Roar! Roar, roar, roar!
Hockenheim's rationality completely slipped its leash. Caught in a wave of fervor, the crowd began cheering for Stroll's massive upset lead. The track temperature steadily climbed.
Unfortunately, the fantasy of "Racing Point winning their first Grand Prix" lasted only half a lap before Verstappen's overtake ruthlessly woke the audience up.
Order was restored under the control of the top three teams.
Despite this, the scene unfolding was still astonishing. Stroll and Kvyat were engaged in a fierce battle for second place, with Bottas lurking menacingly behind them, waiting for an opportunity.
Verstappen reaped the benefits.
The Red Bull Number 33 driver fully utilized the entanglement between Stroll and Kvyat to successfully block Bottas. He sprinted ahead, setting his own pace. Given Bottas's character, he tended to be cautious; the longer he hesitated, the more space Verstappen had to build his advantage.
The crowd watched this scene with disbelief. They could hardly believe Racing Point and Toro Rosso were suppressing Mercedes and fighting for a podium spot. Stroll and Kvyat, two drivers who usually kept a low profile, finally earned their moment in the spotlight, shining brightly.
That is, until the next incident firmly grabbed everyone's attention—
If anyone believed the dramatic tension of the German Grand Prix had reached its limit, they clearly hadn't witnessed the infinite possibilities of Formula 1.
On lap 53, Hamilton approached Turn 1. He delayed his braking slightly, turning in a bit wider than usual. The car fully mounted the curb, pushing just a fraction too hard. A slight mismatch between his steering and braking inputs, combined with the extreme race conditions, finally broke the W10's balance. It lost control, spinning 360 degrees and nearly hitting the wall again.
In the nick of time, Hamilton managed to regain control, preventing the car from getting stuck in the gravel again and steering it back onto the track.
"Unbelievable! This is truly... unbelievable!"
"That was a driver error. Hamilton rarely makes mistakes like that, but there's no doubt he made a slight error in judgment there."
On the team radio, Hamilton was overwhelmed with frustration. He couldn't believe this was the W10 that had dominated the 2019 season. Everything felt wrong; nothing was going right. "How has it come to this, guys!"
Radio: ...
Dead silence. Not a single sound.
Let alone the fans at Hockenheim, even the Mercedes garage broke out in a cold sweat.
Wolff, his nerves stretched to the limit, even forgot to breathe. This 125th-anniversary commemorative race had already seen enough disasters. He just wanted the race to end peacefully, to wake up from this absolute nightmare.
However, things didn't go as planned.
On lap 55, it was Turn 1 again. It was a Mercedes again. But this time, it was Bottas.
Without warning, suddenly, it just happened.
"Bottas!"
Whoosh!
"Bottas loses control! He's in the wall! Bottas is out!"
The Number 77 car slammed hard into the barrier. The front wing and tires were smashed to pieces, scattering like confetti. Hockenheim was instantly dragged into endless darkness.
F*ck!
Wolff lost control entirely. Expletives exploded from his mouth as he ripped off his headset and slammed it onto the desk, unleashing a torrent of German.
Spewing profanities.
He slammed his clenched right fist onto the desk, but it did little to vent his anger. Wolff couldn't believe what he was seeing.
United in purpose and determined to win, Mercedes had absolute faith in this race. They believed they could win this crucial battle on home soil. So, where exactly did things go wrong, and when did it start? His muddled brain had no answers.
"Bottas, pushing hard to catch Stroll, took too much curb. Clearly, the standing water on the curb hadn't completely dried. The car lost balance, and he couldn't regain control. It's very, very similar to Hamilton's mistake at Turn 1 just moments ago—"
Another mistake!
Rare. It was truly too rare. From the pit crew to Hamilton, and now Bottas, mistakes were happening top to bottom, spreading like a contagion.
"This is Mercedes' milestone 200th Grand Prix, but without a doubt, it's also a Grand Prix they'll wish they could immediately forget."
And then, the Safety Car was deployed again—
It had been deployed so many times that it was hard to keep count. Was this the fifth or the sixth time?
Gasps, marvels, head-spinning chaos. Even watching the live broadcast continuously, the volume of information exceeded the brain's processing limits. It was impossible to keep up. Viewers felt like goldfish, staring at the current standings with complete ignorance, seemingly no different from someone who had just turned on the TV.
Rain, Safety Cars, accidents, yellow flags. The constantly interrupted race had almost no stable rhythm. Overtaking seemed ubiquitous, yet also somehow ill-timed. Even more bizarrely, the current race leader, Verstappen, had pitted a staggering five times. Kvyat and Stroll, following closely behind, had also pitted four times each.
If they reviewed it after the race, this would likely be the most complex, strangest, and most chaotic race in recent years. As for whether it was exciting—
"Kai!"
"Slipstream! Pulls out! Inside line!"
"Clean and decisive! Sainz anticipated it, but he still couldn't fully defend his racing line."
"Late braking!"
"The line! The position! It all belongs to Kai!"
"Unbelievable. Kai overtakes Sainz in just one corner. He's already charging after Stroll without missing a beat."
"Good... Jesus Christ!"
The Safety Car stayed out a bit longer this time—
Understaffed.
One, two, three, four, five times. A chain of accidents and situations. Besides the major accidents, minor ones were everywhere. The Germans, usually known for their discipline and planning, finally lost their rhythm amidst the continuous waves of chaos. It took slightly longer to clear Bottas's wrecked car.
The Safety Car led the pack from lap 57 all the way to lap 61 before the track debris was finally cleared. With only three laps remaining in the 64-lap race, the FIA didn't want to interfere with the final showdown. They immediately announced the Safety Car was ending. On lap 62, the race resumed.
As soon as the Safety Car pitted, Kai launched an attack on the pit straight without hesitation. A fatal strike, cleanly overtaking Sainz.
It took a full beat for Hockenheim to process witnessing Kai effortlessly overtake Sainz on the inside at the accident-prone Turn 1, exploiting Sainz's cautious and tense psychological state. Only then did it register—
Amidst the track-wide chaos and turmoil, Kai, who had seemingly vanished into the hurricane, had quietly climbed up to fifth place.
After experiencing a power unit failure in qualifying, starting the race from twentieth, and navigating through torrential rain, multiple accidents, and constant rhythm disruptions, Kai was replicating the miracles of Singapore and Interlagos from the 2018 season. How exactly had he managed it? When did he get up here? How did he turn the tide amidst all that chaos and bumping?
How did all this happen?!
No, after just overtaking Sainz, he was already in fourth place.
Wait, where was Albon? Where was Hamilton? Where were the other drivers from the top three teams?
In a moment of distraction, before thoughts could even form, Kai was already pressing his pursuit without pause. There were only two laps left in the race.
Clearly, Kai wasn't going to be satisfied with fourth place. The opponents blocking his path ahead were—
Stroll. Kvyat.
Was he planning to surpass his feats in Singapore and Interlagos and take it a step further?
The thought paused briefly in their minds, with no time to expand. Crofty's impassioned commentary had already dragged the audience's attention forcefully back to the track. With hearts pounding and blood boiling, the world suddenly went quiet.
Utter silence.
Full of twists and turns, the entire board had been completely scrambled. Midfield teams seized a golden opportunity to rise up, while the top three teams retreated amidst the chaos, surrounded by hyenas. Hockenheim witnessed the rare and classic scene of Racing Point, Toro Rosso, and Renault fighting for the podium.
But!
After a chaotic cycle, the calm and collected top three teams returned to the stage, boxing in the midfield teams from front and back. With an overwhelmingly dominant posture, they attempted to clean up the mess. After the chaos and turbulence of raising hell, they were restoring order, returning to the throne, and continuing to defend their dominance.
"Lance Stroll is trying to defend! He refuses to give up the position!"
This was obvious to anyone watching. Stroll's driving on the track had exposed his tactical intentions early on. He wasn't following the conventional racing line; instead, he constantly deviated from it, trying to find a way to block Kai. But this defense showed absolutely no planning or strategy from Stroll. It was green and impatient. He even lost his composure before his opponent launched an attack.
Like crystal, clear and transparent, every thought in his mind was exposed.
Crofty couldn't pretend not to see it even if he wanted to.
"He's searching for a precise defensive line! Inside? Outside?"
"Stroll's driving rhythm is completely scrambled, trying to create a smokescreen to confuse his opponent. But Kai remains entirely unmoved, maintaining his composure and responding to movement with stillness."
"Kai's mature calmness makes Stroll look like a kid just learning to drive go-karts. The rhythm, the strategy, the initiative are all in the hands of the mature, experienced hunter behind him."
Stroll: Get lost!
In the broadcast booth, Brundle stared intently at the screen. His blood began to boil, and in a rare display, he couldn't control his excitement.
Expectation exploded. "Here he comes!"
The engine roared, tearing through the air. The red halo morphed into turbulence, pouring out in a rush, instantly latching onto the rear wing of the Racing Point car like an arrow released from a bow.
Even Crofty and Brundle, with their overarching view, were startled. They completely failed to anticipate the timing of Kai's attack, let alone Stroll.
Stroll: !
Ahead, the long left-hand Turn 5 Parabolika!
Full throttle, speed surging, climbing all the way to 320 km/h! 330 km/h!
Fierce winds roared wildly past the helmet. Cyan airwaves intertwined with the red light, charging unstoppably toward the pink car.
Young Master Stroll's eyes lit up. Ferrari thinks they can use their engine advantage to swallow me whole at the high-speed Turn 5. Kai is nothing special.
His pupils contracted slightly, staring intently at the flash of red in the rearview mirror. He constantly told himself to be patient, more patient, to wait for the opponent to strike before responding. But in the rapidly changing, close-quarters combat, the Ferrari behind him remained perfectly steady, seemingly content to ride the slipstream, with no intention of making a move. This caused his anxiety to rise. Without time to think, his brain instinctively tried to press the button first.
Whoever strikes first, wins—
Left side, inside line!
As Stroll moved, Kai moved too.
The moment his pupils caught the pink Number 18 car moving ahead, the Number 22 car reflexively cut in the opposite direction, quickly squeezing alongside.
In that instant, the crowd held its breath.
They saw the Number 22 car, fully utilizing the slipstream advantage, pull out and, with clean, unstoppable momentum, push the throttle to the floor. With lightning speed, it closed in on the Number 18 car to run side-by-side. But while the Number 18 car thought this was a battle for position, the Number 22 car used a battle of racing lines to overturn the situation. It gave its opponent no breathing room. Speed surged, engine power released without reservation.
A misalignment of focus, and the red car majestically completed the overtake on the outside. The flash of pink simply looked clumsy and sluggish.
The speed was still climbing. 330—335—340—
Turn 6, the hairpin right, was approaching at an unbelievable speed.
"Late braking!" Crofty cried out.
Bold and uninhibited, the personality Kai displayed on the track was vividly released, instantly gripping everyone's hearts.
In a flash!
Stroll didn't even have time to be shocked. His body's instinct reacted, hitting the brakes. He didn't want to play with fire on the edge of life and death.
Just as he made the move, out of the right corner of his eye, he saw the flash of red still not braking, maintaining high speed, charging majestically into the Turn 6 hairpin. Transitioning from the Parabolika left to the hairpin right, the Number 22 car moved perfectly from the outside to the inside. Using late braking, it hugged the apex tightly. Dancing on a knife's edge amidst the raging hurricane, it remained elegant and composed. The red afterimage fluttered in the wind like a skirt.
Still no braking—still no braking—
Stroll saw clearly that the Number 22 car had gone from side-by-side to overtaking to leading, and even had its entire car ahead of him, yet it still hadn't braked. Expletives burst forth uncontrollably. Was that guy crazy? Had he forgotten the unpredictable track conditions today?
After experiencing such a chaotic, noisy race, dancing back and forth on the edge of life and death, he still possessed such courage and audacity at the final moment?
Stroll choked on a breath.
Sainz: Lance, I know. I know!
The Number 22 car explored the absolute limit, leaning out over the edge of the cliff, and finally—
Brakes!
The carbon fiber brake discs instantly glowed red-hot. Unbelievable power yanked hard on the car's reins. The steering wheel vibrated violently; the whole world shook.
Sixth gear—fifth gear—fourth gear—
The Number 22 car nailed the apex like a spike, effortlessly stuffing the Number 18 car completely behind it.
The overtake held no surprises or suspense, yet its ease and decisiveness were still unexpected.
Stroll felt insulted.
Seeing the Number 22 car take the lead and hug the apex, positioning its entire car ahead of him, Stroll, holding his breath, simply steered right, hugging the rear wing of the red afterimage ahead and cutting inside to hug the apex.
Switchback!
Don't think Kai was the only one who knew how to use the switchback. Stroll could use the switchback to reclaim his position too. He would show Hockenheim what he was capable of—
The thought had barely surfaced before it was snuffed out. Stroll stared dumbfounded at the Number 22 car ahead. The opponent seemed to have anticipated this move and prepared in advance. He didn't hit the apex of the hairpin and take a wide, sweeping line through the corner as usual.
Instead, the steering wheel was turned to the limit. The opponent devoured the hairpin with a nearly drifting, street-racing style, conquering the corner with dominant, imposing presence. Then, he opened the throttle early. Traction exploded, the rear wheels slipping slightly, but the Number 22 car had firmly secured the racing line and position.
Not a single gap!
Stroll completed the switchback behind him, but the move was futile. The line and space were completely blocked; he couldn't execute his maneuver. Looking at the red afterimage ahead, which acted like a solid wall, his body reflexively hit the brakes. He had long since forgotten about cornering and exiting.
One second! Just that brief moment!
Light and shadow intertwined, the outcome decided. The Number 22 car completely dropped the Number 18 car. Before a breath could even be exhaled, the gap had widened substantially.
There was no suspense.
Clean, sharp, direct, tough. Immediately after overtaking, he established a lead. Adrenaline instantly ignited, majestically destroying all rationality.
"Overtake! Completed!"
"Kai executes a textbook attack at the hairpin!"
"The Safety Car has only just pitted, and Kai has already completed consecutive overtakes in Sector 1. First Sainz, then Stroll— Ladies and gentlemen, Kai has now moved up to third place!"
The words rushed out, climbing higher and higher, full of passion. His body trembled uncontrollably. A wave of numbness shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. His mind opened up, shock and madness pouring out, unable to stop himself from falling into a frenzy.
Incredible—
Such a brilliant and thrilling race hadn't cooled down even as it entered its final stages. The fierce, close-quarters combat continued to the very end.
More importantly, it still wasn't over. Ahead, the Number 26 Toro Rosso car shivered, seemingly feeling the fear of being dominated.
From Sainz to Stroll, Kai's overtakes were exceptionally clean—not only decisive, but tough. A clean cut, leaving no loose ends.
"Clearly, Kai knows that with the continuous deployments and interruptions of the Safety Car, the actual racing time left for the drivers is very limited. With only three laps to the finish line, he doesn't have the luxury of wasting time. He must be calm, he must be focused. He only gets one shot at each overtake; he has to maximize his efficiency. This is the only way to fight for that last sliver of hope. He's not only competing with his opponents, but also racing against time."
"And!"
"He planned it, and he executed it. Now, only one car stands between Kai and Verstappen."
"Daniil Kvyat!"
Fierce winds howled; the smell of gunpowder filled the air.
The tension of the confrontation was pulled tight, and the lingering scent of blood in the air began to burn.
—Only 0.6 seconds. The gap between the Ferrari and the Toro Rosso was razor-thin.
The Safety Car had its pros and cons.
The downside was that it compressed the race time, leaving limited opportunity for the drivers to actually race. The upside was that all the cars were bunched up, creating a DRS train. There was no need for arduous catching up; every car was within striking distance of the one ahead.
Kai fully utilized the advantage of the Safety Car, completing consecutive overtakes with decisive action, giving Kvyat absolutely no time to pull away.
Kvyat stared at the flash of red in his rearview mirror. It felt like a sharp knife pressed against his throat. A breath caught in his chest, unable to escape.
"Damn it! That guy Lance Stroll is useless!"
The Motodrom section, now also named the Mercedes-Benz Arena, encompassing Turns 8, 9, and 10, was a complex of continuous corners.
Continuous low-to-medium speed corners generated turbulent airflow, which not only increased tire wear but also made it extremely difficult for the following car to stay close.
Yet, Kai stuck to him like glue. Gritting his teeth, aggressive and relentless, the energy erupting in the tight, continuous corners crashed down on Kvyat like a tidal wave.
0.5 seconds—0.3 seconds—0.4 seconds—
Corner by corner, the Number 22 car clung tightly to the Number 26 car, like a shark hunting its prey.
Relentless entanglement, a lingering ghost. Kvyat's frustration and annoyance index began to rise bit by bit.
In the close-quarters combat, Kvyat forced himself to remain calm. He didn't want to follow in Stroll's footsteps and look like an idiot. In the recent battle between Kvyat and Stroll, Kvyat had only needed two corners to complete the overtake and snatch second place. He believed he and Stroll weren't even on the same level, and people shouldn't discuss them in the same breath; it lowered his standing.
Hold your breath!
Kvyat didn't panic. In fact, through the continuous corners, his racing line was stable and strong. The car remained on the optimal path, unwavering and steady, giving no space. He truly displayed a style entirely different from Stroll's, showing no flaws and forcefully resisting Kai's aggressive pressure.
Corner—straight—corner—
Kvyat remained unmoved, holding his line. His performance had far exceeded Sainz and Stroll. Kai simply hadn't found an opportunity to launch an attack.
The two cars were linked together like conjoined twins, but Kai still hadn't made a move. The tense air grew denser and hotter. The spectators at Hockenheim could no longer control their emotions; gasps rose and fell. Their hearts, stuck in their throats, felt ready to burst.
However, focus remained absolute on the track. Kai hadn't lost focus, and neither had Kvyat.
Just as the night is darkest before the dawn, Kai knew the moments right before launching an attack were the most tense.
Kvyat was different from Stroll. Kvyat's personality was impulsive and reckless, and his driving style was raw and rough. But having been in and out of the paddock over the years, riding the ups and downs, experience and lessons had ultimately smoothed some of his edges. Having finally managed to return to the paddock this year, he cherished the hard-won opportunity.
So he could remain calm and steady—for a certain amount of time.
For Kai, this was like bullfighting. He needed patience; he needed composure. He had to slowly stoke the emotions in the bull's blood.
The moment the bull lost control, a fatal strike!
The difference was that there wasn't enough time now. Kai couldn't set up a comprehensive, step-by-step plan; he had to compress the entire process.
Because of this, through the continuous corners in the Motodrom section, Kai aggressively stuck to Kvyat, despite the risk of tire wear.
Then, Turn 12, Sachs Kurve—
A U-shaped left-hander, but one that allowed drivers to carry high speed, immediately leading into the high-speed combination of Turns 13 and 14.
Kai, who had been glued to the Number 26 car, suddenly changed rhythm. He didn't attack; he just got closer—closer!
The airflow became turbulent.
It was true for the Number 22 car, and it was true for the Number 26 car as well.
The Toro Rosso car swayed slightly. Kvyat's heart skipped a beat, annoyance flaring. Was the guy behind him provoking him? Pushing up recklessly like an angry bull? One hard brake and he could make this idiot rear-end him, and then that guy wouldn't be smiling anymore.
Despite this, the remnants of reason still held the reins. Kvyat forced himself to stay in control, ultimately avoiding the foolish mutually assured destruction he might have attempted in his younger, more reckless days. Focus! He needed to focus!
Right at that moment—
The Number 22 car left no breathing room. A flick to the outside, cutting to the outer line, it unexpectedly drew alongside the rear wheel of the Number 26 car.
"He's making his move!"
The two cars entered the apex side-by-side. Kvyat was panicked and angry. The frustration of being constantly pressured and pursued instantly overturned his balance.
Subconsciously, Kvyat steered right, moving slightly to the outside. His thought process was to squeeze the racing line, just like Hamilton would. In practice, however, he recklessly rammed into him, just like Verstappen would.
Regardless, Kvyat tried to complete the defense and teach Kai a harsh lesson. The frustration he had suppressed and controlled finally took over his mind.
Just as he made the move, Kvyat was stunned—
He missed!
Kvyat's move to steer right and move outside didn't squeeze Kai's racing line, nor did it cause a collision. It was a heavy punch thrown into thin air.
What was going on?
Kvyat didn't look in his rearview mirror; he simply turned his head to look. He saw that Kai seemed to have been prepared for this. His cut to the outside was wider than usual, fully utilizing the space on the curb, hugging the white track limit line, aiming to trace the arc of the U-turn as fully as possible.
A tiny deviation in steering allowed the Number 22 car to gain space. Although Kvyat's movement was massive, it still didn't result in contact—
Kvyat had thrown a punch at empty air.
But that wasn't the main point. The point was that Kai held the outside line. Tires screaming, grip squeezed to the absolute limit, his control of the steering and throttle was exquisite. The entire cornering rhythm was smooth and flowing.
Without comparison, there is no harm. Kvyat's bumpy, shaky, and stuttering cornering rhythm was fully exposed.
Visibly, the Number 22 car caught up, drew level, overtook, and took the lead within the corner. By the exit, Kai was already half a car length ahead.
The subsequent exit speed instantly widened the gap. The Number 22 car went to full throttle, the engine roaring. Turning into a red halo, it surged ahead, majestically entering the high-speed combination of Turns 13 and 14, leaving the Number 26 car isolated behind without a backward glance.