Chapter 114: Unsettled Mind
Since its birth in 1950, Formula 1 had seen teams rise and fall, champions crowned and forgotten, and prodigies extinguished before they even flickered.
What had started as a pure contest of speed had long since evolved into something far more complicated.
This was why Sir Frank Williams commanded such universal respect. In a paddock increasingly consumed by politics, money, and interests, he was one of the few who still treated motorsport as motorsport.
In today's F1, eleven teams and twenty-two seats existed on paper.
In reality, none of those seats were simple.
And Wu Shi had always known—ever since he was a child—that his identity meant he would face far heavier resistance than most. Perhaps even more than Hamilton had.
If he hadn't displayed overwhelming talent early on… if Martina hadn't shielded him, if Verstappen hadn't walked beside him… he would have been eaten alive in the lower categories.
Not by collisions that sent cars into walls—those were easy to understand.
But by subtler things.
The kind of penalties that were technically "within the rules."
The kind of decisions that left you no room to appeal.
The kind of hostility delivered with a smile.
When he spoke with Zhou Guanyu in the UK, Zhou told him about his karting days—how some drivers deliberately bumped him, blocked him, mocked him behind his back. How results were the only shield.
If he didn't win, the discrimination would have been ten times worse.
So when Wu Shi signed with Mercedes on Thursday, he thought the real challenge ahead would be adapting to an F1 car quickly.
He was wrong.
He hadn't even touched the Mercedes cockpit yet, and someone had already struck.
This contract should have been known to only five people—himself, Toto, Niki, Sid, and the lawyer who drafted it.
Daimler, Mercedes' parent company, might not even know the details yet.
Toto, who held shares and enormous influence within the team, certainly had the power to keep it quiet.
Which left only one conclusion.
"Sid and I didn't leak it. Toto and Niki wouldn't either. And Toto's not the type to sign and then regret overnight… which means the answer is obvious."
He was about to say something more when he heard cheers erupt outside.
He paused.
Then dismissed it.
He turned back to Sid.
"Neither of us leaked the contract. The issue is inside Mercedes."
Sid rubbed his forehead. "I know. And this time… I don't think it's just a breach of confidentiality. This feels political."
Wu Shi exhaled slowly. "Then we deal with it as it comes."
He understood enough to see that this was almost certainly a Mercedes internal power struggle. For details, he could only wait for Sid to return from Spain.
"Alright. I'm heading out now," Sid said. He needed to speak with Toto as soon as possible. Only by understanding Mercedes' stance could he negotiate the next steps.
When Wu Shi stepped into the paddock, a breeze coldly brushed over his sweat-dampened skin.
Verstappen had just returned—explaining the earlier cheers. His run had clocked a stunning 1:10.067, second only to Wu Shi.
"Woohoo!" Max pulled off his helmet, shouting with delight. After exchanging high fives with the crew, he walked straight to Wu Shi.
"You look serious."
"Something annoying," Wu Shi admitted.
"Probably a big thing, huh? But don't stress too much. Problems pass. Just focus on doing what you do."
Maybe it was the tough upbringing under Jos Verstappen, but Max's worldview had a kind of raw simplicity to it—just drive fast, survive the rest.
"You ran well today," Wu Shi said, patting him on the shoulder.
"Haha, I watched a lot of your practice videos last night!" Max grinned.
"You're secretly learning from me!"
"Hey! Inspiration only!"
They both laughed. Max knew Wu Shi was joking—after all, no one had leaked Wu Shi's telemetry to him.
While they chatted, Group B qualifying began.
To everyone's surprise, the overall pace was noticeably weaker.
Lucas topped the session with 1:10.429—a time that would only put him fourth in Group A.
Latifi, also a Prema driver, managed a 1:10.559, far behind Ocon.
Even veterans like Bromqvist only squeezed out a 1:10.634.
Street circuits were ruthless—they magnified talent gaps mercilessly. And today, most of the front runners were rookies.
According to the schedule, Race 1 would begin at 11:15 a.m. Saturday, and Qualifying 2 would follow in two afternoon groups at 4:30 p.m. and 4:55 p.m.
---
That night, Wu Shi lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
The night he signed with Mercedes, he hadn't told Sid that he'd been too excited to sleep then, too.
It was Mercedes.
The Mercedes that would dominate Formula 1 from this year until 2021.
If he joined them in 2015, he could break youngest-driver records, maybe even debut in a WDC fight.
And in 2021?
If things followed their original timeline, he dared to believe he could do even better than "the old man."
Mercedes wouldn't toy with him the way they toyed with Max in 2021—dragging the title fight into Abu Dhabi, handing the championship decision to the race director in a moment of chaos.
Seven championships.
Seven.
The possibility lay right in front of him.
How could he not be excited?
How could he not overthink?
How could he possibly remain calm?
He was a prodigy behind the wheel.
But outside the car, he was just a human being—capable of anxiety, doubt, fear, longing.
---
The next morning, it felt like he hadn't slept at all.
It was past nine. No point forcing it—his body refused to drift off.
And race day waited for no one.
At the venue, even the mechanics noticed something was off.
"You didn't sleep well," Alan said immediately.
"Yeah. Trouble sleeping."
"No need to be that tense, is there? You've always had good mental resilience." Alan frowned. In the previous six races, Wu Shi had been calm, composed—a rock. Why this sudden wobble?
Wu Shi didn't hear the unspoken question.
If he had, he would only have answered:
If seven world championships were placed in front of you—but might disappear at any moment—would you sleep?
Even the greatest would tremble.
"All right," Alan said, patting him, "time to get your head in. No room for distraction on a street circuit."
"I know."
Wu Shi put on his fireproofs, zipped his suit, tightened his helmet strap, and climbed into the car.
After the reconnaissance lap, he stopped on the narrow grid slot.
A small track like Pau didn't have race queens—another tradition destined to vanish under the tide of "political correctness."
Five red lights lit up one by one.
The drivers focused.
Snap—
Lights out.
The race begins.