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

Damien's smirk deepened, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathing itself.

There it is.

He could see it now, clear as sunlight cutting through smoke. Dominic's voice was calm. Measured. Even sounded generous, on the surface. But underneath?

There was hesitation.

Not kindness.

Not concern.

Just control slipping through his fingers.

"You've already shown me enough," Dominic had said.

A nice little out, Damien thought. A quiet, well-packaged retreat.

Of course.

Because now that the numbers didn't lie… now that Damien's muscle density, vitals, performance ratios were all screaming abnormal, Dominic understood what was happening.

He had feared this from the start.

He had never wanted Damien to use the [Cradle of Primordials].

The Cradle wasn't just some ancient, ceremonial Awakening chamber. It was raw. Unpredictable. A forge meant to draw out what lurked deepest in the bloodline. What was buried. Hidden. Mutated. It either killed the weak or rebirthed them into monsters.

It was Elford heritage distilled to its purest form.

And Dominic had offered that place as a mockery. A punishment wrapped in challenge. He hadn't thought Damien would ever reach the point of qualifying for it. The conditions of the bet were set to humble, not reward.

A reality check, Damien mused. He wanted me to understand the rules of the world. Its limits. Its weight.

But the irony?

The world's weight didn't bind him anymore.

Because Dominic didn't know the truth.

His son was no longer just a boy struggling to reclaim his pride.

He was no longer fully human.

If Dominic had known what Damien was becoming, he would've never agreed.

But that bullet was already fired.

And now the target was moving.

Too late to pull it back.

So this sudden softness—this offer—wasn't mercy.

It was strategy.

"I appreciate the gesture," Damien said lightly, his voice smooth as glass, "but I think I'll see it through."

His father's jaw tensed ever so slightly.

"And really—" Damien leaned back again, relaxing into the chair with practiced ease, "—whether I survive the Cradle or not isn't the real question, is it?"

Dominic's eyes narrowed, the chill in them flickering with something that didn't quite reach his voice.

"…What else is there?" he asked, low. "I don't want to lose my son. No matter what you're becoming."

That pause. That beat of quiet sincerity.

Damien felt it.

There was no strategy in that line. No veiled threat. Just truth—quiet and uncomfortable. The kind of truth that came from a man who had built walls so high, even his love had to climb them.

And Damien, for a moment, appreciated it.

His expression didn't soften—he wouldn't let it—but the edge in his tone rounded just slightly.

"I know," he said.

And then, leaning forward, his voice regaining its usual steel:

"But, Father… the real question was never whether I'd survive the Cradle."

His gaze sharpened, every word deliberate.

"It's when I will Awaken. Not if. That uncertainty's gone."

Dominic didn't reply right away.

His jaw flexed once, but otherwise, he remained still—until his eyes narrowed again, colder now.

"You would do well not to underestimate the Cradle, Damien."

"I don't," Damien said, shaking his head once. "I'm not arrogant enough to think I'm ready. But I am determined enough to go in anyway."

A silence stretched between them, both men weighing words not yet spoken.

Finally, Dominic let out a breath. It wasn't frustration. It was acceptance. Heavy. Resigned.

"…If that's what you want."

"It is."

Another pause.

Then Dominic straightened, fingers tapping once against his desk, already signaling the end of the conversation.

"You've confirmed you're coherent, and in good condition. That's all I needed to know."

The words sounded dismissive.

But Damien knew the truth behind them.

I'm glad you're still standing.

And then—without waiting for further reply—

Click.

The call ended.

The screen darkened.

Damien exhaled through his nose, slow and even, before rising from the chair. The sweat from training had long cooled, leaving his skin feeling tacky beneath the fabric.

Time to check the numbers.

He stepped into the bathroom, peeled off his damp shirt, his shorts, the remnants of his training uniform. His body moved easily now, leaner and quicker with every passing day.

He stepped onto the scale.

The digital interface blinked.

[97.0 kg]

A slow, sharp grin curled across his lips.

"…Heh."

Another three kilograms down.

And the burn hadn't stopped yet.

The Cradle was waiting.

And soon, he would be ready.

*****

Damien stepped out of the car with a calm precision, his polished shoes hitting the pavement with a quiet thud. The air was cool and clean, laced with the subtle hum of morning voices and idle chatter. The gates of Vermillion Academy loomed ahead, wide and ornate, welcoming its students with practiced grandeur.

The third week had arrived.

And with it, the rhythm of school life had begun to settle.

Groups of students trickled in, laughing, yawning, adjusting collars and smoothing skirts. Damien moved past them without a word, his figure a stark contrast—calm, sharp, and composed. His strides were smooth. Deliberate. Neither rushed nor idle.

But then—

A familiar sound: the hush of a luxury vehicle's door clicking shut behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder.

And there she was.

Victoria Langley.

Blonde hair shining under the morning light, her emerald eyes cutting through the schoolyard like she owned it. Her uniform hugged her figure in all the ways she knew would draw attention—measured elegance with an edge of power. Every step she took seemed choreographed, like she'd rehearsed this entrance a hundred times.

But all Damien saw was the girl pressed against an alley wall. Lips parted. Eyes half-lidded.

'Heh…'

The smirk curved across his lips before he could stop it.

His feet moved of their own accord—light and unhurried—until he fell into step beside her.

"Yo," he said, his voice smooth and disarmingly casual.

Victoria didn't answer at first. Her jaw tightened ever so slightly, eyes fixed ahead, her posture still as composed as ever. But Damien could feel it—just beneath the surface, tension.

"…What, little Miss Victoria?" he continued, gaze flicking sideways. "Grumbling as usual?"

She finally cut her eyes toward him, irritation simmering low. "Tch. What do you want?"

He chuckled under his breath. "Hmm, what do I mean by that? Strange question."

He tilted his head slightly, enjoying the contrast of how beautifully she carried herself and how ugly her scowl always got when she was annoyed.

Victoria's heels clicked sharply against the pavement, her stride unwavering—but her voice, when it came, was laced with frost.

"I don't recall us being on good enough terms for you to be greeting me."

Damien's smirk didn't so much as flicker.

"I don't recall having a problem with you either," he said smoothly. "Isn't it you who's been weirdly obsessed with me? Always trying to pick a fight, always watching? I mean, if this was a novel, I'd be getting mixed signals."

Her eyes flared. "Obsessed? With you?" she snapped. "You're delusional."

He glanced sideways at her, amused. "Really? Do you remember what you said to me last week? The little public performance? Do you think I'd just let that go?"

Victoria turned to face him mid-step, her voice sharp. "I only responded to your insults. You think I'm just going to stay quiet when you mock me like that?"

He chuckled again, voice low, casual. "If we're going by what was said… then you've thrown your fair share. Isn't this just payback?"

She scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a huff. "Payback. Please. Everything I said was just truth."

"Same," Damien replied, not missing a beat.

"You—!"

He raised a brow. "What?"

"I said your face was funny," he went on, smile widening now, eyes half-lidded with that calm cruelty only he could wear so easily. "And it was. Still is, honestly."

And that made Victoria react….