Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

Chapter 259: Approval (2)

The Varkos hissed softly as it rolled to a clean stop near the pit’s edge. Vivienne cut the engine, and for a moment the silence returned—thick, humming with residual heat and mana-vapor. She stepped out without a word.

Damien moved to the driver’s side immediately.

No hesitation.

He didn’t walk.

He approached.

There was no smirk this time, no quip riding on his breath. Just focus—sharp, settled, silent. He slid into the seat like it belonged to him, hands already adjusting the wheel, feet testing the pedal pressure. Muscle memory from earlier fused with something new.

Observation restructured into action.

Vivienne leaned against the pit rail, arms crossed, eyes unreadable as she watched him.

He started the engine.

Not too much throttle. Just enough.

The Varkos came to life—not roaring, not stumbling. Just ready.

The car rolled forward, smoother than before. Still beginner edges on the clutch play, but there was a fluidity now—tighter control. Less wasted motion. He wasn’t moving by instruction anymore.

He was adapting.

First curve—he braked late, but not too late.

Second curve—he carried more speed than was clean, but recovered with a sharp correction, the tail almost drifting before he realigned. Vivienne didn’t flinch. She just watched.

Damien’s hands weren’t stiff anymore. They adjusted, recalculated.

When he downshifted, the timing was close to matching the revs. Not perfect—yet—but the attempt was unmistakable. The engine burped, a little ragged, but in rhythm.

He didn’t just remember what she’d done.

He wanted it in his bones.

****

The track opened before him like a gauntlet. Each stretch of alloy, every subtle curve and incline—a series of silent dares. Damien answered them all, one after another, not with bravado, but with the quiet hunger that had settled into his chest ever since watching Vivienne drive.

The first challenge came early. A shallow S-turn at the north curve—tight, fast, unforgiving. His earlier laps had taken it too conservatively, braking hard into it and crawling out with lost momentum. This time he judged the angle better, felt the weight of the car shifting beneath him. He coasted in at a higher speed, kept the clutch free, and let the chassis lean just enough before guiding it through with a smooth steer-and-throttle blend.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was better.

And better meant something now.

The laps continued. The air grew colder, the track darker around the edges. Overhead, the arc-lights of Westlane shimmered in their mana-fed hum, throwing pale reflections across the windshield as the Varkos carved its lines into the course. Vivienne didn’t speak from the pit. She didn’t need to.

Damien could feel her presence.

Watching.

Judging.

Measuring.

His body found a rhythm. The gears stopped feeling like obstacles and started becoming decisions—intentional, deliberate. First gave way to second with no complaint. Second to third without lurch. His right foot developed finesse, pressing the throttle not for effect but for nuance. Even the wheel, once a thing to grip, became an extension of his reach. Subtle turns. Precise corrections.

One hour in, and the Varkos responded more to what he felt than what he knew.

Then came the ramp segment. Downhill, sharp dip, followed by an immediate climb—a trap for rookies who didn’t manage momentum. On his first attempt, Damien braked too hard going down and had to labor the engine up the return. Sloppy.

The second time?

He coasted the down-ramp with a feathered brake, then held third and pressed gently into the incline. The car gripped harder than before. The engine didn’t choke. It climbed. Clean.

Vivienne watched his lines shift lap to lap—less erratic now, more informed. He was beginning to understand that this wasn’t about wrestling the car. It was about listening to it.

And Damien? He could feel it happening.

The machine was no longer fighting him.

It was waiting.

Responding.

And when the moment came—after two hours of pushing, recalibrating, breathing in the rhythm of the car—he felt the cue before it even fully formed.

He downshifted.

Perfectly.

Throttle blip. Smooth clutch. Engine matched the revs mid-transition.

WHRRRM.

No jolt. No sound of strain. Just flow.

Damien’s eyes lit up—not with surprise, but with confirmation.

Yes.

The car surged ahead in third, just as he intended. He entered the long back straight, foot easing into full throttle.

140… 160…

The engine hummed, delighted.

170…

The HUD flickered briefly as the mana-core adjusted.

180 km/h.

The fastest he’d gone.

And yet he wasn’t afraid.

He wasn’t even tight.

He was aware.

The air felt denser now. The tires sang beneath him. The weight of the car adjusted with every slight pitch in the track—but he read them, responded, rode the tension without panic.

A corner approached.

He didn’t brake.

He downshifted again, rev-matching cleanly, letting the engine slow the car with a primal snarl. The tires gripped. The nose dipped just enough. He steered in and let the Varkos glide out with a quiet, practiced grace.

That wasn’t luck.

That was earned.

He coasted back into the pit lane sometime after the lap, sweat clinging at the edge of his collar, heart calm but sharp. The car hissed as it cooled beneath him, the mana-steam rising in soft white plumes.

And Damien sat still for a moment.

Not gloating.

Not needing words.

Just letting it land.

Every shift. Every correction. Every moment of pure motion.

He’d chased it.

And touched it.

He stepped out of the Varkos without a grin, but with eyes that meant something now.

Not just hunger.

But proof.

He was getting closer.

****

Vivienne remained by the pit rail, arms crossed, gaze sharp beneath the cooling arc-lights. She hadn’t moved once during Damien’s final set of laps—not even when he clipped 180 on the straightaway, not when the engine howled beneath his downshift and landed clean.

But inside?

She was reevaluating.

Not because he was perfect. He wasn’t.

But because he was already getting close.

Vivienne had seen hundreds of drivers. Raw recruits, Academy hotshots, even full-licensed Elford test pilots. All of them took time. Even the gifted ones. There were rules to how long certain instincts took to form. You could accelerate it. Push it. Refine it.

But this?

This wasn’t normal learning.

This was something else.

She didn’t miss it—the moment everything changed. His posture. His throttle pressure. The way he started carving angles through the bends instead of cutting them. Those weren’t lessons absorbed. They were movements imprinted.

‘We talked about it before,’ she recalled. ‘He learns by watching.’

But she hadn’t really understood what that meant.

Until now.

Damien didn’t just watch her drive. He decoded her. Her footwork, her shifts, her brake releases, the way her shoulders held tension just before a corner and relaxed coming out of one.

And then he used it. Folded it into himself.

She watched him climb out of the Varkos—no swagger, no pride, just a long, level breath like he’d finished laying a foundation no one else could see. He glanced her way, calm but sure, a faint sheen of sweat at his temple. His body was still. His mind wasn’t.

Vivienne exhaled slowly.

“I may have created a monster,” she murmured under her breath.

And yet… the corners of her lips pulled ever so slightly.

It wasn’t a bad thing.

He approached, quiet now, but something electric still hung in the air between them. Not adrenaline. Not challenge.

Readiness.

She studied him for a second longer, then gave a small nod—clean, final.

“You’re ready,” she said.

Damien blinked. “For what?”

“To enter traffic.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, uncertain whether she was joking.

“I’m serious,” she continued, tone even. “You’ve mastered the basics. And more than that—you’ve developed control. Real control. Not just with the pedals and wheel. With yourself.”

There was no flourish in her words. Just fact.

Damien straightened a little.

“But,” she added, cutting the thought before it bloomed, “you’re not going alone.”

His expression tightened in brief protest, but she held up a hand.

“The track is for feel. For precision. For understanding what the machine can do.” Her voice turned sharper now—cool, instructive. “But traffic is its own battlefield. Noise. People. Unpredictability. You don’t get to reset. You don’t get full view. And you don’t get second chances if you miss something.”

Damien didn’t argue.

He just nodded.

Vivienne stepped past him and tapped the roof of the Varkos with two fingers, casual but firm.

“You’ll ride the grid with someone. Observe. Then take the wheel under supervision. If that goes well, you’ll phase into full certification.”

She paused.

Then looked at him again—not just with authority.

But with something softer.

Respect.

Approval.

“You’ve earned the next step, Damien.”

She turned, her heels clicking against alloy as she made her way back toward the exit corridor. “Get some rest. We go again tomorrow.”

Damien watched her go, the pit lights dimming as she moved further into the shadows.

He didn’t smile.

But inside?

He lit up.

Because tonight?

He hadn’t just earned approval.

He’d earned trajectory.

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