In recent years, the safety of F1 has improved by leaps and bounds. It has been many years since a fatal accident, and the sport no longer seems so terrifying.
But precisely because of this, the new generation of drivers is losing something:
A reverence for speed.
Despite the constant lectures from their elders, they have never personally witnessed a car shatter into a million pieces. They have never heard the horrific sound of metal tearing through flesh, nor have they experienced the suffocating, desperate silence of a track after a fatal crash.
To them, racing is just a stage for showing off and winning trophies. Setting a new lap record is no different from updating a high score in a video game.
However, here at the Maranello academy, Monfardini had to be the gatekeeper.
He knew that behind every new lap record was a driver walking the line between heaven and hell. Every increase in speed had to be built on a foundation of precision and respect.
Therefore, the rules had to be followed.
A new driver must start with the simulator. Ten to fifteen hours a week, for a minimum of three months, to build a foundation. If necessary, it could be six months. Only then would they be allowed to sit in the cockpit of a real Formula car, to truly experience the ragged edge of speed and human limitation.
For years, Monfardini had been forced to repeat this speech, over and over, until he was numb, until he himself began to wonder if he was just a stumbling block to their dreams.
Because the more talented the driver, the less willing they were to wait. They believed they were born to drive at the limit.
But not Kai.
He was calm. Composed. Focused.
He paid no attention to Alesi's gossip, nor did he feel any desperate need to prove himself. He once again displayed a wisdom that was well beyond his seventeen years, and it made people take notice.
In fact, his attitude on the track was the same as it was off it.
After the morning's theory lessons, the afternoon's training began in the simulator.
Monfardini didn't tell the drivers how to drive—where to brake, where to accelerate, what lines to take, or how to judge their position on the track. This wasn't a driving school. They weren't there to hold hands and teach basic techniques.
Here, they cultivated each driver's individual style, their unique understanding of the car, and their own method of exploring the track. At the same time, they taught the drivers how to analyze data, how to communicate their feelings, and how to work with data analysts and race engineers to find more speed.
Anyone could drive a simulator. Now that they were common, even hobbyists could hop in and get a taste of the speed.
The difference was that an amateur was just playing a game. Grinding laps was just grinding laps. But a professional couldn't just "grind laps." Their brain had to be working.
It was no different from football, basketball, or any other sport. At its core, racing required the body and the brain to work in perfect sync, relying on an entire team to tame the machine and unlock its full potential.
During his trial, Kai had shown astonishing talent—an intuitive, razor-sharp feel for speed. But his real potential lay in his understanding of the car and the track. His ability to build a database from his own mistakes and rapidly upgrade his approach was the real highlight.
But at the time, that was just a theory, a feeling. No one could be 100% sure if it had been a one-time flash of inspiration or true, innate talent.
Now, the mystery was being unveiled.
Three days. In just three days, Kai had completely adapted to the simulator testing and had already begun following Monfardini around, learning to analyze the data.
In just one week, Monfardini didn't even wait for Kai to ask. He proactively upgraded him to the F3 simulation.
The reason was simple: F4 was just a basic teaching platform. Its aerodynamic package was simple, and the amount of "data" to analyze was limited.
The leap from F4 to F3 wasn't just an extra 80 horsepower. It was the leap from "advanced karting" to the world of "real formula racing."
The aerodynamics were far more complex. The car's dynamic responses were far more sensitive. A driver had to learn to speak the language of engineering to their team—to say, "I'm getting slight mid-corner understeer" or "the rear axle feels light on the exit of Turn 4," rather than just "it feels weird."
In terms of performance, F4 is about 20% of an F1 car. F3 is about 40%. But the numbers don't tell the whole story. F4 is still in the realm of karting; F3 is the first true step into the formula world.
After careful observation, Monfardini was confident that Kai was ready for the F3 simulation.
As expected, Kai did not disappoint.
In terms of pure lap times, he didn't transform overnight. He didn't stun everyone by immediately breaking the F3 simulator record. After all, switching to a completely different driving model and language still took time.
And yet, Alesi and the others couldn't find any joy in this.
Maybe Kai wasn't breaking records, but anyone with eyes could see his growth. He was adapting to the new model at an incredible rate. He wasn't breaking records because he wasn't capable of it, but because he was so confident that he wasn't in any hurry.
On his first day in the F3 sim, Kai could already clearly feel the differences. He was humble, asking questions and studying intently as he adapted. At the time, Alesi had secretly celebrated, happy to finally see Kai struggle, proving that the "genius" was "nothing special after all."
But by the second day, Kai was already able to accurately pinpoint the start of understeer and the lag in throttle response.
By the third day, he was even suggesting changes to the suspension setup, trying to make the virtual car better fit his driving rhythm.
"He has this intuition, sharp and delicate, as if he can directly feel every nerve of the machine," someone remarked. They even joked about it.
"I wonder if this is what Schumacher was like."
Michael Schumacher. The seven-time F1 World Champion, holder of almost every record in the sport, an undisputed legend. Schumacher possessed that same genius—a hyper-sensitive feel for the machinery, allowing him to perceive every minute change in the car and communicate it perfectly to his engineers, extracting every last thousandth of a second of performance.
And now, they were comparing Kai to him.
Of course, it was a joke. Nicknames like "Little Schumacher" and "Little Senna" were common in the academy, but not one driver had ever come close to reaching those heights.
But on one point, they all agreed:
He was growing.
He wasn't terrifying everyone with record-breaking laps. He was terrifying them with his unbelievable learning capacity, building his own path, one step at a time.
That composure radiated from him. He was like a cat toying with a mouse, padding along lazily, yet never once losing the focus of a hunter.
For Alesi, this was an infuriating, suffocating feeling.
He refused to acknowledge it.
Monfardini watched it all in silence, his eyes filled with admiration.
Everyone had expected Kai to be a troublemaker, to wreak havoc in the heavenly palace. But to their astonishment, Kai was winning the respect of the engineers with the subtlety of a spring breeze, quietly integrating himself into the team. It had completely blindsided Marchionne.
What was going on? How was this even possible?