Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 157

Chapter 157: Talk with father
Damien lay sprawled on the training mat, limbs spread, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven gasps. The cool surface beneath him did little to soothe the heat radiating from every inch of his battered frame. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, cuts and bruises marked his arms and ribs, and a thin trail of blood dripped from the edge of his lip.

His body was wrecked.

Wrecked well.

Above him, Elysia stood in silence.

Her shadow stretched long over his torso, hands relaxed at her sides, but her posture was tense—barely, but enough that Damien noticed it even through his haze.

“Young—”

Her voice caught, faltered.

“Master.”

Silence.

Then softer.

“…Master…”

Damien’s eyes, heavy and lidded, peeled open. He turned his head just slightly, meeting her gaze from the floor with a strained, lopsided grin.

“Yes,” he rasped.

His voice was hoarse—dry and raw from the effort of screaming air through bruised ribs. One of his hands twitched, curled loosely at his side like he still hadn’t fully let go of the last technique he’d tried to land.

Elysia lowered herself to a crouch beside him, eyes sweeping over his injuries—his left shoulder discolored from a throw, his ribs flushed dark with impact bruises, one leg trembling slightly from sheer fatigue.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Should I bring some potions?”

Damien shook his head slowly, wincing. “No. I’m fine.”

“But your—”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, firmer this time.

His breath caught again, shallow but steadying. “I’ve been using potions too often. System’s probably already running damage control.”

He exhaled, hard, then added, “Let my body do some of the work.”

Elysia stared at him in silence for a moment longer.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t push.

Because in truth, she understood.

For all the absurdity of his progress, for all the passive enhancements and supernatural gains—he knew. That growth meant nothing if it came without endurance. Without pain. Without the raw silence of lying on the floor, broken, and still choosing not to quit.

She lowered herself fully now, seated beside him, legs folded neatly beneath her.

“…You didn’t land a clean hit today.”

Damien huffed a laugh. “Didn’t expect to.”

“You were close. Once.”

He turned his head toward her again. “Not bad, is it?”

“…”

The training hadn’t stopped after that moment.

Not for Damien.

Even after he’d dragged himself upright, after Elysia had offered him her hand and he’d waved it off just to stand on his own—he’d continued. Slower, more deliberate. Less about clashing and more about learning. And she’d adjusted accordingly.

No longer just testing him.

Now she was teaching him.

How to strike with the knee when the arms are pinned.

How to use the elbow—not for power, but for precision.

Where to aim to break structure.

Where to strike to send a message.

Joint manipulation. Leverage. Locks that used breath and angle instead of force. The type of techniques that didn’t care how strong you were—only whether you were sharp.

She showed him how to guide a limb into a trap. How to pivot his hips, drop his weight, and lock a wrist tight enough to make even an Awakened grunt.

It was slower, methodical. She demonstrated. He repeated. She corrected.

No praise.

No condescension.

Only progress.

Damien absorbed it all.

He still wanted more—more complexity, more mastery, more violence—but even he couldn’t deny the logic. His instincts were improving, yes. But instincts weren’t enough. Not against trained opponents. Not against Elysia.

And so, for once, he didn’t complain.

By the end of the session, his arms were limp. His thighs burned. His knuckles throbbed—not from striking, but from gripping too tightly as he tried to apply every new principle she’d drilled into him.

Still…

He stood.

And more importantly?

He walked away.

Back up the stairs. Towel around his shoulders. Shirt sticking to his chest. Breath steady, body wrecked, mind calm.

The door to his room slid open with a soft hiss, letting him inside.

He barely had time to toss his towel toward the laundry chute before—

Bzzzzt.

His holo-panel flared to life on the desk.

Incoming Call: Dominic Elford

he moment Damien saw the name Dominic Elford flash across the panel, a slow smile crept onto his lips.

Not one of affection.

Not one of respect.

But something quieter.

Sharper.

He stepped into the room with the ease of a man who no longer walked in his father’s shadow, but beside it—ready to eclipse it at any moment.

Ah… Are you getting anxious now, Father?

His eyes never left the screen.

Three weeks ago, I was a disgrace. A stain on the Elford name. Barely a man. A joke in your boardrooms and drawing rooms alike.

And now…?

Damien let the thought trail, fingers brushing his damp hair back as he crossed the room, shirt still clinging to his form. The muscle beneath wasn’t dramatic, but it was defined. A far cry from the bloated mess he used to be.

You’ve seen the numbers. The biometric scans. The training reports. The camera feeds you pretend not to check. You know what I’ve done.

And more importantly—

You know how unnatural this progress is.

Damien’s smirk widened just a little as he dropped into the chair and tapped the accept icon.

The screen shimmered.

Dominic Elford’s face came into view—stone-cut features, silver streaks framing his hair with dignified precision, those signature steel eyes locked directly onto him.

“Damien,” Dominic said, voice calm. Formal. Tense only in the way that silence before a blade’s swing was tense.

Damien leaned back in his chair, resting an elbow on the armrest, one leg casually crossed over the other.

“Father,” he greeted lazily, the word delivered with all the reverence of a man greeting a colleague, not a patriarch.

Dominic studied him in silence for a moment longer, the air between them thick with unspoken calculations. Then, finally:

“…How are you doing?”

It was a formal inquiry, dressed in the tone of obligation. Not warmth. Not concern. But a recognition that something had changed—and that it demanded acknowledgment.

Damien’s smile didn’t shift.

“Fine,” he replied smoothly, his tone too even to be casual, too casual to be submissive. “Training’s going well. Meals are clean. Progress is steady.”

Dominic gave the faintest nod. His gaze sharpened—not out of approval, but preparation. He was shifting gears. Getting to the real point.

“Your body has changed,” Dominic said bluntly. “Rapidly. And without the aid of Awakening potions, mana-infused trainers, or bloodline stimulants.”

There it was.

The knife.

“How?”

No dance. No slow lead-in. Just the question, laid bare like a weapon on the table.

Damien met his gaze and let the silence hang for a moment.

Then—

“Partial-Awakening,” he said.

Dominic’s brow twitched—barely. But it was enough.

Damien leaned forward now, his tone quieter, more deliberate.

“It’s a known phenomenon. Rare. Usually only seen in families with dormant high-grade bloodlines. The user doesn’t need to form a core. The body starts adapting on its own—manifesting abilities, traits, or physiological restructuring. It happens before the formal Awakening threshold is even touched.”

Dominic said nothing.

Which was how Damien knew he understood exactly what that meant.

“You’re saying,” Dominic said slowly, “that you have begun to awaken… without Awakening.”

Damien gave a small, one-shouldered shrug.

“That is right, father.”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in realization.

It was like watching a lock click into place.

“I see…” he murmured, voice dropping into something closer to thought than conversation. “That’s why you insisted on using the Cradle of Primordials as your Awakening method. And why you requested to be sent there alone—with only Elysia.”

Damien smiled faintly.

There it was. The gears turning behind his father’s eyes. That sharp, ruthless intellect finally catching up to what Damien had been building all along.

“It makes sense now,” Dominic continued. “A Partial-Awakening would need to be concealed. You couldn’t let the household or the higher branches of the family know—not until you were ready. If word got out that the weakest Elford had begun to show signs of a bloodline trait, it would’ve drawn attention.”

“Unwanted attention,” Damien added. “From everyone.”

Dominic’s gaze locked on him again, colder now, but more focused. “You knew this would happen. Or at least suspected.”

“I did,” Damien said evenly. “The moment my body responded in ways it wasn’t supposed to. The body changing even without a core. Skills forming from instinct. I knew.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“I’m not that dumb, Father.”

Dominic didn’t respond at first. He just stared.

Evaluating.

Not the words. Not the tone.

But the fact that Damien had spoken them so calmly. So cleanly. Without desperation or a need to prove anything.

As if he was stating a fact.

And that’s what disturbed him more than anything else.

Because it meant Damien wasn’t guessing anymore.

Damien gave a small, amused nod.

“I can see that now, but still, will you be able to do it? If you want, you can back off from the bet, I will not mind. You have already shown me enough.

‘Heh….’

To that, Damien could only smirk.