My Formula 1 System-Chapter 344: Rennick’s Reign

After Luca's stunning P6-to-P1 climb on the 63rd Lap, the final seven laps stretched out like a line of cars racing toward the Brazilian Grand Prix's end.

There were hardly any big moves after that, since top drivers—DiMarco, Rodnick, Marko, and Luigi—knew how to lock their positions as well as they could pull off last-minute overtakes.

Luca's earlier worry about a drying track had happened. Though some slick spots remained, they didn't cause as much trouble as before. All drivers slowly regained their confidence navigating Interlagos.

Some drivers at the back chose to make a third pitstop, swapping wet compounds for softs so they could get back better acceleration and grip on a track losing its wetness.

Of course, the leading drivers thought about it, but none risked heading into the pitlane during these closing laps.

With softs or not, you wouldn't recover a lost position at this point in the race.

So, like a train with different colored carriages, the drivers wove to the last lap as over 200,000 spectators watched. Blarehorns, louder than their engines, echoed across the plains and hills, with colored smoke drifting up to the gray clouds.

The way the circuit was covered in bright, varied colors took Luca back to his Mega Prix win. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he sped past the waving checkered flag.

"YES!" he shouted, celebrating.

"…it's a second consecutive Grand Prix win for Luca Rennick…!"

"…a massive, dominant display on that 63rd Lap! A showcase of the finest racing we've ever seen in wet conditions, slicing through Interlagos like he owned every inch of this slick track…!"

"…this is beyond Formula 1 standard! Ladies and gentlemen, this is Luca Rennick, rewriting what's possible out here! From P6 to P1 in a heartbeat, he's turned Brazil into his stage, delivering a performance that'll echo for years…!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

"...1st Place, Luca Rennick...!"

"...Primeiro lugar, Luca Rennick…!

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

[1ST POSITION]

**Luca, you've bloody done it—P1, mate, back-to-back Grand Prix wins! That climb from P6 was unreal, a proper masterclass on this track!**

**The whole team's buzzing—you've made Jackson proud, now let's soak this one in!**

"Wooouuh!! Hell yeah!"

[Congratulations host, you have made a podium]

"…Segundo lugar, Davide DiMarco…!"

"…Terceiro lugar, Marko Ignatova…!"

"…Quarto lugar, Marcellus Rodnick…!"

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

"…Quinto lugar, Antonio Luigi…!"

The announcements for the final leaderboard of the Brazilian Grand Prix carried on faintly in the distance. Luca could barely hear them as he slowed his pace, his Ferrari easing into a steady roll.

The realization that he had overcome his rivals, driven by the energy he sensed as they sped by him now, wrapped around Luca. A quiet smile crossed his lips.

It had been a one-hour, thirty-three-minute race. If Luca felt slightly tired, he could only picture how drained the other drivers were.

[1ST POSITION] his system kept flashing, steady and bright, as he leaned back to rest.

On this race win, Luca took his time and stayed in his cockpit a bit longer before climbing out. He let out a long exhale and drew a deep breath, startled to find his breathing still rapid and his heart pounding hard. It had to be the rush of post-race adrenaline.

But as he glanced at the other drivers—his rivals—he saw no trace of that same thrill in their faces. Instead, their expressions carried disappointment, anger, and sharp contempt. Luca gave a small scoff, feeling the warmth of his breath against his helmet.

He released the steering wheel for a moment, flexing his stiff hands before closing them around it again. A second later, the Ferrari 92B rolled forward once more. He still planned to celebrate in his signature way, but this time with a slight twist to mark the moment.

Luca picked out one Velocità grandstand—the biggest, loudest one, packed with the most vicious banners and chants tearing into him and his P1 finish.

He steered his Ferrari toward the barriers separating the grandstands from the track. The walls past the barricades were plastered with Velocità's sigil and Red Bull's logo, marking the stand as a fortress for Bueseno Velocità fans only, where rival supporters could only sit at their own risk.

The Velocità crowd spotted Luca rolling their way when he should've been celebrating elsewhere. Thousands of them froze, puzzled, wondering what he was up to as he eased to a stop about a meter and a half from the Tecpro barrier.

Luca drew a deep breath and unbuckled his harness, adjusting the HANS device, disconnecting his radio plug, and releasing the drink tube before gaining enough room to hoist himself up. His helmet broke into the open first, greeted by the charged air of celebration and jeers.

As soon as Luca rose from his cockpit, the Velocità supporters knew exactly what he was up to—and they hated it with every fiber of their being!

Their curses grew louder, insults sharper, vile gestures more frantic, some spitting toward the track and others shaking fists, hoisting their defaming banners and signs even higher.

But that was precisely what Luca had in mind as he climbed onto his Ferrari JRX-92B with slow, deliberate steps. He tapped the car twice, his ritual, then lifted his gaze and shoulders to face the great sea of rival colors and bitter faces, their anger practically burning through the air.

Luca thrust his fists skyward in triumph.

He soaked in his victory right in front of those who'd been trashing his name and reputation.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"

Velocità's crowd erupted into chaos from every corner of Interlagos, not just the main grandstand he squared off against.

It was always electric when a driver rubbed his win in his rivals' faces like this.

Luca just pumped his fists again and again, fully aware that the objects they hurled—bottles, crumpled banners—wouldn't clear the first barricades.

Everything—dangerous or not—landed uselessly on the damp grass beyond their side, sinking into the wet.

"I'm here to stay," Luca said.

Davide DiMarco watched Luca's display, and it burned him to the core. He clenched his fists, silently vowing to strike back, to restore his team's pride and settle the score for his bruised ego.

When Luca felt he had enough, he slid off his Ferrari, landed on the tarmac and broke into a sprint toward a nearby Jackson Racing grandstand, where fans lit up with uncontained joy as he leaped over the first barrier, then the second.

He crossed the damp grass at a jogging speed and launched himself into the stands, straight into the waiting arms of the crowd, who surged around him in a wave of wild celebration.