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

Chapter 254: Track

The car slid through the city with silent, predatory grace—its mana-drive humming low beneath the polished floorboards, gliding effortlessly down one of Vermillion’s elevated arterial lanes. Sunset had begun to stretch across the skyline, casting deep amber light across the chrome and glass that defined the city’s bones. Below them, Vermillion pulsed—hover-trams weaving through neon-lit veins, traffic streaming like data across a circuit.

Damien sat reclined in the rear passenger seat, jacket unbuttoned, one arm draped along the leather edge. He watched the world blur past for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to his mother across from him.

“So,” he said casually, “shouldn’t we do the driving lessons today?”

Vivienne didn’t look up from her data-slate right away. “Today?” she echoed, tone flat.

He shrugged. “Why not?”

She paused, tapped the display once, then let the slate dim. Her eyes lifted to meet his, one brow already arched. “You’ve already spent the morning shopping like a noble’s mistress, selected a team that would make most COOs twitch, and somehow secured a luxury mana-beast vehicle without a license.”

He grinned. “Which is why we should fix that last part.”

“Most people ease into these things, Damien.”

“I’m not most people,” he said, leaning forward slightly, that familiar glint dancing in his eyes. “And right now? I’ve got time. Training’s at its threshold. The school’s barely even pushing back anymore. And thanks to your generous generosity”—he gestured broadly—”I’ve got a very expensive reason to want to drive soon.”

Vivienne studied him for a long second. Not for hesitation. For timing. She was weighing her own schedule against his momentum. He could see it in the way her eyes flicked once to the city grid hovering just outside the window.

Then she leaned back.

“Nothing critical until tomorrow morning,” she said thoughtfully. “And you’re not wrong. If you wait too long, you’ll lose that sharpness you’re holding right now.”

“So that’s a yes?”

She gave him a dry look. “You’re lucky I enjoy driving.”

“From what I remember, you didn’t just enjoy it. You destroyed people on the circuit.”

Vivienne sighed. The kind of sigh that wasn’t really disappointment—more like reluctant agreement disguised as exasperation. She knew where this conversation was headed the moment Damien brought it up. And truth be told, he wasn’t wrong.

“Yes,” she murmured, half to herself, “I used to destroy people on the circuit.”

There was no pride in her voice. Just memory. Like a blade remembering the feel of bone.

She didn’t say anything more. No lecture. No teasing. Just a glance toward the car’s interface.

Then she made a single call.

No greetings. No pleasantries.

“Rent the Westlane pit tonight. Full blackout. Private use.”

A pause.

“Yes. Lock the track. No digital spectators. I want full sensor suppression and manual override on environmental toggles.”

Another pause.

“Understood.”

She ended the call and turned to the driver.

“Take us to Westlane.”

The driver nodded and merged smoothly into the eastbound lane.

Damien’s eyebrows lifted. “Westlane?” he echoed, interest spiking. “You mean the Westlane?”

He’d heard the name before. Everyone who’d grown up around Vermillion had. Westlane was a performance pit disguised as a testing facility—one that had long since evolved into the quiet stomping ground of Elites who needed more than city limits allowed. Most drivers fantasized about it. Most never got in.

The vehicle shifted lanes again, gliding toward the outer tier as the city’s heartbeat softened beneath them. Glass towers gave way to sleek commercial arcs, then to high-wall complexes with automated barriers that shimmered faintly with privacy runes. This wasn’t a public route. This was elite infrastructure—quiet, cold, expensive.

Damien leaned slightly toward the window, watching as a long, spiraled overpass curled ahead—one that didn’t show up on normal maps. “So it’s really happening,” he said, his tone more amused than surprised.

Vivienne didn’t answer. She was checking the car’s internal console again, inputting biometric verification for temporary control override. Not even the best instructor would be allowed to take full control of a vehicle like this without clearance.

“You’re really taking me to Westlane,” Damien said, letting the words hang in the air. “All this just to teach me how to not hit a lamp post.”

Vivienne’s fingers tapped once more, then the console dimmed.

“If you were anyone else,” she said coolly, “I’d start you in a simulation pod and let you fumble around until you stalled out from nausea.”

He grinned. “But I’m not anyone else.”

She finally looked at him. “No. You’re my son.”

Then, after a pause, her tone sharpened—not harsh, but clinical. “Which means if I’m going to teach you, it needs to be up to my standards.”

Damien smirked. “And your standards are—”

“Unforgiving,” she said, cutting him off. “There will be no assistance from the car’s stabilizers. No reflex correction algorithms. No safety net. If you accelerate too fast, you spin. If you brake late, you crash.”

He chuckled low, that glint in his eye hardening. “You’re setting me up to fail.”

“I’m giving you the opportunity to learn correctly,” she said. “Not like a rich idiot playing tourist in a toy.”

“And what if I wreck it?”

She glanced at him, something wry flickering beneath the precision. “Then I’ll make you rebuild it. Bolt by bolt. With your own hands.”

Damien gave a low whistle. “Tough love.”

“No,” she said. “Competence.”

He leaned back, settling into the seat again. “You know,” he drawled, “some mothers just hand over the keys and hope their sons don’t crash into a tree.”

“I’m not some mothers,” she replied. “And this isn’t some tree-lined suburb. This is Westlane.”

A beat passed.

Then Damien let out a dry laugh, slow and deliberate. “We’ll see, Mother.”

Her reply was simple.

“Keep up.”

The car turned off the main grid, slipping through a concealed tunnel beneath an automated barrier. Everything changed past that point. The road texture. The lighting. Even the air—colder, cleaner, dense with mana-filtration.

And then the track came into view.

Westlane.

A sprawling circuit complex carved into the foundation of Vermillion’s underbelly. Silent now. Waiting. Built of dark alloys and shimmering boundary walls that bent light away from curious eyes. The track itself was a serpent of engineered brutality—hairpin curves, elevation shifts, and pulse-ramp straights. No digital billboards. No commercial tags. Just a raw, industrial elegance.

As they pulled through the main gate, several maintenance drones lifted to scan the car before quickly recognizing the Elford family signature and dipping away without a word.

The pit area was dark, lit only by the faint gleam of internal mana conduits pulsing beneath the floor. A set of cars stood prepped—each one custom, stripped of assistance modules. Sleek. Brutal. Pure.

Vivienne stepped out first, heels sharp against the alloy ground. She moved to the terminal and began initializing one of the vehicles manually.

Damien followed, stretching as he took in the scent of scorched rubber and ozone.

“Smells like trouble,” he muttered.

Vivienne didn’t look up from the console as she keyed in the override. Her voice came cool, even, almost serene.

“It’s not trouble,” she said. “Not as long as you know what to do.”

Her fingers danced over the surface of the terminal, and one of the sleek black vehicles responded—mana filaments glowing faintly as the engine powered up, rumbling low with barely restrained energy.

Then footsteps echoed.

Measured. Crisp.

A man approached from the side entrance—older, trim, dressed in a neutral-toned driving jacket with the Westlane crest embroidered near the collar. His face was lined not with age but with routine; the kind of man who had seen accidents unfold frame by frame and still slept soundly.

“Lady Elford,” he said, stopping at a respectful distance. His voice was low, deferential but not timid.

Vivienne turned, nodding once in recognition.

“Merek,” she acknowledged.

He inclined his head. “The circuit has been locked to your specifications. No drones. No feeds. Full blackout across all nodes.”