My Formula 1 System
Chapter 449 - 449: Season Finale. 2

Champions at last.

Forza! Onore! Gloria!

However, the celebrations that were reputed for a championship-winning night were repressed profoundly, still ceremonial in their nature. The season reached its dramatic conclusion with the UAE Mega Prix, and Squadra Corse were crowned champions of the world, yet there was no on-site, full-blown fest and merriment that was supposed to seal the reality.

Imagine a Mega Prix with no champagne and a celebratory podium. The quietness and somberness were immensely forced, and the winning team loathed it badly.

In comparison to the Italian Mega Prix last season, the UAE Mega Prix felt like mere qualifiers. The only fireworks and blarehorns came from Squadra fans, who proved stubborn and defiant to the tribute rules. This was supposed to be their crowning night. A historic double-title secured under the blazing floodlights of a desert track, and instead, they were forced to bottle it all. They watched their season's climax come and go in suffocating hush. It wasn't fair.

Luigi, now officially World Champion, stood as the center of attention with happiness and joy, but there was no true triumph in his eyes because the muted atmosphere was all too absurd for a Mega Prix. It felt like a coronation whispered, not roared, as it was meant to be.

Five days later, however, after the teams had returned to their headquarters, and after Squadra Corse touched down in Italy, the tone shifted entirely. The restraint of Yas Marina was left behind on the tarmac.

Back home, the air carried no such weight as a parade blossomed.

The streets of Milan held these celebrations. Black and gold painted the entire city and the country at large. Just as the sun began to set, the sky was blemished with celebratory and festive shades of random colors. The whole country was buzzing with energy as the victory parade for Squadra Corse's championship title was underway.

The swarm was plentiful in different parts of Italy and some portions around the world. Rome, Turin, and Milan featured the most crowd on a single day, with so many people moving and celebrating collectively it appeared like a sea, a school of fish from above.

Waves of people packed the streets in Squadra's colors, with chants rising higher and higher as the team convoy rolled past with the Squadra Corse crew on board. Thousands of flags fluttered from every angle as each individual jumped up and down, champagne that wasn't spilled on Sunday finally erupting nonstop.

The reigning champions had finally been defeated in the best possible manner to clinch the Constructor's Championship: a dilatory rise in the concluding races. Jackson Racing had been mowed down, felled to unprecedented failure, and Squadra Corse took the opportunity to rise to conquest.

They hadn't won the Constructor's Championship in four years, so this was a monumental triumph for the team as they made jest of Jackson Racing during their parade of celebrations that encompassed millions.

The black and gold of Squadra Corse rippled through the streets like an unstoppable wave. The city had transformed into a living, breathing entity, a massive collective consciousness echoing with cheers and chants that seemed to reverberate from every corner. Flags waving, horns blaring, confetti flying through the air in a rainbow explosion, Milan was alive with the kind of fevered joy you only see after a historic victory. And this was no small feat. This was a championship, a World Championship. And Squadra Corse had earned it.

Antonio Luigi, the man of the hour, the newly crowned F1 World Champion, was standing at the front of the huge convoy bus with his own championship trophy, the very goldware Luca had craved, raised high above his head as he screamed with the elated crowd.

Statistically, Squadra Corse wasn't even the most celebrated entity in the world currently. It was Antonio Luigi. This was because there were literally more Antonio Luigi fans than Squadra Corse fans. Why? Because all Squadra Corse fans were Luigi fans by default, and then, there were people who watched F1, fandom no team but the drivers alone.

A huge chunk of this kind of motorsport fan supported Luca because they either found him riveting, cute, or worthy of idolizing. Another chunk had Luigi's back.

This plentitude of Luigi supporters did not miss the day's long parade, nor did the fruity Tifosi, who celebrated with traditional dances of old customs that even seemed foreign to the values of Italy itself.

Many banners and posters depicted images, texts, and oil paintings of Luigi's victory, explicitly his victory over The Traitor, Luca Rennick. The most famous depiction was one of Luigi in white robes as if he were a saint or an angel, the crown of the F1 trophy, golden and glowing, on his head. He had his hand extended to another figure who was crawling below in what appeared to be Hell Fire. No doubt, that was Luca, and they were trying to portray how the incident in Spain consumed him, leaving Luigi to rise to glory.

Coupled with the other foul things that could be seen bouncing around in the fervor of the crowd, this was pure defamation. The FIA couldn't do anything because it was simply out of their control and was taken as another public nuisance—the Italian government's problem and not theirs. Only when a driver or a member of a team held up one of those posters or said something just as vile could they take some action.

Smart Luigi knew seeing them was enough as the convoy continued through saturated air. His face was a picture of unfiltered joy, the smile on his lips wide, unapologetic, and contagious. He waved as if the entire city were his own. The crowd, seeing the man who'd lifted them to glory, responded in kind. A deafening cheer erupted, and thousands of hands reached out to him, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cologne, and excitement. It felt as if the air itself were electrified.

Finally, the Italian could enjoy a good night's sleep at last. Here he was: the F1 Champion, with the fastest car on the grid. He was practically unstoppable now.

And where was Luca, the little mouse he had once feared? Burnt by fire. Healing for months, unseen by the public eye. His team in disarray. Luigi chuckled to himself, wondering why he had ever been scared of the lad in the first place.

Luigi glanced behind him, where the rest of the Squadra Corse crew were celebrating, dancing, and waving to the crowd from atop the bus. Marko was there, along with Albert Derstappen, Miles Bellingham… all the Squadra Corse drivers, including engineers, mechanics, Mr. Campanella, Mr. Rose, and everyone else.

Luigi gripped the handles of his cold trophy tighter, a broad grin spreading across his face as he jogged toward the group, fueling their excitement. They all gathered around him as he hopped into the center, lowering the trophy to the surface of the bus's roof.

"ooooooOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!"

Luigi raised the trophy high above his head, and the Squadra Corse crew leaped in joy. The crowd roared in unison.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!"

A perfect photo was captured in that moment.

Luca happened to come across that particular photo.

Amir had used it as a tool, a source of motivation to fuel Luca's anger, urging him to push harder with each rep.

The pain was excruciating—every muscle screamed at him—but somehow, Luca always found a way to push through it. This was precisely why Amir and Jonathan kept increasing the number of reps, making the sessions longer and more intense. They had found a machine in Luca, one they could push to its absolute limits without any signs of stopping.

"9995!"

"9996!"

"9997!"

"Arghhh!" Luca growled in pain, pushing himself up again for the nine-thousand, nine hundred and seventh time that day, his body trembling. His growl was a mix of frustration, fatigue, and an almost indescribable determination.

"DON'T STOP!"

"WHO'S GOING TO OVERTHROW SQUADRA CORSE NEXT SEASON?!"

"WHO'S GOING TO DETHRONE THE BLACK DREAD, LUIGI?!"

Luca was stuck at 9997, his arms shaking, sweat dripping from his palms. The count had started at 3500, climbing to 4000, then 6000, 8000, and finally pushing toward the daunting 10,000. He thought for a moment he might collapse and fall apart completely. But despite it all, he let his body drop, and with a forceful scream that shook the foundation of the chalet, he powered up again.

"IT'S YOU, LUCA!"

"9998! YEAH! MACHINE HERE!"

"TWO MORE TO GO! C'MON, LUCA! SHUT THOSE MUSCLES DOWN!"

From propelling himself through ten thousand pushups in a single day to running five miles with one end of a rope tied around his waist and the other tied to a massive shipping container, Luca's challenges had become almost unreal. The biting cold wind cut through the air, but Luca felt nothing but warmth and a burning rage deep inside him. Amir and Jonathan trailed beside him in a golf cart, shouting commands through a microphone, urging him to keep going, to not stop until he reached the end.

It might have been the end of the season, but for Luca, it was far from over.

Ansel's death still haunted him, especially in the quiet moments, but he had come to realize that it could be the very thing that made him stronger. He had finally found something worth believing in and something to commit to with all his heart.

His new tattoos were a constant reminder of this. Although they didn't depict Ansel or the past, they still carried meaning in a way only Luca could understand. Every time he would look at them in the mirror, he would be reminded of the day his journey in this sport had transformed him physically and mentally.

Luca's new look —->

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A/N: This is the end of Volume 2.