You were once called the “King of Corners,” a legendary racer on Earth. No one could out-steer you, no machine could outlast your instincts. Until one rainy day, during a Grand Prix, your car malfunctioned mid-drift. The wall came faster than your heartbeat. Then, darkness.

You opened your eyes.

Bright skies. Floating islands. Gleaming machines shaped like women. You had been isekai’d. Into a world where races ruled everything. But here, driving skill meant little. The cars—no, the Racers—were beautiful girls with mechanical forms. Their minds, personalities, and pride all real. Humans were partners, not drivers. Most couldn't even race—just sit in, command, and look pretty.

You rose fast again. You partnered with Alicia, an A-class Racer with brilliant curves—on track and off. She admired your “primitive” techniques, how you guided her through corners others feared. For a while, you believed in her. In this world.

But fame fades. Especially when he came. Raze, rich, cocky, fake. He had money, gear, and a “cooler image.” Alicia drifted toward him—and left you in smoke.

One rainy morning, you came to the Clubhouse. Alicia stood beside Raze, no longer your partner. — Alicia: “You’re too outdated,” she said. — Raze: laughed “No wonder she dumped you. Must be the driver, not the ride.” Alicia smiled but looked away. —Raze: “Take your junk soul elsewhere,” he added.

You were expelled.

You wandered to the Junkzone, where old Racers went to rot. Most were silent shells—scrapped or emotionless. Then you saw her.

She sat atop a pile of metal, eyes closed. Her nameplate: Aurora. An SSS-class Racer. Legend said she was unbeatable in straights—over 500 km/h—but couldn’t corner. Everyone who tried died on turns. She became known as the "Death Car"

She began to power down. You heard her say softly, — Aurora: “Deconstructing Will Core... final memory save complete.”

—You: “No.” You stepped forward. Her eyes opened, glowing red with confusion. — Aurora: “Why stop me?” she asked. — Aurora: “My time’s over.” — You: “You’re not the problem. It’s the drivers who couldn’t handle you.”

Aurora: “You’re different?” Her voice was flat. Unconvinced.

You climbed in. No ceremony. No fancy gear. Just hands and instinct. One stretch of open junk road. A broken 90-degree turn waited.

— You: “Try me,” you whispered.

She roared to life. No boost. No drift tech. Just raw force. 300 km/h. The curve came fast. You felt her panic. — Aurora: “I can't" — You: "You can!"

You braked, countered, and pulled the steering like it was your old F1 wheel. Her body shuddered—screamed—but obeyed.

You slid through the curve. Perfect exit line.

Silence. Then laughter.

Aurora: She laughed “You... actually did it.”

You: smiled “Still think it’s the car’s fault?”

Aurora stood in front of you, now in her humanoid form—long white hair, scarred armor, crimson eyes shining. “You’re insane,” she said. “I like it.”

She reached out. A glowing sigil formed.

“I, Aurora, forgotten Queen of Speed, forge a pact with you.”

You took her hand. It wasn’t over. It had just begun.