The moment the checkered flag fell, the pale blue system screen appeared before his eyes.
Ding!
Quest Sprint Race First Place Completed.
Reward Overtaking Technique attribute point plus one.
Overtaking Technique 51 to 52.
F2 Points Earned 10 for win plus 2 for pole plus 1 for fastest lap equals 13 points.
Free Proficiency plus 65.
Current Free Proficiency 65.
When the system panel faded, Julian finally came back to his senses from that near trance like race state.
He climbed out of the cockpit.
The moment his feet touched the scorching asphalt, he was surrounded by a rush of people.
Sander was the first to reach him, patting his back hard, so excited he could barely form words.
Great job Julian!
Amazing!
I knew you could do it!
Paul stood nearby nodding with a smile, his eyes shining behind his glasses.
The mechanics cheered around him, and someone draped the MP Motorsport team flag over his shoulders.
Julian was surrounded by them, scratching his head a bit shyly.
He was not quite used to such a warm reception.
His cheeks were slightly flushed, but the corners of his mouth could not help but curve upward.
The podium was already set up.
Julian stepped onto the highest platform.
To his left was Bearman, the runner up.
To his right was third place Dennis Hauger, who had charged up from fifth.
Julian wore his red and gold race suit, holding the heavy crystal trophy in his hands.
The sunlight hit the trophy, refracting brilliant rays of light.
Below the podium, Albon, Bottas, and Zhou Guanyu stood together, clapping and smiling at him.
Zhou Guanyu waved hard and gave him a thumbs up.
Bottas nodded with a smile, his eyes full of appreciation.
Suddenly, the opening notes of The Star Spangled Banner echoed across the Bahrain circuit.
The majestic brass section sounded like it was rising from the depths of the earth, booming through the speakers along both sides of the track, reverberating across the entire paddock.
All conversation, all engine roars, all the noise of equipment, fell completely silent in that moment.
Julian lifted his head sharply.
The Stars and Stripes rose slowly into the night sky.
The evening wind whipped the flag, making it snap loudly.
The red, white, and blue fabric looked like a burning flame against the golden sunset.
Julian stared at that flag, his mouth slightly open, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.
He had heard the anthem countless times.
During high school back home, before every Friday night football game, they would stand for the national anthem.
The anthem to him was just a melody playing over the stadium speakers, a routine, background noise.
But this time was different.
When that familiar melody rang out under the Bahrain sunset, when he stood at the very top of the podium, when the Stars and Stripes snapped and fluttered right above his head, Julian’s nose suddenly stung.
He remembered the first time he sat in a kart at six years old.
The seat was hard, the steering wheel was heavy, and his feet could not even reach the throttle pedal.
His dad had to push his car from behind for three full laps.
He remembered the wind blowing through his ill fitting helmet, cool and carrying the smell of rubber and gasoline.
He remembered the first time he told his mom he wanted to be a racing driver.
Her eyes turned red as she said it was not safe, but in the end she agreed and took him to the dentist to get his braces removed, because braces could cut your mouth open during a race.
He remembered so many nights sitting alone in front of the simulator, the screen showing nothing but endless tracks and jumping lap time data.
No one to keep him company, just the roar of the engine and the scream of the tires.
He remembered that day during the Bahrain winter test, the fear of spinning in the rain, the mocking looks from reporters when he climbed out of the car, the overwhelming flood of hate on his phone screen.
And then he remembered this afternoon, when he drove the number two car across the finish line, and the entire world went silent.
He finally understood why his dad loved Ferrari so much.
It was not about the car.
It was not because the red livery looked cool.
It was because when a person pours their entire self into one thing, you are no longer just representing yourself.
You represent the version of yourself who sat on the couch pointing at the TV making wishes.
You represent those lonely hours of practice in the middle of the night.
You represent your home.
Julian blinked, a bit of moisture clinging to his eyelashes.
He was not crying.
His eyes were just a little wet, his nose a little sore, and mixed with the dehydration from the race, he could not tell if it was a physical reaction or if he really wanted to cry.
He suddenly really wanted to call his dad, just to say one sentence.
I did it.
But he could not call now, because the anthem was still playing, the flag was still rising, and cameras from all over the world were pointed at him.
He could not pull out his phone at a time like this.
So Julian just straightened his back, his gaze locked tightly on that slowly rising Stars and Stripes.
He suddenly felt that this flag was more beautiful than any trophy.
The gold medal was bright, the trophy was heavy, but neither felt as solid as this red, white, and blue.
It tells you, you are not standing here alone.
Behind you, there are millions of kids back home who grew up watching the same races, dreaming of the same podium, all watching you right now.
He felt Dennis and Bearman beside him straighten their bodies too.
It was a racer’s instinct, and the most basic respect for a flag and an anthem.
Julian listened to the three minute anthem for what felt like an entire afternoon.
Of course, in reality, the anthem only lasted about ninety seconds.
The music faded, the final note dissolving into the Bahrain sky.
Julian took a deep breath, blinked, and shook the moisture from his eyelashes.
Below the podium, Albon, Bottas, and Zhou Guanyu stood together, clapping and smiling at him.
As the first official F1 driver, Zhou looked at the teenager on the podium, three years younger than him, and a complex emotion stirred in his chest.
He felt genuine pride seeing a young driver finally break through on the international stage.
He thought about his own difficult journey, the pressure from sponsors, the language barriers, the cultural gaps, every step feeling like walking through mud.
And this kid seemed to have it so much easier.
But more than that, it was anticipation.
It was the feeling of seeing hope.
If Julian could really enter Williams as an official driver next year, the F1 paddock would gain another incredible young talent.
For the sport as a whole, it would be a historic moment.
Julian gripped the trophy tightly in his hands.
He thought silently in his heart.
This is only the beginning.
Tomorrow’s feature race, he would stand here again.
He would make the anthem play one more time.
Far away in the Williams garage.
Sargeant stood in the corner of the Williams garage, watching the big screen showing Julian holding the championship trophy.
His face was so gloomy it looked like it might drip water.
His fists clenched so hard they cracked, veins bulging on his arms.
Logan, getting ready for qualifying, the engineer’s voice came from behind.
Sargeant did not respond.
He stared at Julian’s smiling face on the screen, feeling something inside him quietly cracking.
When Williams signed Julian, he told himself not to think too much about it.
Just a reserve driver.
Every team has reserve drivers.
His performance in the 2023 season would directly determine who got the 2024 seat.
As long as he performed well this year, no one could push him out.
But after the winter test data leaked, his engineer started discussing that kid’s tire preservation ability during breaks.
During the sprint race just now, the entire paddock was talking about the tire preservation monster who showed up.
Looking at the teenager holding the trophy on the screen, Sargeant’s eyes were full of anxiety and unease.
Even his footsteps were a bit unsteady.
At five forty five in the afternoon, the F1 Bahrain qualifying was about to begin.
Inside the Williams garage, mechanics were doing final checks on Sargeant’s car.
The roar of engines echoed back and forth in the pit lane, and the air was thick with tension and busyness.
Sargeant sat in his number two FW45 car.
By coincidence, his number was the same as Julian’s car number, both number two, as if fate had predetermined something.