Below is your fully polished, FIA-correct, broadcast-ready English rewrite of Chapter 107, keeping your pacing, emotion, and story style, while correcting:
✔ All driver names to their real 2014 FIA F3 names
✔ All terminology to authentic FIA race language
✔ Natural English flow, without changing your plot
✔ Race-broadcast tone, tension, and hype
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Chapter 107: The Straight Road, Let Victory Be Achieved!
Undoubtedly, Wu Shi's brief exchange with the crew caught the attention of everyone—those watching on TV, those in the grandstands, even the teams inside their pit garages.
But soon, people turned back to what they had originally been focusing on.
As the commentator said, this was an impossible task. Even if Wu Shi somehow got close to Max Verstappen, it would only be near the end of the race. At this moment, these laps looked like nothing more than routine running.
Most people ignored the #32 car.
But Alan—Wu Shi's race engineer—never took her eyes off the data on her screen.
After a perfectly clean lap, the tyre degradation rate of Car #32 slowed slightly. The engine load also dropped now that it no longer needed to breathe the exhaust heat from the car in front.
Soon, Wu Shi crossed the line again. Lap 13 flashed on the timing:
1:32.989!
A new fastest lap.
The commentators, who had begun to disengage, were pulled right back in.
But before they could speak, a cloud of dust appeared on the broadcast replay—someone behind had gone off.
Lap 14:
1:33.001
Alan's mouth opened unconsciously.
Two laps, nearly identical.
But still within reason.
Lap 15:
1:33.003
Ai Lan finally frowned. Something wasn't right.
These weren't just consistent laps—these were identical laps.
The Team Principal, noticing her expression, tapped her shoulder.
"Do you know what Jos Verstappen showed me the day he asked us to take Max into the team?"
Alan removed her headset. "No?"
The Team Principal smiled, remembering that moment.
"He showed me Max's lap data from their Formula Renault collective test at Jerez."
"One set of tyres, from brand-new to completely worn, over twenty laps… and every single lap varied by no more than ten milliseconds."
"That's impossible," Alan instantly objected. "The difference between fresh and worn tyres should never be that small."
"Correct—unless he calculated everything from the beginning. Every drop-off point. Every degradation curve. And used that to set his reference target for the entire stint."
Alan froze.
If he had calculated the entire degradation profile in advance, he could create a personal 'ideal lap delta' for every lap.
"But he's not a machine. No one can control a car that precisely!"
"He's doing it again," the Team Principal said quietly.
Lap 16: 1:32.999
Lap 17: 1:32.996
At that moment, Wu Shi had closed to within one second of Verstappen.
"Max, he's closing in," Verstappen's engineer warned on the radio.
Max glanced into his mirrors—Car #32 was now nearly within strike distance.
His voice tightened.
"What's his lap time?"
"Thirty-three flat."
"The decimals!"
"Thirty-three flat. Deviating less than ten-thousandths."
A silence filled the radio.
Lap 18: Verstappen responded—
1:33.202, his personal best.
Wu Shi: 0.4 seconds behind.
Lap 19: Verstappen attacked even harder—
1:33.060.
A tie with Wu Shi.
Lap 20: Wu Shi answered with a devastating
1:32.735, closing another three-tenths.
The commentator erupted.
"He's caught Verstappen! He said he would, and he DID! They're nose-to-tail! Two laps to go—TWO LAPS—does he have a chance?!"
The grandstands trembled with noise.
None of them expected the final two laps to look like this.
While the fans roared, Wu Shi's eyes were razor-sharp behind his visor.
Overtaking someone like Verstappen within two laps was almost impossible.
And this wasn't any Verstappen—it was Max Verstappen, whose defensive strength was legendary even at seventeen.
Wu Shi was certain:
Ocon never activated his "buff,"
But Verstappen definitely just did.
Turn 1—a near-right-angle corner, Wu Shi's specialty.
But Verstappen knew this. He didn't defend the inside or mid-line—he defended the outside, the only place Wu Shi could unleash his unique karting-derived rotation technique.
Wu Shi smiled. "This guy…"
But one turn meant nothing.
Both cars rocketed through T1 and into the second straight. Wu Shi tucked into the slipstream, clawing back the lost momentum.
Into Turns 2–3–4, Wu Shi dove for the inside. Verstappen instantly covered him, squeezing him nearly off the circuit.
If you run wide at Turn 2, you can cut the inside of Turn 3—but the advantage must be given back. Wu Shi knew this and backed off.
Turn 5 approached—a massive radius curve, almost like a straight requiring only minimal steering angle.
Wu Shi followed closely—too closely. Tyres, brakes, engine—all overheating.
But with only a lap and a half left, he didn't care.
Through Turn 6.
Short straight.
Turn 7 (the obtuse angle).
Turn 8.
Wu Shi had overtaken Ocon here earlier.
Not enough room to pass Verstappen—
But still enough room to attack.
Verstappen alternated between the track ahead and his mirrors. Car #32 wiggled like an eel, constantly threatening.
Max's pulse spiked. His brain burned from calculating every defensive option.
They had battled each other since 2008—six years of rivalry.
Wu Shi knew Verstappen's limits better than anyone.
And Verstappen knew Wu Shi's.
Exiting Turn 12, Wu Shi kept the pressure. Verstappen barely held the car each time.
The Team Principal clenched his fists.
He couldn't afford both cars crashing out.
Wu Shi saw it—Verstappen's rear stepped out.
A mistake.
His first real mistake.
The chance had arrived.
After an entire lap of pushing Max to the edge, Wu Shi identified his weakest point on the circuit.
Now all he had to do was push Max there again.
Turn 17 was the start of it.
He forced the inside.
Verstappen defended with everything.
The cars nearly interlocked.
The golden sunset lit the two Van Amersfoort Racing cars as they blasted onto the main straight.
This time, Wu Shi didn't sit directly on the diffuser. He needed to cool the tyres—he stayed to the right.
Turn 1 again.
Max defended the center.
Both cars slid—again.
The commentator's voice cracked:
"Turn two! Turn three! Turn four! STILL side by side! STILL no way through!"
They finally reached the high-speed sweepers and straight, giving both cars a few seconds to breathe.
After Turns 6 and 7 came the technical 8–11 sequence.
"He passed Ocon here earlier! Will he try it on Verstappen? YES! He's TRYING the same crossover!"
"No—he's not close enough! Verstappen too aggressive—they might TOUCH! They both back out!"
They both knew the other would not yield.
Both avoided disaster at the last instant.
The entire Van Amersfoort garage held their breath.
The race approached its end.
Turn 12.
One of the most crucial braking points.
Wu Shi delayed his braking.
Verstappen, of course, refused to brake early.
Both locked up.
Tyre smoke exploded.
They lost more than three-tenths—Ocon behind closed rapidly.
Turn 13.
Wu Shi nailed the braking zone.
Verstappen locked again.
Huge plume of smoke.
The commentator screamed:
"Oh! Critical mistake from Verstappen! HOW did Wu Shi keep it together?!"
Wu Shi knew exactly why—
By repeatedly forcing Max into micro-errors, he disrupted Max's internal braking calibration.
Max no longer knew where his own limit was.
Turn 13 was his weakest point.
This was the moment.
Wu Shi rotated the car in perfectly.
No lock-up.
Full grip.
The engine roared—each gearshift slamming into his mind like a hammer. Rubber shredded off the tyres like sweat.
Through the final complex—
Turn 14.
Turn 15.
Turn 16.
White smoke from all four wheels, but Wu Shi's "human ABS" kept the car on the edge.
Verstappen clung to his gearbox—
But not close enough.
Wu Shi squeezed outward into Turn 17—
Slow in, fast out—
The only way to launch onto the final straight.
He planted the throttle.
Car #32 hooked up.
White smoke trailed behind.
He cleared Verstappen.
Finally.
Onto the straight—
And let victory be achieved.
Whoooooosh!
"He's done it! WU SHI WINS! FROM ELEVENTH ON THE GRID! WHAT A VICTORY! WHAT A DRIVE!"
In the pit lane, Alan—usually calm—jumped into the air.
The entire team exploded into celebration.
The grandstands erupted—people standing, shouting, shaking the fences.
The waiting reporters nearly dropped their cameras.
This result was beyond imagination.
Eleventh to first.
In FIA Formula 3.
No car advantage—
Just a driver's ability.
The commentator's voice cracked, then broke:
"I—I have no words! What a race! What a performance!"
Meanwhile, across the ocean in Brackley, UK—inside Mercedes headquarters—
The old man in the red cap applauded.
The tall young man beside him immediately stood up.