Thump—Thump—
Despite his heart hammering like a drum and his palms slick with sweat, Pierre Borreipaire forced himself to sound calm. The urge to scream was immense, but he swallowed it down.
"Kai, watch the front tires and brake temperatures. Maintain rhythm. Lewis is at 1.2 seconds."
Kai's voice came back over the radio, steady and cool as ever. "Keep updating me."
"Copy," Pierre replied.
No one knew exactly how Kai was managing it. His tires were undeniably on the cliff edge, yet he was executing an impeccable extreme defense.
Pierre believed that if Bottas had held Kai up for two or three more laps earlier, Kai wouldn't have stood a chance against Hamilton now. But just as Mercedes had woven a complex web of strategy, Kai had fought his way through it, step by step, carving out a lifeline.
A 1.2-second gap was not enough to be safe. Yet, Kai had no margin left to push. The slightest misstep would trigger the fatal trifecta: lock-up, slide, spin.
He had to maintain the rhythm. It was a frantic dance on a tightrope; constant vigilance was required. Any lapse in concentration could be disastrous.
Five minutes in F1 had never felt so agonizingly long.
"A race of dramatic twists and turns, truly unparalleled."
"Duels and strategies, attacks and defenses, team orders and tactical gambits. The brutal, bayonet-to-bayonet fight began on Lap 1 and carried the suspense all the way to the end."
"And through it all, Kai Zhizhou, Ferrari's 18-year-old rookie, facing seemingly insurmountable challenges, delivers yet another unbelievable performance."
"After the summer storm, the Mercedes fightback, and the crushing low of Spa... here at Monza, the holy ground of Ferrari and the Tifosi, we are witnessing the return of the king. A resounding victory to announce Ferrari's fierce response, awakening the pride and glory of the paddock's royalty!"
"Ferrari's last win at Monza was in the distant 2010, the pre-hybrid era, with Fernando Alonso."
"For years, the Tifosi have waited in agony, longing for a miracle, yearning for glory!"
"And now, their wait is over. Ferrari is reclaiming the throne of Monza. With a flawless, undisputed victory, they announce the awakening of the Ferrari dynasty!"
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are witnessing history!"
"The checkered flag is out!"
"The winner of the 2018 Italian Grand Prix... KAI! ZHI! ZHOU!"
Lap 53. The final sprint.
Despite the crushing pressure, despite Hamilton refusing to surrender and chasing until the bitter end, Kai found a moment of peace in the eye of the storm. True peace.
No accidents. No drama. The red Number 22 Ferrari crossed the finish line steady and alone, 0.8 seconds ahead of Hamilton. A distance that looked so close, yet remained forever out of reach. The reigning champion never got the chance to launch a third attack.
The world watched as Kai crowned himself the new King of Monza with an unfathomable drive.
Pierre's tightly clenched fists finally relaxed. A wave of soreness washed over him, completely overriding his reason. His body trembled uncontrollably.
In a flash, emotions broke free.
AHHH! AHHHHHHHHH!
Screams turned into a tidal wave, instantly drowning Monza. Even the commentary was swallowed by the roar. The world shook.
Lorenzo Moretti grabbed his hair in disbelief. He lost the ability to speak. He just screamed in pure ecstasy, hugging Lu Cheng, hugging Jiang Mo, hugging anyone he could reach. He didn't even realize he was screaming like a madman.
The Tifosi had waited too long. Eight long years. And it felt even longer.
This summer, Marchionne's death had extinguished the single ray of hope for Ferrari's revival. The dream they had waited for had been swallowed by the storm, plunging them back into darkness. Even the most hardcore fans felt the darkest hour had arrived.
Yet, from that endless darkness and pain, the spark ignited again.
The joy and happiness erupted in a deluge. Reason burned away. They screamed until tears streamed down their faces. Unable to control themselves, they wept openly.
Lorenzo didn't care about anything else. He pushed open the doors of the hospitality suite and sprinted out.
He soon realized he wasn't alone.
Everyone—from the garages, the grandstands, the media center—was running. The FDA kids were caught in the frenzy too.
Kimi Antonelli and Ollie Bearman laughed and jumped, running at the front of the pack. Their youthful exuberance fueled the passion of the crowd, forming a massive, surging wave of humanity rushing toward the podium.
"CHAMPION! AHHHHH!"
"MONZA! MONZA! MONZA!"
"Olé, olé, olé! Oooooh-lé!"
Exchanging glances and infectious smiles, adults involuntarily found the simple, pure joy of childhood, completely letting go.
They crowded around the podium, ten rows deep, breathless and soaked in sweat, but waiting with bright eyes.
Waiting for their hero to return in triumph.
Finally, the flash of Ferrari red appeared. Number 22. Having withstood the pressure and carried the burden, he returned bathed in glory.
Ohhhh—Ohhhhh—
A low hum of noise began to build. They stared intently at the car, afraid to miss a single detail, their bodies leaning forward uncontrollably. Even if they couldn't touch the red car, just getting a little closer was enough.
The car parked behind the Number 1 board. The crowd erupted in an uncontrollable cheer, which was instantly choked off the moment the driver reached to detach his steering wheel. The noise vanished into the void. Absolute silence fell over Monza.
Martin Brundle looked around in disbelief, dumbfounded by the sight of the silent stadium. He held his breath. It felt like the moment humanity watched Neil Armstrong take his first steps on the moon. The only sound was the heavy thudding of hearts against ribs, creating ripples in the silence.
Even Brundle stopped breathing.
The figure emerged. He stood atop the Number 22 car, back straight, standing tall against the sky. Even the sunlight seemed to dim in comparison.
Then, he clenched his fists and raised his arms to the sky. AHHHHH!
Brundle startled himself as a scream tore from his own throat, joining the thunderous roar of the crowd.
It was colossal. The earth shook. Not just in Monza, not just in Milan, but Tifosi in every corner of the globe were screaming. The heatwave converged from everywhere, and Number 22 was the center of the world.
Hot, searing, frantic energy almost burned Kai's heart. The nerves that had been strung tight, focused, and burning for the last two hours could finally breathe, yet the emotion couldn't be fully released.
Suddenly, Kai leaped from the car, punching the air, unleashing all the pent-up energy from his chest in one explosive burst.
Click!
Swaying in the crowd, Qian Jun captured the moment, freezing the split second into eternity. This was the moment the Tifosi witnessed a miracle.
AHHH! AHHHHHHHH!
Sprinting down the pit lane, Kai opened his arms and threw himself into the sea of his mechanics.
Pierre, Mekies, Clear—everyone frantically slapped his helmet, his back, his shoulders. Even Arrivabene joined in. The Team Principal showed a rare smile, patting Kai's helmet twice, a look of profound relief washing over his face.
Words lost all meaning. Everyone had turned into a mindless screaming machine.
For Ferrari, Monza was truly different.
Only by being here could one feel the weight of the saying: Win Monza, and the Tifosi will stay crazy for a year.
Then, Kai saw Lu Cheng and Jiang Mo.
Seeing Jiang Mo waving her hands, trying to decline the attention, Kai smiled beneath his helmet. A mischievous grin. He lunged forward, opened his arms, and hugged both his parents at once.
Jiang Mo looked helplessly at her son, who was radiating heat through his fireproof suit. She couldn't hold back a smile. She hugged him back, patting his shoulder gently. "Congratulations. You won your home race."
It was a soft sentence, instantly swallowed by the deafening noise, but it landed heavily on Kai's heart, releasing a surge of warmth.
Jiang Mo remembered Kai's bitter disappointment after losing his first home race in Shanghai. She also remembered how desperately Marchionne wanted to see Ferrari's glory restored at Monza.
This time, Kai hadn't missed.
Then, Jiang Mo added, "I am so happy I was here to witness it in person."
She couldn't see his face through the visor, but she felt his brief stiffening, a surge of emotion.
But Kai quickly regained control. He turned and walked toward the frenzy of the media pen.
Jiang Mo watched his back. The little boy who used to hide in his helmet and cry after losing a karting race had grown up in the blink of an eye. Those broad shoulders were bravely carrying the hopes and dreams of the Tifosi.
Sometimes she wished he would grow up faster; other times, she wished time would slow down so he could remain innocent.
But the day had come. A touch of sadness, but mostly overwhelming joy.
Since this was his path, she couldn't shrink back either.
Jiang Mo straightened her back. No matter how many challenges lay ahead, she would stand behind him, facing them unflinchingly.
"Kai!"
"Baby Driver!"
"KAI! ZHI! ZHOU!"
The shouts and screams filled the air. The reporters in the mixed zone were packed together like sardines. Even though other drivers were present, every single pair of eyes was locked on Kai. The sole focus.
In reality, there were plenty of storylines from Monza.
Hamilton P2, Bottas P3. A double podium for Mercedes. Despite missing the win, Wolff's brilliant strategy had completely overturned Ferrari's qualifying advantage, keeping Mercedes at the top of the Constructors' standings. It was no exaggeration to say Mercedes was still a big winner.
Vettel P4, Verstappen P5. The 5-second penalty meant Verstappen couldn't turn the tables. But compared to him, Vettel paying the price for his impulsive crash and missing the podium was a massive hidden danger for Ferrari's championship hopes.
Ferrari had bounced back but still had deep flaws. Red Bull suffered more bad luck and lost ground. The window for either to challenge Mercedes for the team title was shrinking.
But that wasn't all.
Grosjean had finished P6, but his Haas was disqualified post-race for an illegal floor. This promoted the two Force Indias to P6 and P7, with Ocon ahead of Perez.
The newly-owned Racing Point Force India was showing top-tier competitiveness, matching the big three, and Ocon was proving his immense talent to keep his seat.
Leclerc scored a point in P10. Ricciardo DNF'd again. Both Williams cars scored points for the first time this season.
These were all massive news stories. With the silly season in full swing, every result could trigger personnel changes. There was so much to cover.
Yet, the spotlight belonged entirely to Kai.
As he walked in, Charles Leclerc ran up and gave him a massive hug. Charles was as ecstatic as if he had won the race himself, dancing and grinning ear to ear.
As a pure product of the Ferrari Academy, Charles's feelings for Monza and Ferrari were profound. His joy was genuine.
The media marveled at the sight. It wasn't just Leclerc. Ricciardo, Gasly, Sainz, and Hulkenberg all came over to offer congratulations.
"Kai, undoubtedly, this was a magnificent race. David [Coulthard] and I were just discussing that this might be the best race of the season," Martin Brundle said, representing the expert opinion.
"Looking at the result—pole to win—it seems straightforward. But anyone who watched knows it was anything but. After the low of Spa, what does this win mean to you? You put on an incredible display of driving today."
Even setting aside Monza's significance to Ferrari, Kai's strategy, racecraft, and wheel-to-wheel combat were elite. He had truly showcased his entire arsenal of skills. It was a masterclass worth dissecting by every driver.
That explained why so many of his peers had rushed to congratulate him.
Standing before the cameras, Kai was still sweating profusely, constantly sipping water.
He paused slightly at the question, taking a deep breath. "In Hockenheim, I said that victory was dedicated to Mr. Marchionne."
"Actually, before I joined Ferrari, the Boss described the scene at Monza to me. The holy ground of the Tifosi, filling every corner of the track, turning it into an absolute sea of red."
"That image has stayed in my mind. Vividly. I promised him that one day, we would witness the revival of that red sea at Monza together."
"Today, I kept my promise. I hope the Boss liked it."
A smile bloomed on his face.
This wasn't a time for sorrow. They should celebrate. Celebrate the cycle of life, the continuation of hope and dreams, and the victory of today.
Kai had been waiting for this.
Exactly one year ago, right here, Marchionne had painted a picture, a blueprint. Kai signed the contract and made a promise.
A year later, returning to the same spot, Marchionne was gone. But Kai hadn't broken his promise. Carrying Marchionne's passion and expectations, he stepped onto Monza. From the moment he arrived, his fighting spirit burned, pushing him through the grit and the grind, detonating his potential.
The goal was to recreate the vision Marchionne had painted.
And now, he was ready to stand alongside the Tifosi and recreate the legendary glory of Monza.
Breathing heavily, heart pounding, drenched in sweat, face flushed red—Matteo hadn't looked this pathetic in a long, long time. Running on foot, like an idiot.
He and his rich friends used to mock people who ran like this. They looked no different than antelopes fleeing a lion on the Serengeti.
But right now, he didn't care. He didn't mind looking pathetic. He didn't care about the mockery. He just ran toward Monza, completely lost in the moment. All around him, people were running, laughing wildly, cheering freely. Every face radiated happiness.
It was a simple, pure emotion that ignited the world. Brilliant gold and red intertwined, burning fiercely.
His heart burst with joy. All logic and thought vanished, leaving only pure happiness.
From every corner, from all directions, the surging red tide surrounded the podium. A hundred thousand people? Two hundred thousand? The endless wave of humanity poured out, blanketing Monza. They jumped, they cheered, their hearts swelling as they waited for their King to appear.
In this vast ocean of humanity, Matteo was just a tiny drop of water.
His jealousy, his resentment, his anger, his shame—they all felt so small, so insignificant. The moment they touched the heatwave in the air, they turned to ash, leaving no trace. What replaced them was the awakening of his Tifosi blood, reaching boiling point, racing through his veins and catching fire.
Roar—Roar—
They let out a low, rumbling sound, like an echo from deep within a cave, or a falcon circling low. All the passion and madness were tightly suppressed beneath the calm surface.
Waiting. Calling.
Bottas stepped onto the podium. No boos. The Tifosi had no time to mock their rivals. Today didn't belong to Mercedes.
Hamilton stepped out. The low roar grew deeper, more condensed, as if sinking into their blood and souls.
Hamilton kept his eyes downcast, hands politely clasped in front of him, trying his hardest to control his turbulent emotions. This defeat was bitter and sharp. Standing on the second step of the podium felt like a massive failure.
The desire to win, the unyielding fighting spirit, burned in his chest. No amount of effort could suppress it.
The magnificent scene before him was a moment-by-moment reminder that the brutal, bayonet-to-bayonet fight to the death had reached its final, decisive stage.
He was ready. He would fight to the end!
The low roar in the air gradually formed syllables, spreading like wind through a wheat field. Ripples expanded, turning into waves.
"KAI ZHIZHOU!"
"KAI ZHIZHOU!"
Wave after wave, like the sound of wind and ocean from afar, reaching their ears gently. But turning to look, they saw an endless, boundless expanse of blue stretching to the horizon. Standing on tiptoes, you could see the edge of the world.
Layer by layer, rising higher.
Finally, the figure appeared. Wearing the Number 22 Ferrari suit. Tall, slender, youthful, but those not-so-broad shoulders carried the hopes and dreams with dignity. He strode forward, politely greeting Bottas and Hamilton, walking around behind them to step onto the podium.
The moment his feet jumped onto the top step... Boom.
The world vanished into nothingness. Between the sky and the earth, only one sound remained.
"KAI ZHIZHOU! KAI ZHIZHOU! KAI ZHIZHOU!"
Absolute worship. Universal submission.
In this moment, Monza was his kingdom.
Kai puffed out his chest and lifted his chin. Looking out, the brilliant red stretched endlessly, reaching all the way to where the sky met the earth.
It was so peaceful—a massive crowd gathered in perfect order. Yet it was so turbulent—wild cheers and revelry, Prancing Horse flags fluttering everywhere in the wind.
The faces were blurry yet so clear. He couldn't make out individual features, but he could deeply feel the fanaticism and happiness washing over him. It vividly recorded the years of waiting bitterly in the darkness, the times they hit the wall of frustration just when hope appeared. It was precisely because of the long wait and endless suffering that the victory in this moment was so overwhelming.
They were burning the energy of their souls to scream his name.
Involuntarily, Kai placed his hand over his heart. He stood tall and proud, waiting for the national anthem to play.
"...Arise, ye who refuse to be slaves..."
Marchionne hadn't lied.
The Red Sea of Monza was truly unparalleled, like a dream. Once you saw this brilliance with your own eyes, you could never forget it. Even in midnight dreams, you would find the scent, the warmth, the color deep in your memories. So intense, so beautiful. The energy from the depths of the soul.
It was a pity Marchionne had missed it.
"The future of Ferrari belongs to you."
"...You just need to be yourself."
"Actually, I have a dream..."
"Win beautifully! An unparalleled victory!"
"Haha, we still have a lot of work to do."
"Kai, I believe in you."
Without warning, the dam broke.
It hit him out of nowhere, fierce and overwhelming. Kai had no time to defend himself. He surrendered. The old man who believed in him unconditionally, the titan who walked with him on crisp Maranello mornings, the ambitious leader who sought to rebuild Ferrari's glory... was gone.
He had paved the road to the dream, but he couldn't walk it with them. He had gotten off the train halfway, turning to walk toward the sunset on the horizon.
Kai stood there, sobbing silently.
Until this moment, the reality finally struck his chest hard. The truth he had been avoiding, ignoring, pressed down on him heavily, making it hard to breathe.
Within the brilliant, dazzling red before him, Kai seemed to see Marchionne again.
He was still wearing his signature black sweater. His face was kind, a smile playing on his lips. He didn't look like the ruthless industry titan who commanded the world. He just raised his hands high, looking at Kai, applauding. He looked at the boundless red ocean around them, smiling brightly like a child.
See? he seemed to say. This is Monza.
Then, he turned and walked away, moving forward through the boiling red sea, slowly fading into the endless crimson.
Matteo froze. Kai—who was always strong, calm, and bantering in front of the media; who faced all pressure with nonchalance; who could smile at the storm even if the whole world stood against him; who fought back again and again to create miracles on the track.
That Kai. The fierce, terrifying Kai. The Kai who had given him nightmares for two straight years.
Now, he couldn't control his emotions. Matteo should be gloating, right? This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to kick him while he was down. But why was his own heart beating faster and faster uncontrollably?
That was passion. That was hot blood. That was the dawn of a dream.
Matteo couldn't control himself either. He used all his strength to scream until his voice grew hoarse, emptying all the energy from his chest and brain.
"KAI ZHIZHOU!"
Legend has it that Monza holds a vast ocean of red.
Legend has it that millions of Tifosi make the pilgrimage to Monza every year. Win or lose, they always stand behind Ferrari.
Legend has it that there is only one team at Monza. Regardless of victory or defeat, no one can steal their thunder. It is the most loyal, hardcore racing sanctuary in the world.
And today, Kai finally witnessed the grandeur of the legend. Like a magnificent painting unrolling before his eyes, unforgettable for a lifetime.
"KAI ZHIZHOU!"
"KAI ZHIZHOU!"
Again and again. The same name echoed beneath the sky. Millions of hearts twisted into a single rope. Through the sound of bursting lungs, one could deeply feel the burning fanaticism. Eardrums ached slightly; skin felt hot. It wasn't just hearing; all five senses were immersed in it.
Despite his tears, Kai wasn't fragile. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and didn't hide his crying. Instead, he flashed a smile, his eyes bright and resolute as he looked forward.
The sadness and bitterness were real. The happiness and passion were real too. He would firmly etch this scene in his memory, carry the dreams of the Tifosi and Marchionne, and embark on the journey once more.
He was not fighting alone.
A smile climbed his face.
The anthem ended. Kai grabbed the champagne bottle, but he was a bit slow. Hamilton and Bottas quickly flanked him.
They backed away while simultaneously aiming their bottles at Kai.
Clearly, they both knew Kai was the main character of Monza.
However, for once, Kai didn't engage in a playful fight with them. He grabbed his champagne and ran forward. He shook the bottle violently and sprayed the champagne like a fountain over the Tifosi below.
Splash, splash! The champagne rain instantly ignited the crowd's passion. Everyone raised their arms, jumping and cheering, boiling over.
Then, Kai opened his arms, embracing the sky, and shouted with all his might.
The crowd paused slightly. In the heat of the moment, an individual's voice is tiny, a drop in the ocean, powerless. But Lorenzo heard it. His hammering heart leaped into his throat. An emotion that words couldn't accurately describe exploded within him.
Lorenzo gave up resisting and surrendered. He felt the shout forming in his own heart.
One voice, then another. Like a religion.
Gradually, the sound spread. Eyes locked on Kai. The voices merged into a roaring wave, igniting the passion, screaming with all their might.
Finally, they twisted into a single rope—
"FERRARI!"
From Kai Zhizhou to Ferrari. From individual victory to the power of the team. The young man standing on the throne of Monza was summoning a far greater power.
For a moment, the other teams and the media were stunned. No one expected this. But it was too late; they were surrounded.
Toto Wolff froze. His heart plummeted into the abyss in freefall.
Even though he had realized he might have made a mistake, that Kai's value and potential were beyond expectations, this moment was different.
Everyone says F1 is a team sport. No team, no victory. The world champions all know this. But for the drivers, F1 remains an individual sport. When they sit in the cockpit and grip the steering wheel, they control their world. They are the key to victory.
But right now, Kai had turned his moment of deification into a catalyst to awaken the team spirit!
Wolff had never felt the threat from Kai so clearly and profoundly. The true enemy to Mercedes' continued dynasty had emerged. It wasn't the Golden Boy Vettel, nor the genius Verstappen. It was the complete outsider who had popped out from between the cracks of a rock.
"FERRARI!"
"FERRARI!"
The chants fused tightly, echoing continuously. Even after the podium ceremony ended, even after the fans dispersed, the lingering echoes remained in the air. They followed the footsteps of every Tifosi, scattering into millions of homes, continuously stirring waves of aftershocks.
It was unimaginable. 250,000 people had flooded into Monza, awakening the craziest, hottest sea of fire of the new century, covering every corner of the track and dyeing the sky red.
Night fell. The streetlights flickered on. One person was still pathetically holding up a sign with Kai's face on it, jogging reluctantly around the track, grumbling.
"Kai Zhizhou... is the best... driver... in the world..."
Again and again, using his own two feet to trudge through every corner of the Monza circuit. His friends clustered around him, holding up their phones to record the entire process, laughing hysterically. That carefree, unrestrained happiness was more brilliant than the sunset.
La Gazzetta dello Sport dubbed the victory the "Legend of Monza."
Because of the dramatic twists and turns of the race; the pressure and chaos that lasted all summer; the Red Sea of over 250,000 people; and the earth-shattering roar that awakened Ferrari's pride and passion. For the Tifosi, it was far more than just a win.
In both the Driver and Constructor standings, Mercedes still held the lead. But Ferrari's victory at Monza reignited hope. The championship battle was back on. Perhaps this was truly the closest Ferrari had been to the title in a decade. A return to the throne. A restoration of glory.
This possibility made the Tifosi lose their minds with joy, turning social media into a frenzy.
But at the same time, because of this, the Tifosi's sorrow and mourning were amplified. The man who had forged all this with his own hands, Sergio Marchionne, was gone forever, unable to witness this moment.
Worse, Marchionne's sudden departure left a massive void, like a black hole, threatening to swallow all hope and light.
Now, just as Ferrari possessed the ability to fight back and potentially reach the summit, the management was in chaos. The internal power struggle within the group was causing a bloodbath. Neither Maranello nor the F1 team could find stability; they were caught in the storm.
What if this storm destroyed Ferrari's best chance at a championship in ten years?
Because of this, millions of Tifosi flooded into Milan to escort Marchionne on his final journey. It wasn't just mourning. After the victory at Monza, complex emotions surged. Fans who hadn't planned to attend the farewell ceremony took to the streets.
On that day, over 400,000 people filled the streets to mourn Marchionne and witness the final curtain call of a Ferrari titan.
Among them was Kai Zhizhou.
The noise and excitement of Monza were left behind. Kai wore a black shirt and a black suit, attending the ceremony accompanied by Lu Cheng and Jiang Mo.
The Tifosi spotted Kai immediately. Completely different from his usual spirited demeanor, this was the first time they had seen him so solemn and sorrowful. The tears on the Monza podium were fresh in their minds. They could empathize, deeply feeling the profound weight and sadness radiating from him.
"Kai! Don't be too sad."
"Mr. Marchionne definitely saw the victory at Monza."
"You'll never walk alone."
One by one, they comforted Kai. Even a few words were meant to give him strength so they could weather the storm together.
But this time, Kai didn't respond. Today belonged to Mr. Marchionne. Kai wasn't the protagonist; he didn't want to steal the spotlight from the Boss.
Approaching the church, Lorenzo, who had arrived earlier, walked up and gave Kai a hug. He stood silently by his side.
As Kai prepared to enter the cathedral, he caught a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of his eye. He paused. After a moment of hesitation, he patted Lorenzo's shoulder without explaining, stepped out of the line, and walked straight over. He offered a faint smile and initiated the greeting.
"Good morning. You are here too."