Chapter 113: Politics of the Hunting Grounds
While the commentator was still recounting Wu Shi's exploits from the previous round, car No. 32 flashed across the finish line.
"Oh—times are in. Wu Shi's three sectors were all quick, but traffic cost him a bit. His lap is a 1:11.112."
"In Free Practice 2, Ocon's best was a 1:10.688 in the Prema. So this won't be enough for pole."
The commentator delivered the information rapidly. In truth, most drivers set their best laps only after ten or more laps—fuel burns off, tires reach optimal temperature, and rhythm stabilizes. Drivers simply keep pushing until one lap hooks together.
That's the biggest difference from F1 qualifying.
F1's Q1–Q2–Q3 system forces drivers to deliver under strict time pressure—tire prep, traffic luck, fuel load, timing the peak of the tire… all crammed into a few minutes. There's no luxury of endless attempts.
But in F3?
One set of tires, ten to fifteen laps of fuel, and a long window. No elaborate strategy—just pure pace and consistency. The fastest laps almost always come near the end.
Slipstreaming helps too. Pau has two long straights, and catching a tow can mean a full two-tenths. But doing it safely requires incredible coordination. Most teams simply refuse to instruct slipstream runs—too risky. For many F3 rookies, merely keeping the car out of the wall is hard enough.
The previous round was proof. Gustavo tried to tow for Wu Shi, misjudged by just a little, and put the car into the barriers. One slipstream attempt, two ruined quali laps.
But today, after a full morning of setup refinement, No. 32 had fully adapted to the rhythm. Wu Shi's track understanding grew lap by lap—his kind of talent didn't need long. Some drivers, the moment they step onto a circuit, seem to "get it." The car, the braking point, the rhythm—they construct it in their heads faster than others can blink.
Wu Shi was one of them.
By lap nine, he felt ready.
If he weren't afraid of an out-lap error ruining everything, he would've preferred waiting until lap eleven or twelve, when the car was lighter.
He opened TR:
Wu Shi: "I'll go for another push."
Alan: "Copy. Track's clear."
He inhaled deeply.
Sixteen corners.
Every curb, every seam in the asphalt, every bump—he replayed them mentally in a single sweep, like animation.
He blinked twice.
Down the straight—flat out.
Across the line.
In street circuits, the proximity of walls gives a distorted sense of speed—every rookie lifts early, brakes early. Your instincts scream that the braking point is suicidal.
But Wu Shi didn't lift.
He trusted the braking marker he memorized—not the illusions.
Rustle—
"Wu's pushing again. His earlier laps hovered in the low elevens. He hasn't dipped under 1:10 yet, but he's currently sixth in his group."
"Street-track confidence makes a massive difference. Look—Jack Dennis set a 1:10.570 earlier. That's the benchmark."
"Ocon and Verstappen have both improved again. Their sector times look very strong."
A moment later, Ocon's lap appeared:
1:10.072
"Spectacular! That's nearly perfect. If anyone wants pole today, this is the time to beat."
Next, Verstappen crossed the line:
1:10.432.
Drivers were now all on laps nine or ten, fuel nearly spent. Their times were dropping fast—but not enough. No one was even close to Ocon's lap, and many couldn't even beat Jack Dennis.
Street circuits exaggerate differences—tiny inputs mean huge time losses. The best drivers dip into the low tens; the rest balloon into 1:12s, 1:13s. The spread was brutal.
"Oh! Wu's first sector—very fast! Look at the corrections. He's still making adjustments, but that's normal. It's his first race here."
"But he's matching Ocon sector-for-sector. This is what makes multi-champions terrifying: the intuition, the precision. First sector—he's faster. Second—dead even. Third will decide everything."
The right-side guardrail blurred—then swung into a sharp right. The corner appeared almost out of nowhere. Wu Shi clipped the shoulder, the chassis bouncing lightly.
Click-click—
He hated that vibration, but the line was perfect. The car grazed past the wall.
Three centimeters of clearance.
At these speeds, three centimeters was basically zero. Once you commit to turn-in, survival hinges entirely on whether your calculation—made in a tenth of a second—was right.
Here, pure driving skill had the final say.
And Wu Shi's precision bordered on frightening.
Whoosh—
The timing tower updated.
Car No. 32 — 1:10.001 — P1
Pole position.
By a margin of seven-hundredths over Ocon.
Returning to the paddock, Alan greeted him with a grin.
"Nice job."
"Max isn't back yet?" Wu Shi asked.
"He wants a few more laps."
Wu Shi glanced at Verstappen's data. His tenth and eleventh laps were average, but his twelfth lap finally unlocked something—sector one actually matched Ocon.
At that moment, Sid arrived, tapped Wu Shi's shoulder, and signaled for privacy.
They ducked into an empty meeting room. Sid spoke immediately:
"Martina says we need to recruit new staff—a PR operations manager and a business assistant. You'll have to review the candidates. If you're free, join the interviews."
"Sure," Wu Shi said without hesitation.
Sid exhaled, then added, "Also… I might not be able to stay for the rest of the race."
"Huh? Why? Weren't we supposed to finish the sponsorship negotiations after this round?"
"I need to get to Spain."
Wu Shi paused.
Spain.
This weekend.
"…The Spanish Grand Prix?" he asked slowly.
Sid nodded. "Yes. Our contract with Mercedes was leaked. I need to be there in person."
He shrugged helplessly.
They both knew they would never leak it themselves—the confidentiality clauses were extremely strict. Violations could jeopardize the entire deal.
Wu Shi frowned.
He hadn't even set foot in the hunting grounds yet, but already—
He could feel it.
The politics.
The alliances.
The invisible knives.
The price of entering a world built on money, power, and talent.
The Hunting Ground wasn't a circuit.
It was everything outside of it.