By 2:30 in the afternoon, the atmosphere inside Hugo Speed's pit garage shifted into a quiet kind of tension. Everyone had been waiting all morning, but now the broadcast feed finally cut to the live grid at Sentul International Circuit in Indonesia.
The screen filled with rows of cars lined up on the grid, sunlight glaring across their bodywork. Twenty-three cars in total, split across thirteen teams. The field wasn't full. Normally twenty-six slots were possible if every team ran two drivers, but some of the smaller privateer outfits had only managed to scrape together one entry each.
From the camera's high angle, the spread of cars looked eclectic compared to the sterile uniformity of Formula One or even WEC. Hugo leaned forward with his arms crossed, scanning each livery. "This is what makes RWC different," he muttered. "Real cars, real roots. They look like machines people once actually owned."
The commentary crew introduced the lineup, the cameras wandering slowly along pit lane. Hugo counted with them under his breath, naming the teams like a schoolteacher reciting a roll call.
"Team Europa Spirit with their pair of Mk4 Supras… Stuttgart Privateers running a pair of Porsches… Mirage Motors fielding the twin-engine Skyline…" He almost laughed at that one, shaking his head.
Daichi caught the remark. "You mean that R32 with two 3S-GTEs crammed in it?"
"That's the one," Hugo replied. "One in front, one in back. They had to run that layout because AWD single-engine builds aren't allowed."
"Handicap car then," Walter noted. He squinted at the TV, his German-accented Japanese clipped and analytical. "Thin tires, extra ballast, power limited to four hundred. It looks spectacular, but it will struggle."
The grid walk was in full swing. Journalists, photographers, VIP sponsors, and a scattering of celebrities weaved between the cars. The drivers sat half-strapped in, some wearing umbrellas held over them by crew to shield against the equatorial sun. Others stood nearby for interviews, helmets in hand, posing with stiff smiles.
Simon leaned against the back wall, arms folded. "It looks like chaos. No marshals telling people to clear out?"
"That's the charm of the grid walk," Hugo said. "Up close, messy, human. It's half of why fans love this series. It's not sterile."
The broadcast camera shifted to a line of privateer cars further down the order. These were older, humbler builds: a single driver-backed Civic hatch with faded paint, a lone Silvia S15 wearing mismatched panels, and a boxy AE111 Levin barely held together by tape and determination.
Haruka tilted his head, studying the screen. "Those are the teams who barely made it, right?"
Hugo nodded. "Exactly. They squeaked through preseason qualifying. That's why some only run one car. Money and manpower ran out after making the cut. But this," he gestured to the field, "is their stage. It's global. Even if they finish dead last, they've already survived a gauntlet just to be here."
Nikolai narrowed his eyes. "Preseason qualifying?" he repeated, confused.
Hugo was about to answer, but he held up a hand. "In a moment. I'll explain properly when the cameras cut away. For now, just watch."
The broadcast panned back up the grid, stopping to highlight one of the established European outfits: their pair of matte black BMW M3s looked like professional touring cars, the kind you'd expect to see in DTM. Polished, clinical, dripping with sponsor decals.
"See the difference?" Hugo pointed out. "Those cars, those crews, they've got manufacturer backing, engineers flown in from Germany. Then look five slots back and you'll see that one-driver AE111 we just mentioned. That's what makes RWC fascinating. It's a collision of worlds."
Daichi studied the TV intently. "So they really allow any car? Anything as long as it was once road registered?"
"That's the rule," Hugo confirmed. "As long as you can prove with papers that it existed legally on the road at some point, you can bring it. Doesn't matter if it's twenty years old or brand new. The power caps and weight minimums level the playing field, in theory."
Walter gave a skeptical grunt. "In theory."
The commentators listed the starting grid positions one by one. With each name, Hugo muttered the driver's record under his breath. "Two-time ESSS graduate… former SCC champion… rookie from JAS Racer's… ah, that one was almost banned for unsafe driving last year." His knowledge was encyclopedic.
Meanwhile, Izamuri sat silently on the pit bench, eyes glued to the screen. He wasn't watching the cars so much as the drivers' expressions. The way they carried themselves reminded him of the fight he'd just gone through earlier that day at Fuji. He caught himself tightening his fists unconsciously.
Ayaka noticed and nudged him lightly. "Still thinking about your race?"
He hesitated before answering, "…Yeah. This makes me realize how big the world of racing is. Fuji felt huge. But this? This feels… bigger."
The broadcast zoomed in on the front row: a pair of Supras gleaming in the heat haze, one red, one silver. Then down to the second row, where a Porsche 911 sat alongside a Honda Integra Type R stripped to bare white and black panels. The contrast was striking.
"Only twenty minutes left before the green flag," the commentator announced. "VIPs are finishing their grid walk. Teams are making final checks."
The pit garage where the G-Force crew sat fell quiet for a moment. The gravity of what they were watching began to sink in. This wasn't just another regional touring car event. This was the third-biggest motorsport series in the world.
Simon finally broke the silence. "So tell us then, Hugo. You mentioned preseason qualifying earlier. What is it exactly?"
Hugo leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a grin that said he'd been waiting for that question.
"Preseason qualifying," he began slowly, "is the reason why only thirteen teams stand on that grid instead of hundreds. And it's why every car you see there earned its place the hard way…"
He paused deliberately, letting the weight of his words settle over the group. The broadcast on the TV showed mechanics rolling tool carts back into pit lane, the camera lingering on a Porsche driver lowering himself into the cockpit, helmet visor still raised.
The hum of the pit fans filled the background, but all eyes were fixed on Hugo as he finally leaned forward and began to explain, the faint glow of the Sentul grid walk still flickering across the TV screen.
"Alright," Hugo said, his Swedish accent deliberate and steady, "here's how it works. Before a single race of the season can begin, every team, doesn't matter if you're a brand-new privateer with a car built in your garage or a returning powerhouse with a fleet of engineers—must attend something called Pre-season Qualifying."
Daichi raised an eyebrow, already catching the serious tone in his voice. "So even returning teams have to do it? Even if they placed well last year?"
"Exactly," Hugo nodded. "There are no guarantees. Every season starts with a clean slate. Whether you're a reigning champion or a complete newcomer, you have to earn your slot on the grid. The purpose is simple: the RWC doesn't want three hundred cars clogging up their paddock. They cap it at thirteen teams total. Each team can field one or two cars depending on their budget and resources. Right now, you saw twenty-three cars, because a few of those teams couldn't afford to run a second driver. But without that cap, you'd have utter chaos."
Haruka whistled. "Thirteen teams out of… how many entries usually?"
Hugo gave a dry chuckle. "Hundreds. This year, over two hundred sixty applied. Some years it's even more. Street-tuned cars, pro outfits, old GT machines converted for regulations, you name it. Everyone wants a shot. But only the fastest thirteen outfits, not individuals, get through."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"Now, here's the key. Each team must choose one driver to represent them at the pre-season qualifying event. Just one. That driver's lap time is the deciding factor. It doesn't matter if the other driver is a superstar, if your chosen representative messes up, your whole team fails to qualify."
The G-Force crew exchanged glances at that. The weight of responsibility was obvious.
Walter frowned. "So what's the format then? One shot?"
Hugo shook his head. "Not quite. Pre-season qualifying is more like a festival of time trials. It usually lasts between one and two weeks depending on the number of entrants. Each team is assigned time slots, and they can attempt multiple laps within that session. The best lap they record is what counts. At the end of the event, the times are compiled. The fastest thirteen teams, regardless of region or fame, advance to the championship season. Everyone else is out. No appeal, no second chance until the next year."
Simon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So even teams with history can be wiped out just like that?"
"Yes," Hugo said firmly. "And it's happened before. Even some manufacturer-backed teams have been sent home humiliated. It keeps the field sharp. Nobody can coast on reputation. You either prove your speed right there, or you don't race at all."
Nikolai narrowed his eyes. "And the track for this qualifying, where is it held?"
Hugo leaned back, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "That's the beauty of it. The track changes every season. It's randomized. Sometimes it's a European circuit, sometimes Asia, sometimes the Americas. They announce it only a month before the event starts, so no team can have too much time to build a car tailor-made for it."
Rin tilted his head. "So this year?"
"Malaysia," Hugo said without hesitation. "Sepang International Circuit. Brutal heat, heavy straights, and technical corners. Cars that can't survive the weather or brakes that can't last, those teams drop like flies. Last year, it was held at Silverstone. Year before that, in Road Atlanta."
The group went silent for a moment, digesting the scale of it.
Izamuri finally spoke up, his voice quieter than usual. "…So those privateer cars we saw at the back of the grid earlier, they made it through all that?"
Hugo nodded. "Exactly. Which is why even those slowest cars deserve respect. Think about it: they beat out more than two hundred other entries just to stand there. That AE111 Levin? That driver probably pushed harder in Sepang than he ever has in his life. It's not about being the absolute fastest. It's about being fast enough to survive the cull."
Walter tapped his fingers on his armrest. "And what about returning teams? You said they don't get automatic slots, but surely there must be some consideration?"
"There is," Hugo confirmed. "Returning teams from the previous season are given priority scheduling. That means they get to run their qualifying laps in the first three days. This prevents the circuit from being overcrowded with two hundred plus cars all at once. But make no mistake, if their driver posts a slow time, they're out. The priority only gives them earlier access, not a free ticket."
Daichi smirked knowingly. "So it's survival of the fittest."
"Exactly," Hugo said. "The whole system is designed to keep RWC lean and competitive. It avoids what you see in lower categories where grids get bloated and half the teams are backmarkers with no chance. Here, every car on that grid. Fast or slow, has already proven something extraordinary. That's why people respect the series."
On the TV, the broadcast shifted to a roaming camera that drifted down the pit lane, capturing mechanics making last-minute checks and journalists buzzing about. The commentary filled the room with excitement about the upcoming start, but the G-Force crew's focus remained on Hugo.
"Of course," Hugo went on, "there's more to it. Pre-season qualifying is brutal not only because of speed, but also because of the pressure. Imagine being the one driver chosen to represent your entire team. If you spin, if you crash, if you misjudge your braking point, your whole organization is finished for the year. That's hundreds of man-hours, tens of thousands of dollars, all gone in an instant."
Izamuri clenched his fists slightly at that. He could feel the weight of such responsibility even in the abstract.
"And then," Hugo added, "there are the politics. Teams fight desperately to get one of those thirteen slots. It's not unheard of for some… questionable tactics to appear. Disputes over track limits, lobbying stewards, protests about rival cars. That's why the regulations are so thick, the FIA keeps a very close eye on RWC because of how chaotic it can get when you put this many hungry teams in a single elimination."
Haruka gave a low whistle. "Sounds like a battlefield."
"That's a good way to put it," Hugo agreed. "Every season begins with a battlefield, and only the survivors get to see the actual championship."
On screen, the broadcast returned to the front of the grid, showing a driver giving a brief interview. The commentary droned on about tire strategies and car setups, but inside the pit garage, Hugo's words carried more weight than the TV feed.
"Now," Hugo said, lowering his voice a little, "what you've just learned explains why the teams look so different. Some are big names, polished and professional. Others are scrappy underdogs. But every single one of them has already fought through a gauntlet just to be here. That's why RWC has the reputation it does, it's not easy to get in, and once you're in, you're among the toughest competitors in the world."
He paused, letting the silence settle again.
"But," he continued after a moment, leaning forward slightly, "before you can even dream of entering Pre-season Qualifying… there's something else every hopeful team must go through."
Daichi frowned. "Something else?"
Hugo's grin widened. He tapped the thick regulation book lying on the table in front of him, the spine already cracked from years of use.
"Before Pre-season Qualifying," Hugo said, "you must prove yourself in the feeder series…"
He tapped the regulation book again, this time with a little more emphasis, his voice steady and clear.
"Now," he said, "I told you about Pre-season Qualifying. But before you even get there, there's something else you must go through. Something that sorts the dreamers from the serious contenders: the Feeder Series."
Daichi tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. "Feeder series… like Formula 2 for Formula 1?"
Hugo nodded approvingly. "Exactly that. RWC doesn't just let anyone with money and a car jump into the main championship. It requires proof, evidence that a team and a driver can fight through a structured, competitive season. That's what the feeder system is for. To enter RWC, you need to run a full season in one of the regional feeders and finish within the top five of the standings."
Haruka leaned back, crossing his arms. "So only top five? Out of how many drivers?"
"Depends on the region," Hugo replied. "But it can be anywhere from twenty to forty competitors. And remember, top five isn't easy. These are hungry, young drivers, ambitious privateers, and sometimes even old pros trying to claw their way back to relevance. If you're not consistent for the entire season, you're out. Winning one race doesn't cut it, you need points across every round."
Walter raised an eyebrow. "And finishing top five is the only way to move up?"
Hugo's lips curled into a thin smile. "Not quite. Here's the detail: the champion, the first-place finisher is required to advance. No choice. They must move on to RWC the following season. It's both an honor and a burden. If you're the best in your region, RWC expects you to step up and prove yourself at the global stage."
Simon leaned forward. "And the others? Second through fifth?"
"They're given the option," Hugo explained. "They can either stay in the feeder series to refine themselves, or they can try their luck in RWC if they feel ready. It's a tough call. Some teams have the speed but not the budget, so they wait another year. Some drivers fear they're not ready, so they choose to dominate in the feeder another season. But the top five always get the golden ticket, entry into the Pre-season Qualifying for RWC."
Nikolai gave a sharp nod. "So only the very best survive that climb."
"Exactly." Hugo's tone carried weight. "And there are exceptions, of course. Veterans, former Formula 1 drivers, endurance champions, Super GT stars, DTM champions, anyone with at least six years of professional racing experience under their belt can apply for direct entry. They bypass the feeder. But that's rare, and it comes under heavy scrutiny. You can't just be a has-been with cash. You need a résumé that proves you belong. Otherwise, the FIA slams the door shut."
Izamuri, who had been listening silently the whole time, finally asked in a low voice, "So what are the feeder series? Like, where do they run?"
Hugo's face softened into a grin. This was the part he enjoyed telling.
"They're spread across the world," he said. "Each one designed for its region, its culture, and its drivers. Seven of them in total. Each produces champions and contenders, and each has its own flavor. Let me list them for you."
He held up one finger.
"Japan: Japan All Star Racer's Championship, or JAS Racer's. Probably the most intense of them all. You get a mix of grassroots legends and semi-pro drivers, often running highly tuned domestic machines. Think Suzuka, Fuji, Tsukuba, and more tracks that punish mistakes. The Japanese series is notorious for discipline and precision. If you can survive JAS, you're battle-hardened."
Rin smiled faintly at that, clearly picturing himself there someday.
Hugo lifted a second finger.
"South East Asia: SEA All Star Champions, ASC. Based around circuits like Sepang, Sentul, Chang International in Buriram. Hot, humid, unpredictable weather. Drivers fight not only each other, but the climate. The series has a reputation for producing aggressive racers, people who can handle chaos. They often bring wild driving styles into RWC, but when it works, it's spectacular."
Haruka's brow furrowed slightly, remembering Daichi's story about cobras and monitor lizards at Sentul.
Hugo moved on, holding up a third finger.
"China: RWC Junior Series China, or RWC-JSC. This one is heavily backed by the Chinese government. You've got funding, brand-new facilities, cutting-edge cars. They run at Shanghai, Zhuhai, Ningbo, ect. It's polished, clinical, but it also produces highly disciplined drivers who can follow strategy to the letter. Some call it manufactured talent, but talent nonetheless."
Daichi grunted softly. "Money doesn't buy instinct."
"True," Hugo admitted, "but the resources they get are frightening. Don't underestimate them."
He raised a fourth finger.
"Middle East: Middle East Junior Racers, MEJR. Funded directly by the UAE and the Saudi royal families. This is a sea of oil money. You see luxury haulers, pristine cars, and tracks like Yas Marina, Bahrain, even temporary desert courses. It attracts talent from across the Gulf, but also foreign drivers looking for sponsorship. The conditions, heat, sand, wind make it brutal. But the money ensures the teams are always well-prepared."
Nikolai muttered under his breath. "Gold-plated racing."
"Something like that," Hugo agreed with a wry smile.
He raised a fifth finger.
"Europe: Europa Super Sport Series, ESSS. Probably the most prestigious feeder. It runs across circuits like Monza, Spa, Silverstone, Hockenheim. The depth of talent here is insane—aspiring F1 rejects, GT drivers, karting prodigies. Winning ESSS means you've beaten some of the sharpest knives in the drawer. The FIA keeps a very close eye on this one."
Simon, who had lived much of his life in the European paddocks, nodded knowingly.
Hugo raised a sixth finger.
"South America: Senna Class of Champions, SCC. This one is sacred. It's run and promoted by the Senna family themselves. Every season begins with all the drivers visiting Ayrton Senna's final resting place. It's a sign of respect, and a plea for good luck. The tracks are Interlagos, Curitiba, Goiânia. The racing is wild, passionate, aggressive just like Senna himself. Winning SCC carries a kind of spiritual weight. People say SCC drivers bring fire into RWC."
Even Daichi seemed impressed at that detail.
Finally, Hugo raised his last finger.
"North America: North America Junior Series, NAJS. Based in the United States and Canada. Tracks like Road Atlanta, Laguna Seca, Circuit Gilles Villeneuve. It's a mix of oval specialists trying to adapt, road-course veterans, and a lot of kids coming out of karts. The NAJS is chaotic, sometimes sloppy but it breeds raw speed. Drivers from NAJS are fearless, even reckless. But when they find control, they're some of the best showmen in the world."
Hugo spread his hands, as if presenting the entire world in front of them.
"These seven feeders are the gateways. You complete a season, you prove your worth, and you finish in the top five, you've earned your place in Pre-season Qualifying. It doesn't matter if you're from Brazil, China, Europe, or Japan. The system balances it all. RWC isn't just a global series, it's a proving ground for every corner of the world."
The room had gone silent again. Even the chatter from the broadcast seemed muted compared to the scale of what Hugo had just laid out.
Izamuri felt his chest tighten slightly. For the first time, he truly grasped how high the ladder stretched. He wasn't just racing for himself anymore, if he kept going, he'd be stepping into a world where every driver had clawed their way up through fire, heat, and danger.
Walter finally broke the silence. "So that's it, then. No shortcuts. Unless you're a veteran with six years under your belt, you fight through a feeder series."
Hugo nodded gravely. "Exactly. And trust me, climbing out of a feeder is sometimes harder than surviving in RWC itself. Because everyone down there has nothing to lose and everything to prove."
"Then, there are," Hugo continued, "a few smaller official series that don't quite count as feeders, but are sanctioned and recognized by the FIA and RWC. They exist on the edge of legitimacy. Let me tell you about them."
He leaned against a workbench, arms folded.
"India has its own championship called the Bharat GP. It's funded almost entirely by the Ambani family. you know, one of the wealthiest dynasties in the world. On paper it sounds grand, but in practice it's very limited. They run almost exclusively at the Buddh International Circuit near New Delhi, sometimes mixing in a temporary course, but it's essentially one track dressed up as a championship. The cars are there, the money is there, but the depth? The competition? Lacking. It's more of a local showcase, a playground for a handful of wealthy families. The Ambanis like to call it the 'gateway to Indian motorsport,' but in truth, few drivers from Bharat GP make it beyond Asia."
Haruka frowned, resting his elbows on his knees. "So, a rich man's toy rather than a genuine ladder."
"Exactly," Hugo said. "A stepping stone, perhaps, but not a reliable one. It exists, but nobody takes it seriously outside of India itself."
He then raised a finger, his expression tightening.
"The second is even stranger… Israel. They have what's called the Tel Aviv Champions League. It sounds bold, but the truth is, Israel doesn't even have a proper FIA-grade circuit. So the series is staged… in Italy."
That earned a few puzzled looks.
"In Italy?" Rin asked incredulously.
"Yes," Hugo confirmed with a sigh. "Every season, they rent tracks like Monza, Imola, and Mugello. It's funded heavily by the United States as a way to support Israeli motorsport, but it's messy. Politically messy. The country itself is so controversial on the world stage that when drivers from that series advance into the main feeder leagues, they usually race under different flags… American, Italian, sometimes even neutral FIA entries. Their Israeli identity is hidden for safety reasons."
Daichi rubbed his chin, grim. "So they exist, but they're ghosts."
"Well put," Hugo agreed. "Ghosts with money and backing, but not the kind of grassroots growth you see elsewhere. The Tel Aviv League has produced competent drivers, yes, but they rarely advertise where they came from once they hit Europe."
The room sat in a reflective silence for a moment. Hugo had painted a clear picture of how patchy and political the lower tiers of motorsport could be. The glamour of RWC sat at the top, but beneath it were cracks, experiments, and vanity projects.
It was Daichi who finally broke the silence, his voice steady but sharp with curiosity.
"I understand the feeders now," he said. "Japan, Europe, South America, all of them feeding into RWC. And I understand the fringe leagues. But tell me, Hugo—" Daichi's eyes narrowed, focusing like a blade—"if only the top five of each feeder season are allowed to graduate, how do we end up with hundreds of teams and drivers in Pre-season Qualifying every year? Even if all seven regions sent their top five, that's, what, thirty-five drivers? A dozen teams at most. Where do the rest come from?"
The others all turned their gaze to Hugo, the same question burning in their minds. Even Izamuri leaned forward in his chair.
Hugo chuckled softly, not mocking, but almost impressed by the observation. "That, Daichi, is the heart of RWC. You see, the Pre-season Qualifying doesn't just pull from the feeders. It pulls from the entire racing world."
He tapped the regulation book with a fingertip, letting the sound punctuate his words.
"Think of Pre-season Qualifying as a funnel. At the top, it's wide. Hundreds of teams, drivers, hopefuls. At the bottom, only thirteen teams survive into the season. The feeders supply the hungry rookies and rising stars, yes. But there are also three other sources."
He raised one finger.
"Established big teams from other series. Think of teams that run in GT World Challenge, IMSA, DTM, even old Super GT outfits. They already have infrastructure, haulers, engineers, money. They see RWC as another battlefield, so they field a car or two. They don't need to prove themselves in feeders because the FIA recognizes their institutional experience."
A second finger joined.
"Privateers with feeder graduates. Imagine a small, scrappy team that isn't tied to a big name, but their driver finished in the top five of a feeder. That driver chooses to advance into RWC, but doesn't join a big outfit. Instead, he convinces a privateer team, maybe even his family's garage to enter Pre-season Qualifying with him. Suddenly, that garage is racing against world-class names."
Izamuri's mind flickered. That sounded dangerously close to what his team was doing with G-Force.
"And the third?" Simon asked quietly.
Hugo's smile thinned. He raised a third finger.
"The veterans. Washed-up midfielders, backmarkers, men and women with six or more years in top-level motorsport. Formula 1 drivers who never made it past 15th. WEC drivers who spent careers in the shadows of LMP1 giants. Rally drivers from WRC who couldn't quite keep up with the Sébastiens. Formula 2 or Formula 3 champions who never got the call. Even a few from Formula Renault, IMSA, Australian Supercars. You name it. If they've been in professional motorsport long enough, they qualify to enter Pre-season Qualifying directly. No feeder, no gatekeeping."
Walter exhaled, leaning back. "That explains the numbers. Not just kids from feeders, but the entire graveyard of racing."
Hugo chuckled again, though this time it was tinged with melancholy. "A graveyard, yes… but sometimes, a graveyard of talent. You'd be surprised how many drivers bloom late. Men who were midfielders in F1 find themselves superstars in RWC. Others come seeking redemption. And some, well, some just come to take one last paycheck before hanging up the helmet."
Haruka frowned. "But doesn't that make Pre-season Qualifying… chaotic? All these different backgrounds, budgets, skill levels?"
"It does," Hugo admitted. "That's why it lasts one to two weeks. It's brutal. Teams are weeded out, sometimes after one session. Others make it to the end but miss the cutoff by hundredths of a second. I've seen careers end in those two weeks. Men who bet everything on RWC and went home bankrupt."
The room grew quiet. The gravity of his words sank in like lead.
Daichi nodded slowly, his face unreadable. "So that's why the grid is capped at thirteen teams. Otherwise, the paddock would be swamped by two hundred desperate entries, all clawing for scraps."
"Exactly." Hugo spread his hands. "RWC must keep its structure. Too many cars, and it becomes chaos. Too few, and it loses prestige. Thirteen is the magic number, they say it's unlucky, but here it's the balance between survival and glory."
Izamuri's thoughts spun wildly. He imagined standing on that Pre-season grid, not just against rookies like himself, but hardened veterans who'd seen Monaco, Le Mans, Dakar. Drivers who knew every trick, every dirty move, every desperate gamble. And yet, he also imagined the hungry privateers, the garage warriors, the small teams who wanted it just as badly as he did.
Nikolai finally broke the silence with a grunt. "So, when we face them, these hundreds, what matters most?"
Hugo's gaze sharpened, blue eyes narrowing. "Consistency. Not just speed. Anyone can post a single fast lap. But Pre-season Qualifying is a gauntlet of sessions, heats, endurance runs. You need a car that doesn't break. A driver that doesn't fold. And a team that doesn't panic under pressure. That's why so many feeder champions stumble, they're fast, but they lack the resilience of veterans. And why so many veterans falter, they underestimate the raw hunger of rookies."
Simon leaned forward, his hands clasped. "And the ones who survive?"
"The ones who survive," Hugo said softly, "become legends."
For a moment, no one spoke. The hum of the garage equipment, the muffled roar of cars at Sentul, even the faint laughter from other pits, it all faded. The crew sat in silence, each processing the weight of the world Hugo had just unfolded.