Click.
As the mouse clicked "Drive," the loading bar vanished. The screen flickered, and the camera snapped into the cockpit view. Through the windshield, digital sunlight spilled over the ancient asphalt of Monza. The massive, sweeping arc of the final corner—the Curva Parabolica—stretched across the horizon.
This was Italy. The Temple of Speed.
Even in a virtual world, the circuit radiated an aura of reverence. It was the site of the closest finish in F1 history back in 1971, where Peter Gethin won by a mere 0.01 seconds. The top five drivers were separated by just 0.61 seconds, with an average speed of 242.6 km/h—a record for the fastest Grand Prix that would likely stand forever.
The "Flying Scot," Jackie Stewart, was among the twelve who DNF'd that day. The record remains untouched largely because of the chicanes added in 1972—the Turn 1 and 2 sequence, and the Turn 8, 9, and 10 variations.
In the modern era, it had earned a different nickname: the "GT3 Graveyard."
In a standard GT3 race, cars scream down the main straight at 280 km/h before slamming on the anchors to drop below 70 km/h for the first chicane. Watching dozens of cars attempt to navigate that funnel simultaneously was a simulator player's nightmare. Online public lobbies usually devolved into a high-speed bowling match. "Surviving Monza T1" was the unofficial hazing ritual for every rookie sim-racer.
Roan glanced at the track map in the bottom right corner, but his eyes didn't linger on T1. His gaze drifted to the middle sector—Lesmo 2 (Turn 7).
Conventionally, it was a non-overtaking zone: narrow, sharp, and possessed of only one viable racing line. But in the depths of Roan's memory, a red phantom roared through that turn. In a legendary duel years ago, he had used a violent weight transfer and an exit advantage from T6 to dive down the "dirty" inside line, out-braking his opponent on sheer nerve. That was the race that had cemented his status as a "God" in the sim-racing community.
VROOOM—
The virtual engine ignited. Roan depressed the throttle, and the red Ferrari rolled toward the Parabolica.
But he didn't launch into a sprint. Instead, he moved with the hesitant sluggishness of a student driver. He meandered down the straight, swerving the car violently from side to side in a "snake" pattern. The tires screeched against the pavement.
As he approached the run-off area before T11, he intentionally drove over the curbs. As the wheels thudded against the red-and-white bumps, he felt every vibration through the wheel rim.
"Too heavy," Roan muttered.
He braked to a halt right on the straight, hit ESC, and jumped back into the Force Feedback (FFB) settings. He dialed the Gain down significantly.
"Wait, did he quit? Did he just give up?" the students whispered.
Justin stepped in as the impromptu commentator. "He's adjusting his settings. He hasn't started the timer yet, so it doesn't count."
"Oh..." A few students let out unimpressed grunts.
Roan jumped back in and hit the curbs again. This time, the wheel didn't fight his hands as violently. A clear, dampened resistance flowed from his palms to his wrists, allowing him to perceive every pebble on the track surface. He stomped on the brake and checked the telemetry—the bar only filled to 40%. Still too heavy. He lowered the FFB gain again.
"It's been five minutes and he's still just wandering around the pit exit," one classmate grumbled. "Is he scared of going fast? Worried he'll crash and look like a fool?"
The murmurs grew louder. Roan's professional-looking setup routine had intimidated them at first, but this "constipated" start was killing the hype.
"Shh," Marcus whispered.
He and Justin exchanged a glance, a newfound gravity in their eyes. "Don't rush him," Marcus said softly. "Look at the way he's 'painting' with the car. That swerving... he's got the habits of a pro."
"What do you mean?" Justin asked.
"He's hunting for the limit of the grip," Marcus pointed at the screen where the Ferrari was slowly testing the traction. "He's definitely no rookie. Though... his FFB settings are incredibly light."
At the rig, Roan made his final adjustment.
In his Mind Palace, he had already run five mental laps with these exact parameters. Finally, the resistance in the steering wheel reached a 100% synchronization rate with his muscle memory.
Roan took a deep breath. the lethargy in his eyes vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp focus he wore when waiting for the five red lights to extinguish. He gripped the wheel at 9 and 3 o'clock.
"Ready," he said softly. The words were quiet, but they cut through the chatter. "Three laps, right?"
Whirr, whirr, whirr...
The red Ferrari 296 GT3 reset to the short stretch of straight before the Parabolica—the standard starting point for an ACC Hotlap. No need to warm the tires; one corner, then the flying lap begins.
He floored the throttle.
As he approached the Parabolica, he chose a line that looked distinctly amateur. It was a long, high-speed right-hander, but Roan hugged the far left side of the track. He kept his right tires glued to the white line of the track limit, looking as if he were about to fly off into the grass at any second.
To any "out-in-out" driving instructor, this would be a failure. It sacrificed the entry angle of the corner completely. But in the world of high-level e-sports, this was a specific gambit.
By sacrificing his entry speed, he was able to get on the power much earlier and straighten the car out faster for the long run down the main straight.
"He's maximizing the exit," Marcus noted, nodding in approval.
Before the students could even register the move, the Ferrari roared across the start-finish line. At that exact moment, Roan's top speed was at least 3 km/h higher than a conventional line would allow.
It was basic physics. Same acceleration, higher initial velocity.
On a 1.2-kilometer straight, that meant Roan was pulling away from the "ghost" of a standard lap with every passing millisecond. Before the first second of the flying lap had even ticked by, he was already in the lead.