F1: In Ferrari, Schumacher at the start.

Grove, Oxfordshire, England: Williams Racing headquarters.

A continuous drizzle fell outside the window, and the sky was shrouded in thick, leaden-gray clouds. Inside the gym, the main lights were off; only a few cold, white spotlights shone on the black plastic floor.

"Slap! Slap! Slap!"

Lin Feng stood in front of the Batak reaction training board, clapping his hands at a dazzling speed at which the randomly lit red and green indicator lights flashed.

Sweat dripped from his chin, landing on the non-slip mat, and his breathing was heavy and rhythmic.

The sixty-second extreme reaction test has entered its final ten seconds.

The strength and conditioning coach blew his whistle.

"stop."

Lin Feng lowered his hands, his chest heaving violently.

The last red light on the Batak board flashed twice, emitting a piercing "beep beep" alarm.

The sound drilled into Lin Feng's ears, and the gym walls in front of him began to distort, the cold white lights gradually turning into the blinding sunlight of the Imola racetrack.

"Beep beep—beep beep—"

That was a fatal warning sign on the steering wheel: the engine was overheating.

On the straight road, at a speed of 330 kilometers per hour, the dull thud of metal breaking.

Thick white smoke instantly filled the rearview mirror, and the pungent smell of burning engine oil penetrated the fireproof helmet and rushed into the nostrils.

Lin Feng jumped out of the cockpit, looked at the race car that was paralyzed on the lawn, and his anger surged to the top of his head.

He raised his foot and kicked the side box hard.

The dull thud of the race car being kicked echoed in my mind.

"Lin? Go over to the neck training machine." The coach's voice pulled him back to reality.

Lin Feng shook his head, clearing away the white smoke and sunlight in front of him.

He walked to the equipment in the corner of the room, sat down, and put on the special helmet connected to the counterweight.

The coach hung a 25-kilogram discus on the other end of the pulley.

"Ready, exert force to the left."

Lin Feng gritted his teeth, the veins on his neck bulging, as he forcefully resisted the 25-kilogram pulling force, keeping his head centered.

A throbbing pain shot through my neck muscles.

The discus slid up and down on the slide rail, making a clicking sound.

The sounds grew more and more frequent, gradually transforming in my mind into the sound of countless SLR camera shutters being pressed.

In the Imola paddock, Lin Feng, having withdrawn from the competition, changed into casual clothes, slung a backpack over one shoulder, and walked out with his head down.

At the front of the passage, John Elkann walked towards us, surrounded by a group of people.

The Ferrari chairman wore a well-tailored bespoke suit, his leather shoes making a crisp echo on the concrete floor.

The two passed each other by.

Elkan stopped and turned around.

"Lin, a fantastic race." Elkann's voice wasn't loud. "Young drivers often see sabotaging the car as a display of passion, but at Ferrari, we value those who can bring the car back to the finish line intact. Williams gave you freedom, but it seems he didn't give you any boundaries."

Lin Feng stopped in his tracks, turned around, and looked directly at the head of this powerful family.

He didn't refute, but just stared coldly at the other person until Elkan walked away under the escort of his bodyguards.

"Change direction, exert force to the right," the coach's voice rang out again.

Lin Feng turned his head to the right, his jaw muscles bulging, sweat flowing into his eyes, causing a stinging sensation.

The sound of the discus striking each other faded away, replaced by the muffled sound of water flowing in the rowing machine's tank.

"Whoosh—whoosh—"

Lin Feng sat on the rowing machine, gripped the handles with both hands, straightened his legs, and used his back muscles to push off.

The water in the tank was stirred up, producing a dull roar.

The roar gradually turned into the clamor of the Italian media in the mixed zone.

A reporter from *La Gazzetta dello Sport* practically shoved a recording pen into Lin Feng's face, his tone aggressive: "Lin! Was your performance in the Shanghai race just a fluke? Your driving style over-exploited the engine, which is why you withdrew from the race, isn't it? Doesn't your arrogant attitude prove that you don't deserve a regular seat at all?"

The flashbulbs went off in front of Lin Feng's eyes.

He did not push the microphone away or call the public relations manager.

He took a step forward, forcing the reporter to back down.

"A fluke? Arrogant?"

Lin Feng stared into the reporter's eyes and spoke in English, word by word.

"Go back and tell your editor to save me the front page of the newspaper. End of August, Monza circuit." Lin Feng pointed to the reporter's recorder, "If I don't pop champagne on the Monza podium, I'll walk all the way back to the airport from the pit lane and write this down word for word!"

Whoosh!

Lin Feng abruptly released the rowing machine's handle, and the machine's chain quickly retracted, making a crisp clanging sound.

The two-hour physical training session has ended.

Lin Feng lay on his back on the yoga mat, his chest heaving like a bellows, his lungs burning with pain.

The surroundings quieted down, with only the sound of the air conditioner vents breaking the silence.

He closed his eyes, and in the darkness before him appeared Imola's phone screen from Sunday night.

The FaceTime video call interface.

Gu Ailing was wearing sportswear, her hair was a little messy. She didn't ask why the engine broke down, nor did she mention the standings.

"Does your right foot hurt?" That was the first thing she asked.

The girl on the screen frowned, her eyes full of worry: "I saw you kick the car; the GIFs are all over the internet. The car is so hard, and you were kicking it with thin-soled racing shoes, are your feet okay?"

Lin Feng was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed when those words extinguished half of his anger. He even deliberately raised his right foot in front of the camera and waved it: "It's fine, just that the sole of the shoe got a little dusty."

This was followed by a barrage of voice messages from the parents on WeChat.

"Son, Mom was watching TV. That car was emitting a lot of smoke from its rear. The car is broken, but as long as everyone is okay, that's all that matters. Please don't get so angry, anger will damage your liver."

"Xiaofeng, Dad saw you kicked really hard. All that playing soccer hasn't been for nothing. Don't listen to those people talking nonsense online. A real man should be able to love and hate, and it's normal to express his temper. Next time, let's drive faster and overtake them all!"

Lin Feng opened his eyes and looked at the gray ceiling of the gym.

He turned over and stood up, grabbed a towel from the equipment, wiped his face, and went into the shower room of the changing room.

Hot water gushed from the showerhead, flowing down his well-defined muscles, washing away sweat and fatigue, but it couldn't wash away the gloom that welled up deep in his mind.

After taking a shower, Lin Feng stood in front of the mirror at the sink, wrapped in a bath towel.

He reached out and wiped the condensation off the mirror, looking at the young, twenty-year-old face reflected in it.

His black hair was messy, his eyes were sharp, and his jawline was well-defined.

He closed his eyes and gave the instructions in his mind.

"System, open the panel."

A pale blue holographic screen unfolded in front of me.

[Host: Lin Feng]

Current points: 12000

[Equipped Skills:]

[Purple Passive: Basic Heat Resistance]

[Golden Passive: Legendary Chassis Tuning Mastery]

[Golden Passive: Precision Flow]

[Miscellaneous items: Stroll rearview mirrors (pair), sunscreen that will prevent tanning...]

Lin Feng stared intently at the few lines of golden text on the screen.

In Imola, he was able to pinpoint deviations in the anti-roll bars of the race car thanks to his legendary chassis tuning expertise.

In Miami, he was able to apply the brakes late on a track covered in rubble without losing control and sliding off the track, thanks to the absolute calmness and muscle memory brought about by "precise flow".

In Jeddah, he was able to leave Verstappen in the dust and stand on the podium thanks to the memory of the racing legend and his absolute driving sense instilled in him by the "Peak Michael Schumacher Experience Card".

He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, the cool touch of the marble spreading throughout his body.

A terrible thought spread through my mind like a venomous snake.

Without this system, who am I?

Memories of my past life flooded my mind.

That down-on-his-luck driver who struggled in domestic youth racing, earning a meager salary, and even had to calculate the cost of replacing a set of brand-new rain tires.

That ordinary person who had dreams but was ultimately defeated by absolute talent and capital.

Does the current glory belong to Lin Feng, or to this ethereal system?

He looked at his hands.

There are calluses on my palms, from years of holding the steering wheel.

What if one day, the system suddenly disappears?

Will he repeat the miracle of winning his debut race in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia? Can he still snatch a victory over Leclerc on the final lap in Shanghai?

If he loses the protection of "Precision Flow" at Turn 1 of the Monza circuit, will he still have the courage to wait until the 200-meter marker before stepping on the brakes? Or will he act like a coward who has lost his magic, releasing the accelerator prematurely and watching others whiz past him?

The mockery from the Italian media during the interviews echoed in my ears once again.

"Lin, was this just a lucky escape?"

John Elkann's condescending gaze.

"Williams gave you freedom, but it seems he didn't give you any boundaries."

Lin Feng lowered his head, and water droplets dripped from his wet hair and fell into the sink.

Feeling lost, like the long, gloomy rainy days in England for half a month, enveloped him completely, making it hard to breathe.

He was used to using arrogance and irritability to mask the unease deep in his heart, but in this deserted locker room, the sense of illusion created by external cheats almost crushed his spine.

He didn't even dare to show weakness in front of Gu Ailing, because he was afraid that she would fall for a perfect driver created by the system.

Time ticked by, and the locker room was deathly silent.

After an unknown amount of time, Lin Feng raised his head and looked at the mirror again.

He looked at himself in the mirror, then suddenly raised his right hand and slapped himself hard across the cheek.

"Snapped!"

The crisp sound of a slap echoed in the small space, and a red mark instantly appeared on the cheek, the burning pain reaching straight to the brain.

Lin Feng took a deep breath and looked at his cheeks, which were slowly turning red in the mirror.

It hurts, that's real.

He turned his neck, and the soreness in his neck muscles was real.

Lin Feng could even recall every bump from the Williams racing car seat on the Imola circuit, and every vibration from the chassis sparking.

He looked at the system panel in mid-air.

"The system gave me knowledge," Lin Feng muttered to himself. "It told me when to brake, it told me how to tune the car, but..."

He clenched his fists.

"The person sitting in that race car is me."

"I am the one who endures five Gs of gravitational acceleration and has to exert all my strength even to breathe."

"At 340 kilometers per hour, suppressing my fear of death and crashing into a wall, I, Lin Feng, pressed the accelerator to the floor!"

The system can provide cheats, but it won't do the hard work for him, nor will it bear the fear of constantly facing the threat of death for him.

Racing is a sport about limits. The system pushes his limits to the limit, but the one who ultimately touches that edge of death is always the flesh-and-blood person in the cockpit.

The cheat code gave him a ticket to stand at the top of this world, but the reason he was able to survive in this hellish arena and even trample those chosen ones underfoot was because of the indomitable spirit in his bones.

The Lin Feng who ate instant noodles to save money in his past life but still studied track lines late at night, and the Lin Feng who now has a system, have never really changed.

He closed the system panel, leaving only himself in the mirror.

Lin Feng pulled off the bath towel, changed into dry clothes, put on the baseball cap with the Williams logo, and pulled the brim down.

The confusion has been cleared away, replaced by a more restrained determination.