushed down to attack people.

The broadcast director was startled and quickly switched the camera to Leclerc, who was waving.

At 3 p.m., there were only 20 minutes left before the start of the main competition.

The starting grid was bustling with noise. Representatives from various media outlets, sponsors, and team members were all crammed together.

Lin Feng was already dressed in a full set of fireproof racing gear and wearing a hood, sitting quietly next to the No. 28 Williams race car parked at pole position.

The sun was scorching in Monza today, with the track surface temperature approaching 50 degrees Celsius.

Lin Feng felt as if the air around him was distorting. The fireproof suit he was wearing felt like a layer of airtight plastic film, trapping all the heat inside his body.

He was breathing heavily, trying to keep his vision clear.

The mechanic helped him put on his helmet and fasten the HANS system. Lin Feng struggled to lift his leg and step into the narrow cockpit.

The moment I sat down, that familiar, suffocating heat enveloped my entire body.

"Lin, radio test," came the voice of competition engineer Paul.

"Received. Everything is normal." Lin Feng took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound steady and strong.

It was exactly 3 p.m.

The tire warming process begins.

Twenty race cars drove out of the starting grid one by one amidst the deafening roar of their engines.

Lin Feng led the way, guiding the cars in a slow, meandering motion on the track, the friction of the tires raising their temperature. He felt his hands and feet were as heavy as if they didn't obey his commands, and each turn of the steering wheel required twice the usual amount of physical exertion.

At this very moment, on Williams' command wall.

James was looking at the data screen with satisfaction.

Starting from pole position is a luxury that the Williams team hasn't experienced in years.

Just then, Red Bull team principal Christian Horner strolled leisurely over from the adjacent gate.

"Hey, James. Good afternoon," Horner greeted with a smile, his signature foxy grin on his face.

"Good afternoon, Christian. What can I do for you?" James asked, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"I wouldn't call it giving pointers. I'm just here to express my personal respect," Horner said with a hint of sarcasm. "I must say, Williams has a really good eye for talent. This young man, Lin, certainly has the fighting spirit of those old-school drivers. He raced with a fever of 40 degrees Celsius, and even Max was impressed by his crazy drive."

The tablet in James' hand fell onto the table with a thud.

He turned his head sharply, staring intently at Horner, his voice trembling.

"What—what did you say? What high fever? Who has a fever of forty degrees?!"

Horner was taken aback by James's reaction.

"What, you didn't know? The whole hunting grounds know. Lin had a fever of 40 degrees Celsius today, and he could barely walk."

James felt a buzzing in his head, and his blood pressure instantly spiked to the top of his head.

A fever of 40 degrees Celsius!

That damn brat is sitting in the first position at the starting grid with a fever of 40 degrees Celsius! This isn't a race, this is blatant disregard for human life!

"These lawless bastards!"

James grabbed the walkie-talkie and angrily pressed the button for the highest-level channel for the direct-entry driver.

At this point, the tire warm-up was nearing its end.

Lin Feng drove the race car slowly into the starting area and precisely parked it within the white box of the first grid line.

Just as he was about to rev the engine and wait for the starting lights to come on, James's furious roar suddenly came through his headset.

"Lin! You lunatic! Turn off the engine right now! Do you hear me?! Turn off the engine and get out of the car!"

James's voice was so loud it almost shattered Lin Feng's eardrums.

"Paul! Stop the start-up immediately! Push the car back to the pit lane! He has a high fever and can't run!" James frantically issued commands over the channel.

Lin Feng sat in the sweltering cockpit, his head spinning. He listened to the team leader's roars through his headset, a weak but manic smile curling at the corner of his lips.

Alex, that big mouth, couldn't hold back any longer.

However, it was all too late.

The car was already parked in the starting grid, and no one could stop him from starting at this point.

"Paul," Lin Feng's voice was incredibly firm, "Mute the radio channel for one minute. Don't let James' voice interfere with me."

The race engineer, Paul, also learned the truth at this point. Looking at the various data of Lin Feng's race car on the screen and listening to James's roar, he hesitated for a moment.

But in the end, he chose to believe in his driver.

"Received, channel muted. Good luck, Lin."

The headphones instantly became quiet.

Without James's roar, there was only the low, ready sound of the Mercedes power unit behind him and the throbbing of blood in his temples.

Behind the starting area, the pursuit vehicles were already in position.

The first red light on the starting frame ahead illuminated.

Lin Feng stared intently at the red light, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands, the veins on the back of his hands bulging.

Waves of dizziness from the high fever assaulted his brain, and his vision even blurred slightly. He bit his tongue hard, forcibly stimulating his nerves with a sweet, metallic pain.

The second lamp, the third lamp.

The Italian fans in the stands erupted in boos and shouts.

The fourth lamp, the fifth lamp.

All five red lights are on!