Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 166

Chapter 166: Improvements
The sky was still dark when Damien entered the training chamber.

No sunlight.

No audience.

Just cold air, silence, and the faint echo of his own breath.

The massive reinforced rope hung from the ceiling’s support beams, thick as his forearm, coiled like a serpent awaiting its challenge. Below it, nothing but open space until the padded landing thirty feet down.

He stood beneath it, shirtless, gloved hands flexing once—then twice—against the chalk dust smeared across his palms.

His physique had changed.

Irrefutably.

Where once there had been softness, now there was symmetry.

Where once there had been weight, now there was power.

His abdomen was no longer some vague outline of effort—it was cut. Sharp lines defined each segment of his core, the muscles sitting beneath taut, warm skin, glistening under the glow of the overhead training lights.

Obliques flared like angled ridges along his waist. His shoulders were drawn back, deltoids and traps coiled with density. Even the curve of his back—now broad, honed—spoke of tension stored like a weapon half-drawn.

And the weight?

It clung to him now—strapped across his torso, thighs, and calves.

A full seventy kilograms of resistance distributed across his frame.

But he didn’t shake under it.

He thrived beneath it.

His hands reached for the rope—and then he began to climb.

Not just upward.

But against everything.

The muscles along his arms flexed in tight coordination, each pull a chain of movement from his biceps to his lats, his core stabilizing every inch. The rope shifted beneath his grip but never swayed. It obeyed him. Bent to his control.

And then—

He descended.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

Each movement downward with the added resistance. No swinging. No slip. Just precision.

The weights dragged on him. Gravity pulled greedily. But his body didn’t flinch.

Because this wasn’t the same Damien who’d started a month ago.

This was a Damien reshaped.

Reforged.

[Physique of Nature] had done its work.

And now, on the final day of his self-imposed crucible, he was the product of that convergence.

Natural Compression: Complete.

– His body fat was reduced to the minimum required for survival.

– His muscle tone was no longer inflated or bloated—it was dense, efficient, honed.

– Tendons no longer strained under load; they responded with quiet elasticity.

– His nervous system fired faster. Cleaner. More alive.

– His hormones were balanced, locked into optimal performance thresholds. A machine of flesh.

At the bottom of the descent, Damien landed in a crouch.

The rope swayed behind him.

His breath was steady.

His muscles sang.

And when he stood upright, letting the weights pull at him one final time before he reached for the buckles to unstrap them—

His breath came in sharp pulls now—rhythmic, controlled.

“Huff… Huff…”

His hands reached for the rope again.

The weights still hung on him like shackles, but they didn’t slow him.

He didn’t hesitate.

“One more.”

His voice was hoarse but certain. And then—

He jumped.

The added weight made the impact heavier, but he absorbed it cleanly, landing in a perfect crouch, legs flexed, every joint moving like it had been tuned for this exact moment.

He stayed there for a beat. Breathing. Listening to the soft creak of the rope above him, the quiet hum of his heartbeat pounding through his ribs.

Then he rose.

And caught sight of himself.

Reflected in the polished steel of the wall paneling—his body, raw under the lights.

Sculpted.

Disciplined.

Changed.

His eyes lingered on the ridged lines of his abdomen, the way his muscles moved like woven cables beneath skin, no longer straining, no longer puffed or swollen with effort.

Just balanced.

Efficient. Ruthless.

Damien exhaled.

“…Finally.”

He opened his system interface.

Ding.

The screen flared to life, and the numbers told him what he already felt in his bones.

————————————-

[STATUS] [Synchronization: Complete]

▶ Name: Damien Elford

▶ Age: 17

▶ Level: 4

▶ SP: 1745

Traits:

[Reforged One] [Does Not Bend] [Singularity] [Sociopath] [Anarchist]

Passive Skills:

[Merchant’s Intuition]

[Physique of Nature]

[Neural Synchronicity]

————————————-

[Attributes]

▶ Strength: 7 ➝ 9

▶ Agility: 7 ➝ 9

▶ Endurance: 8 ➝ 9

▶ Will: ??

▶ Intelligence: ??

▶ Charm: 8 ➝ 8.5

▶ Luck: 9 ➝ 9

————————————-

He stared at it, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Every parameter—maxed. Balanced. Taught.

Even Charm had crept upward, pulled with it by the aesthetic synergy of his refined body, his voice, his presence.

He wasn’t just statistically different now.

Damien stared at the numbers, silent.

Then—

A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Not the smug kind he used to wear when bluffing through failure.

Not the mask he’d learned to wear in front of his father.

This one was different.

Quieter.

Earned.

‘So this is what it feels like… to win without shortcuts.’

His chest rose slowly with the next breath, the air filling his lungs lighter than it had ever felt.

‘No drugs. No mana. No cheats. Just blood. Pain. Will.’

The screen dimmed as he closed the interface, but the glow of victory stayed with him, warm in his chest, heavy in the lines of his frame.

He turned from the training mat and made his way toward the bathroom. The walk was steady, controlled. Every step held weight, like the ground recognized the body walking across it wasn’t the same as before.

Inside, the lights flicked on automatically. The mirror caught his reflection again—cleaner now, sharper.

He didn’t stop to admire it.

Not yet.

Instead, he stepped directly onto the biometric scale recessed into the floor. The digital display blinked to life beneath his feet.

A soft beep.

[Weight: 90.2 kg]

Damien exhaled.

‘There it is.’

‘Sixty kilograms down in one month.’

‘And I’m still standing.’

He stared down at the number for a moment longer, then ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, watching it drip onto the tiles.

‘Four weeks ago, they would’ve laughed at the idea. Thought I was starving myself. Dying.’

He turned slightly, glancing at the mirror now—really looking.

‘But now?’

His gaze trailed over the lean cut of his waist, the carved edges of his arms, the corded muscle along his chest and thighs.

Damien stared at the number on the scale a moment longer. Then—

He smiled.

“Finally.”

The word slipped from him like a weight shed from the inside. And then, softly at first, it turned into a laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving.

Then louder. Harsher.

A short bark of sound that echoed off the bathroom tile.

A little unhinged. A little frayed.

Because it had been fucking painful.

This last month hadn’t been some polished training montage—it had been war. War against instinct, against comfort, against the temptation to stop. His diet had stripped him down to the bone—no sugar, no carbohydrates. Not a gram. Just meat, eggs, and whatever bitter herbs Elysia had sourced from that back-alley apothecary. Each meal tasted like metal and rot, every swallow a rebellion against his own cravings.

Some days, he’d wake up dizzy. Other days, it was worse—tired for no reason, heart racing, his limbs filled with a cold fatigue that didn’t match the fire in his chest. But he pushed. He adapted. He learned how to destroy himself the right way.

Each mixture he created had a purpose. Each herb, a cruel alchemy. His muscles tore, and he rebuilt them with blood and spite.

His methods had been ruthless.

But they’d worked.

He stepped into the shower, the steaming water washing over him like absolution. Let it hit his skin, trail down the newly carved lines of his form, soothe the rawness in his shoulders and lower back. For once, it wasn’t agony. It was… deserved.

By the time he stepped out, towel low on his hips, the fog of steam curling around his frame, Damien’s mind was already shifting.

The crucible was over.

Now came the aftermath.

And she was waiting.

He stepped out into the hallway, bare-chested, water still dripping from the ends of his hair, and stopped.

Elysia was there.

Damien stepped into the hallway, water still dripping from his hair, the towel slung low on his hips. The air outside the bathroom was cooler, but it didn’t bite like before. His body retained warmth now—simmering beneath the surface.

And waiting for him just a few steps ahead, arms folded neatly behind her back, stood Elysia.

She was dressed crisply in her standard uniform, that black-and-gray ensemble cut with sharp lines and elegant folds. But her eyes—those calm, calculating emeralds—softened just slightly as they landed on him.

“Master,” she said quietly, inclining her head. “It is the last day of your training, isn’t it?”

Damien’s brows lifted, amused. No ‘you look different.’ No overt praise. Just observation.

“Yes.”

“I see,” she said, voice remaining composed. “Then that is why. Patriarch informed me to bring you to the mansion.”

Of course. The family was at Blackthorne Villa now. It was only natural. And after a month of silence, after warping himself into someone entirely different, he didn’t resist.

He nodded. “Alright.”

Elysia turned slightly, but paused. “Your mother has been calling frequently, Master. I believe she will be… pleased to see you again.”

Damien let out a short exhale—not quite a sigh. His mother. Vivienne. He hadn’t seen her face in a month, but her voice had come through, time and again. Checking in. Insisting he wasn’t pushing too hard. Offering gentle but unwavering support through Elysia.

“She always calls,” he said softly. “Even when she knows I won’t answer.”

“She worries.”

“…I know.”

He followed as Elysia began to walk, her steps silent across the hallway floors. His own footsteps had changed too—he realized it then. No longer the dragging, uneven steps of a man too heavy for his frame. Each step now felt deliberate. Measured. Efficient.

And as they turned the corner toward the exit, Damien’s thoughts flicked ahead.

Not to his father.

Not even to Dominic’s piercing gaze or inevitable skepticism.

But to her.

Adeline.

The golden sister.

The favorite.

The one who had mocked him openly before the entire table like she always had. The one who’d once looked through him, not at him. The one who’d called him useless.

‘I wonder what face you will make.’