The Jeddah paddock was in meltdown.
Inside every team's engineering truck, data analysts were replaying Ye Tian's FP1 lap on loop. Frame by frame.
In slow motion, the white Hawk VF-25 didn't just pass the corner.
It drifted wide on the exit.
And then...
Tap.
The sidewall of the tire kissed the concrete barrier.
It wasn't a crash. It was a caress.
But at that exact millisecond, the force from the wall pushed the car back onto the track, correcting the understeer instantly!
"He's using the wall to turn?!"
In the Scuderia Fire garage, Carlo (Louis Hamson's teammate) stared, mouth agape. "Is this a cartoon? Is this Initial D? You can't do that in real life!"
Louis Hamson shook his head, his expression grave.
"It requires spatial awareness down to the micron. One millimeter too close, the suspension snaps. One millimeter too far, you lose grip. He's threading a needle at 300 km/h."
"That's not driving. That's sorcery."
However, not everyone was impressed.
Next door, at Crimson Energy.
The Four-Time Tyrant, Max Vesper, looked at the data with a sneer.
"Sorcery? It's just big balls."
Vesper slammed his visor down. "If a Hawk can do it, my RB21 can do it better. I'll show him who the King of Jeddah is."
ROAR!
The deep blue Crimson Energy car stormed out of the pits.
Minutes later. Turn 13.
Vesper saw the concrete wall. He gritted his teeth.
"You can touch it? So can I!"
He yanked the wheel, aiming for the "Wall Tap."
But there is a difference between confident and reckless. And there is a difference between Ye Tian's System-assisted precision and human estimation.
CRUNCH!
It wasn't a tap. It was a slam.
Vesper hit the wall just 2cm too hard.
The carbon fiber right-rear suspension couldn't handle the shock. It exploded instantly!
SNAP!
Debris flew everywhere. The right side mirror was launched into the grandstands.
"FXXK!!!"
Vesper screamed on the radio, his voice cracking. "Suspension failure! Why is the wall so hard?!"
Christian, the Team Principal, facepalmed on the pit wall.
"Max... it's concrete. Of course it's hard! Who told you to hit it?!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
The big screen cut to Ye Tian in the garage.
Ye Tian was holding a bottle of water, watching the replay. He shrugged at the camera and mouthed five words:
"Did you bring your wallet?"
Thursday Night. The Royal Yacht Club.
To celebrate FX's arrival in the Kingdom, the Saudi Royal Family hosted a gala.
It was obscenely lavish. The cutlery was solid gold. The air smelled of oud and money.
Ye Tian stood in the corner, holding a glass of orange juice. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit borrowed from Koma.
He looked out of place among the European aristocrats and Saudi billionaires in white thobes.
"Mr. Ye."
An arrogant voice cut through the chatter.
The crowd parted. A young Saudi man walked over. He had a perfectly groomed beard and rings on every finger.
Prince Salman.
The head of the Sovereign Fund. The biggest sponsor of the Aston Racing team.
"Your Highness." Ye Tian nodded slightly.
Prince Salman swirled his champagne, looking Ye Tian up and down with amusement.
"Your performance in practice was... entertaining. But there is an old saying: 'A flower that blooms in the morning dies by noon.' That dangerous driving style relies on luck. You won't survive the main race."
"I have a bet running with my friends," the Prince smirked. "I bet you won't even make the Top 3 in Qualifying tomorrow. After all, my Aston Martins and the Crimson Energy cars own this track."
The guests fell silent. In the FX world, money was God. And Prince Salman was money. No one dared to offend him.
Ye Tian took a sip of juice. He smiled.
"A bet?"
He put the glass down. His eyes sharpened. The laziness vanished, replaced by the predator aura from the track.
"Since Your Highness is in the mood, let's play big."
"If I don't make the Top 3, I will retire on the spot. And I will pay you 100 Million Dollars as compensation."
GASP!
The room exploded.
100 Million? Did this rookie lose his mind?
"But..."
Ye Tian took a step forward. He looked the Royal Prince in the eye. His presence was so intense that the Prince actually flinched.
"If I take Pole Position."
"I don't want your money."
Prince Salman frowned. "Then what do you want?"
Ye Tian pointed out the window.
In the distance, across the Red Sea, a massive offshore oil field lit up the night sky. Hundreds of oil rigs were burning gas flares.
"If I get Pole."
"I want you to fly the Five-Star Red Flag on every single oil rig in that field."
"For one year."
Silence.
Total, suffocating silence.
This wasn't a bet. This was a geopolitical statement.
Flying Chinese flags on Saudi oil fields? It was a slap in the face to every Western power in the room!
Prince Salman's face turned dark. The muscles in his jaw twitched.
He hadn't expected the driver to be this aggressive.
But his royal pride wouldn't let him back down.
"Fine! Good!"
The Prince laughed, but his eyes were cold. "Young man, I will have my accountants prepare the invoice for 100 million. I hope you don't cry when you sign the check."
Ye Tian fixed his cheap tie. He turned to leave, tossing one last sentence over his shoulder.
"Don't bother with the check."
"Just tell your staff to buy a lot of red cloth."
"And make sure they are waterproof. It gets windy out there."
Friday. Qualifying Day.
Because of the "Billionaire Bet," the viewership for Qualifying broke records.
In Q1 and Q2, Ye Tian drove conservatively.
He qualified P8 and P9. He didn't touch a single wall.
The critics were loud.
"See? He's scared."
"The Wall Tap was a fluke."
"Prince Salman is already celebrating."
But inside the cockpit, hidden by his helmet, Ye Tian was smiling.
He was waiting.
He was saving the best for last.
Q3 (The Top 10 Shootout).
The sun had set. The floodlights were blazing.
"Ye," Gary said on the radio, voice trembling. "12 minutes left. Crimson Energy and Scuderia Fire just put on fresh Soft tires. We only have one set of new Softs. You have one shot."
"One shot is enough."
Ye Tian closed his eyes.
[System Prompt.]
[Active Reward: S-Class Skill Card — The Magic Sen (The God of Qualifying).]
[Duration: 30 Minutes.]
Ayrton.
The man who danced with God in Monaco. The man who could see time slow down.
The soul of the greatest qualifier in history.
"Activate."
ZING!
The world shifted.
The narrow street circuit suddenly felt wide.
Ye Tian could see the airflow. He could feel the grain of the asphalt. He could sense the heat radiating from the concrete walls.
"Let's go."
Ye Tian opened his eyes. They were pitch black, like the abyss.
"Let's show these 'Aristocrats'..."
"What a divine miracle looks like."
BOOM!
The Hawk VF-25 screamed out of the garage.
This time, it wasn't a car. It was a weapon of mass destruction.