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

Chapter 256: Learning Driving (2)

The car rolled forward with a small lurch—barely noticeable, but Vivienne caught it immediately.

“Too much clutch,” she said. “Not enough throttle. The balance was off by about ten percent.”

Damien’s grip tightened subtly on the wheel, but he didn’t respond. Just nodded, absorbing it.

“Next time,” she continued, her voice calm but edged with exactness, “feel for the shift in engine weight. Listen. Don’t just follow the steps—feel the machine respond. That’s the difference between a driver and a handler.”

He nodded again, more focused this time. Eyes forward. Ears tuned not to her voice now, but to the low, steady growl beneath the floor.

The track opened ahead, long and empty—straight with a slight decline.

“Second gear,” she said, watching his hands.

Clutch in. Stick down and to the right. Smooth.

“Better,” she murmured. “But you’re holding the wheel too tightly. Relax your fingers. You don’t fight the car—you guide it.”

Damien adjusted instantly.

Vivienne didn’t praise him. She didn’t need to.

He was already moving into third.

She studied him for a moment—shoulders square, posture adapting. The boy who once flinched at confrontation now adjusting to a thousand-pound machine with unnerving speed. His breathing had synced to the tempo of the car’s pulse. His eyes scanned not just the road, but the mirrors, the slight curve ahead, the shimmer of boundary markers built into the track walls.

He wasn’t just executing commands.

He was reading the track.

“You pick things up quickly,” Vivienne said at last. Not warm. Not cold. Just observant.

Damien’s lips quirked faintly. “I’ve had a lot of bad habits to burn through. Turns out starting with none is easier.”

“There’s nothing noble about starting from zero,” she replied. “Only obligation to rise.”

He didn’t argue with that. Instead, he pressed forward, easing into a wider arc, third gear still holding strong. The car shifted beneath him—not just movement, but tone. The purr of the engine aligned with the pressure of his foot. Responsive. Balanced.

“Right there,” Vivienne said. “You feel that?”

He nodded, eyes narrowed.

“That’s not a gear. That’s momentum. Remember it. Burn it into your reflexes. That’s what you want to recreate—every time.”

No textbook. No checklist.

Just feel.

Vivienne was teaching him the language of the car—tempo, tension, the friction between speed and control.

He downshifted approaching a slight bend—slow, deliberate. The nose of the Varkos responded cleanly.

And she said nothing.

Which meant he did it right.

By the time they looped the track’s outer spine, Damien’s movements had refined—no longer stilted beginner’s stabs, but measured actions. Still raw. Still learning. But controlled. Intentional.

Vivienne watched in silence for another few seconds.

Then:

“Park at the next pit.”

Damien exhaled through his nose. Not frustrated.

Ready.

The boy was driving.

Not well. Not yet.

But it had begun.

******

Vivienne remained silent as Damien pulled into the next pit lane, guiding the Varkos smoothly into a controlled stop. The nose dipped just slightly as he braked—still a little eager with the pedal, but no jerk, no stall.

He shifted into neutral and pulled the parking brake with a click.

Then he looked over.

She didn’t speak immediately.

Her eyes were on his hands. His posture. The residual tension in his left foot.

“You stalled five times in the first ten minutes,” she said at last, tone flat.

Damien gave a slow nod, no defensiveness in his posture. “Felt like eight.”

Vivienne’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More like acknowledgment.

“But,” she continued, “you haven’t stalled since third loop. You’re syncing your gear shifts within tolerance, and you’re braking before curves without me prompting.”

Damien arched an eyebrow. “Was that… almost a compliment?”

“No,” she said plainly. “That was a baseline observation. You’re showing progress.”

A pause.

“Which means it’s time to raise the bar.”

She reached forward and toggled the car’s console again. A new section of the track lit up on the HUD—a split ramp, gentle incline at first, followed by a sharper ascent leading into a high-curve segment.

Damien stared at it.

Vivienne tapped the screen lightly.

“Uphill launch,” she said. “One of the most common choke points for early drivers. Especially with a manual. Most panic. You stall. Or worse—roll.”

He nodded slowly. “Clutch work’s gotta be tighter.”

“It has to be precise,” she corrected. “The angle will pull weight backward. The car wants to slide. Your job is to stop it. Balance throttle and clutch until the forward grip catches.”

Damien took a breath, steady.

Vivienne didn’t soften. “You’ll stall again. That’s fine. But if you roll more than a meter?”

He met her eyes. “I walk back.”

“Correct.”

They switched tracks, pulling onto the ascent ramp slowly. Damien parked just at the base, incline already tugging subtly at the weight of the car. He could feel it—an invisible pull against the tires, not dangerous yet, but enough to unsettle him if he lost focus.

Vivienne watched.

“Handbrake if needed,” she said. “But you’ll learn more without it.”

He nodded again.

Left foot clutch. Right on the gas. Gear in first.

Then came the hold—the breath, the stillness, the calibration of pressure between rising foot and increasing throttle.

He released too fast.

The engine sputtered. Died.

Vivienne didn’t flinch. “Again.”

He tried again.

Smoother this time. Closer.

But still rolled half a meter back before catching the gear. Not enough.

Vivienne’s voice was neutral. “One more.”

Damien closed his eyes for a second, feeling the pedals like tension wires. Then he lifted—slow, patient, riding the friction point just as the torque met the climb.

The car surged.

Not violently. Not wildly.

Just enough.

Forward.

He caught the gear, stabilized, began the climb.

Vivienne glanced at the console—metrics clean.

“Good,” she said. “Now hold second through the curve, and don’t brake.”

Damien blinked. “Wait, what—”

“Feel it.”

And so he did.

She didn’t tell him everything. Not anymore.

She gave him the terrain, the rules—and left the instinct to him.

Because instincts, once sharpened, were what separated survivors from statistics.

And as they crested the curve, engine humming steady beneath them, Vivienne allowed herself a rare thought.

Not just not bad.

Promising.

*****

Just like that, they worked through every fundamental.

Not as lessons. Not as drills. But as trials—each one measured, felt, repeated.

Vivienne never praised. She confirmed. “That’s clean.” “Acceptable.” “Hold that pressure.” And when it wasn’t—when the nose dipped too sharply on a down-ramp, or when Damien downshifted late into a corner—her corrections came fast and clinical. A surgeon with no interest in bedside manner.

They covered uphill launches, down-ramp control, neutral roll, brake feathering, and precision steering through narrow choke points.

And Damien?

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke, either. Not much.

His usual smirk gave way to concentration. His hands learned fast—tightened, adjusted, relaxed. His feet picked up the silent rhythm Vivienne cared about: the pulse between grip and glide. He didn’t just repeat her instructions; he adapted to the machine’s tone. When it stuttered, he responded. When it purred, he pushed.

By the third hour, they had looped every segment of the track’s core configuration. Damien had stalled only once more—and even then, caught the recovery without a full reset.

When they coasted into the final pit lane, Vivienne didn’t speak immediately. She simply watched him kill the engine. The Varkos settled into stillness, its core venting a slow exhale of mana steam.

Damien let out a breath, rolling his shoulders.

She studied him a second longer, then nodded once.

“You’ve covered the foundations.”

He looked over. “How’d I do?”

Vivienne turned toward him fully.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

Damien snorted. “That’s it?”

“For today,” she said. “You learned to start. To launch uphill. Downhill. To control under load. And more importantly…” She tapped the center of his chest lightly, “you’re beginning to feel the machine.”

He stilled.

“Which matters,” she said, quieter now. “Because this?” She tapped the dash.

“This isn’t what driving is about.”

It came from a racer.

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