My Formula 1 System

Chapter 392: S2 British GP. 7

[40th Lap]

No one could've predicted the British GP to unfold in this manner. Even past F1 racers were expressing their shock, sports gamblers the worst of them all as they did not expect three DNFs in a single race. This must've cut many's tickets.

XXX— Buoso Di Renzo

XXX— Mark Derfflinger

XXX— James Lockwood

Formula 1 was an unfortunate sport when it came to incidents like this. The glass incident, orchestrated unintentionally by Luca, Luigi, and DiMarco, went on to affect three entirely different—and innocent—drivers, who were just racing their way cleanly through Turn 15 into Turn 16.

The worst part of this impartiality? Neither Luca, Luigi, nor DiMarco DNFed. Why? Because their tire punctures weren't as severe as those who did! Perhaps it came down to expert skill in managing fatal scenarios, which Luigi and DiMarco undoubtedly had, but in the end, the truth was simple, and it was the glass just didn't afflict them the same way it destroyed Di Renzo, Derfflinger, and Lockwood.

Three of them, or "the notorious three" as commentators suddenly dubbed them, managed to steer their way to their respective team garages during the yellow flag session for immediate tire changes.

Luca was bummed. That was his second unpremeditated pitstop of the afternoon, a complete deviation from what Jackson Racing had outlined for him, especially considering he started in pole. He started in pole!

[Retrieving pitstop info...]

[Service Time: 1.85 seconds]

[Front Tires: Soft ? Soft]

[Rear Tires: Soft? Soft]

**Okay, buddy, head down. You're still in this. Tires are good now. Clean out-lap and get back into rhythm**

**Buoso's in the garage now… we're fucked, mate. But you're carrying the team now. And we trust you**

**You've handled worse. Let's turn this thing around. No more setbacks. Let's push for points. You got this, Luca**

~"But you're carrying the team now. And we trust you"~ Sigh.

Luca hated the fact that the entire Jackson Racing crew, both specialists well-trained in their fields, strategist experts, and the whole management would now be studying his car's every move from this point all the way to the checkered flag of Stadhaven.

But there was nothing he could do now. At least it was better than not finishing like Di Renzo. Luca would definitely not want to feel the kind of rage Di Renzo was currently going through when he stormed away back into their garage.

Derfflinger and Lockwood were also angry, but none as much as Di Renzo. After all, both of them, compared to him, have had more racing time this season. And just in the second race of Rodnick's absence, where he wanted to prove his worth more than ever, the most unfortunate incident struck him. An incident that he had absolutely no hand in!

Di Renzo felt as if the entire world was against him. He pushed through his fellow Stallions, refusing consolation, his heart burning with anger.

"…one of the most unprecedented disasters we've seen at Stadhaven! This wasn't just about strategy or skill—this was misfortune in its purest form! These drivers—Di Renzo especially—were running clean, minding their lines, and suddenly glass destroys it all?! You train, you plan, you trust the circuit—and then this happens?! It's beyond cruel!"

"…a tragic blow for all three, but you can feel the heartbreak most in Jackson Racing. Buoso Di Renzo didn't even see it coming. No fault of his own—and his weekend is over. Absolutely devastating..."

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

Majority of the crowd was silent—but the roar you could hear now? That was all SQUADRA CORSE and BUESENO VELOCITÀ supporters! Could you even begin to imagine what this upheaval had brought for them?!

Buoso Di Renzo of Jackson Racing… DNF.

Mark Derfflinger of Haddock Racing… DNF.

All English teams were now down to just one driver on the field. And the Italian Motorsport Community had never been more ecstatic. Not since the late Silvio Maldonado put Italian power back on the map had they roared this loud.

In the British Grand Prix of all races—the very race where Jackson Racing and Haddock Racing were meant to dominate the grid just as their fans had so loudly bragged online—the tables had turned, and not subtly, but violently. This was the race where Union Jacks had once flooded the stands with unshakable pride. Yet now, that prestige, that heritage, that decades-long rivalry between British precision and Italian firepower had suddenly, shockingly, tipped in Italy's favour.

Jimmy Damgaard was now in P1, commanding the race, and with that, Velocità—an Italian team—was in the lead. But Squadra Corse wasn't even bothered by that. As long as the leader wasn't British, as long as it was a fellow Italian team, their purpose in coming to Stadhaven today was as good as achieved.

Within a span of just fifteen minutes, the grandstands transformed. Italian flags took over. Entire sections supporting Velocità and Squadra waved massive banners—green, white, and red fabric unfurling with force, rippling like thunder across the audience as fans leapt and roared in celebration. It felt almost like a slap in the face to the English monarchs present. Like an open mockery of a home race.

What's all this? Luca thought.

He'd watched a few football matches during his downtime, usually with the elderly workers back at the mill, and for the longest time, he'd believed football was the most toxic sport ever. The way fans screamed with their veins bulging from their necks whenever a player struck the net had always left him with the impression that football stadiums were the most oppressive atmospheres known to sport.

However, today—right here at Stadhaven—Luca was no longer sure. In fact, he was certain of the opposite.

Stadhaven, this British Grand Prix was worse. Fuggy. Suffocative. Clamorous. More than anything. Even the Italian Mega Prix, which had once seemed unmatched in its chaotic celebrating nature, now had a rival in sheer emotional density.

The air was thick not just with smoke from the cars, but with national tension, cultural pride, and vengeful roars of celebration.

It eventually became unbearable.

The monarchs, who had earlier waved and smiled from their royal booth, slowly withdrew from sight. Unannounced, they were quietly escorted behind shaded glass and away from the public gaze.