Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 215

Chapter 215: Canyon (2)
SWOOSH.

The thing blurred downward—a slash of shadow and sharpened intent.

Damien’s body shifted a fraction, instinct curling through his muscles too late to act—but just fast enough to register.

It landed barely a meter from him.

Teeth bared.

Claws outstretched.

He didn’t move.

Because Elysia did first.

Her hand snapped forward, two fingers extended—not toward the creature’s center, but its trajectory.

A pulse—no flash, no sound.

And then impact.

The beast’s momentum reversed mid-air, its body folding sideways in a blink, ribcage imploding before it even finished its lunge. It hit the rock with a wet, final crunch, twitching once before going still.

Damien didn’t blink.

His eyes stayed fixed on the smear it left across the canyon wall.

But his mind was already working.

‘That wasn’t G-rank.’

The weight of the thing. The speed. The presence.

Not much by awakened standards—but too much for baseline.

‘My body’s partially awakened. I’ve pushed past nine in all core stats. If it were G-rank, I’d have felt more. Mapped its angle before it jumped. Reacted.’

His hands didn’t tremble.

They didn’t clench.

Just adjusted slightly at his sides, as if recalibrating.

‘F-rank wouldn’t have been that fast either. Close, but the mana curve wouldn’t carry it that cleanly through descent. Too much precision in the strike vector.’

He frowned faintly.

‘D-rank or higher, and I wouldn’t have even sensed the descent. I’d have just heard bone break. Mine.’

His eyes narrowed on the corpse.

‘E-rank. Fast enough to be dangerous. Slow enough for a warning.’

A twitch of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.

‘Reasonable guess. Logical.’

He turned slightly, eyes flicking to Elysia.

She hadn’t moved since the kill.

The corpse was still twitching.

Barely.

But the pressure it left behind wasn’t.

Damien’s lungs tightened. Not from fear—he’d gone past that years ago—but from raw response. His body wasn’t lying. The primal instinct buried deep in muscle and nerve was screaming the truth:

Danger.

He was breathing too fast. Shallow. Controlled, but too controlled.

His heartbeat kicked once—hard enough to make his vision pulse at the edges.

A leftover echo of the creature’s bloodlust. Not even directed. Just ambient. Like a field. A presence.

The monster was dead.

But the kill hadn’t been clean for him.

‘Tch. Damned body,’ he thought, clenching his jaw.

Then—

A low click inside his chest. A shift.

Not audible. Not even physical.

But he felt it.

A stillness. Like something ancient anchoring itself at his spine.

[Trait Activated: Does Not Bend]

The effect was subtle.

His pulse slowed.

His breath evened.

The residual tension in his shoulders dissipated, ironed out by a will not born of conditioning, but of choice.

He didn’t shiver.

He didn’t sweat.

The world just… aligned.

Like pressure washing off glass.

He exhaled.

Still breathing harder than usual, but not panicking. Not flinching.

Elysia turned slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

Damien’s head dipped once—controlled.

“I’m fine.”

And he was.

Rattled? Yes.

But not cracked.

He turned his gaze to the smear of gore on the rock, then back to the twitching limbs half-buried in dust.

“What was it?” he asked.

Elysia was already moving again—soft steps resuming along the canyon’s edge. But she spoke without turning.

“Vern-scale Striker. Subspecies variant. E-rank.”

Damien’s smile was small. Thin. Dry.

‘Right on the mark.’

A flicker of satisfaction passed behind his eyes. Not because he was right.

But because he was calibrated.

This body was still unfinished—but the instincts were starting to match.

He adjusted his footing, followed her deeper into the canyon.

They walked in silence for a while.

The canyon deepened.

The light dimmed—not from dusk, but from the way the cliffs leaned closer, pressing inward like a narrowing throat. The path was less defined now. No stone markers. Just instinct and rhythm, footfalls echoing off old, dust-choked rock.

Then Damien spoke.

Calm. Level.

“From this point on—kill everything above mid G-rank.”

Elysia didn’t stop walking. But her stride shifted.

A pause. A calculation.

“And if it is mid G-rank or lower?” she asked without turning.

“Don’t move,” Damien replied. “Inform me. I’ll deal with it.”

That brought her to a stop.

She turned to face him fully. The wind brushed her cloak to the side, revealing her stance—alert, but not confrontational.

“Are you planning to fight them yourself?”

“Yes.”

The word dropped like a stone.

Blunt. Non-negotiable.

Elysia’s eyes narrowed—not with resistance, but with focused concern. She didn’t raise her voice. But her tone lost its usual reserve.

“This is dangerous, young master. You’re not Awakened.”

“I know.”

There was no arrogance in the way he said it.

Just certainty.

Elysia’s jaw tightened slightly, but she didn’t argue. She was too disciplined for that. Too trained.

And still—

The unspoken question hung there between them.

Why?

Damien didn’t explain.

Not aloud.

But in his mind, the logic was crystalline.

‘That is the trigger.’

The inheritance—the one buried in this place, sealed behind rules and narrative restrictions—had never been accessible by accident.

You had to qualify.

Not through blood.

Not through rank.

Through intent.

Through risk.

That was the reason no one ever found this place.

The reason it remained buried in the map, nestled in the edge of a city monitored by satellites and spell-grids—yet untouched.

It wasn’t just hidden.

It was locked.

Because to access the Heirloom Vault, you had to break the system’s most basic assumption.

You had to be weak.

You had to be a non-awakened.

And you had to fight anyway.

Not run. Not hide behind a party. Not bait the enemy into a trap.

You had to take a monster—one properly registered, with threat—and engage it directly.

Survive it.

Win.

Only then would the canyon respond.

The system of the inheritance would take notice.

And the ground beneath your feet would shift—subtly, impossibly—dragging you to the place that shouldn’t exist.

But who the hell would do that?

What rational, unawakened person would walk into a G-rank zone, find a creature built to kill, and fight it alone?

It wasn’t just dangerous.

It was suicidal.

That was why the Hunters here couldn’t find it.

That’s why players never found it through exploration.

Even when they brushed against the location, they lacked the condition.

And the few who stumbled close?

They were awakened already. Too strong. Too “right.”

They didn’t belong.

The one time Damien saw it work—it had been buried in a five-hour video on a modding forum, in a compilation called “How To Fix Damien (Everyone hates him).”

The player who’d made it work?

They weren’t a lore junkie.

They weren’t some lucky casual.

They were skilled. Someone with sharp mechanics and obsessive preparation. They mapped spawn zones, simulated hitboxes, and used consumables so efficiently it made speedrunners look sloppy.

Even then, they’d barely survived.

But they’d won.

And when they did, the canyon changed.

Not in animation. Not with fanfare.

Just a pulse.

A moment of coded silence, followed by one line:

[You were not meant to survive.]

That was all it took.

A system made for fate-bound heroes had hiccupped.

And the result?

Access.

Damien exhaled slowly as he stepped across another jagged stone outcrop, eyes scanning the canyon’s shifting light.

The deeper they went, the more real it felt.

The rocks bled history. The air tasted like old magic—something dense and bitter that clung to the teeth. There was a rhythm to it. A beat.

And he could feel it watching.

Waiting.

‘A test needs a trigger,’ Damien thought, lips curving slightly. ‘So let’s trip it.’

He imagined it, then—the original path. The one the fate probably wanted.

A bullied, lonely kid.

Weak body. No skills. No friends.

Field trip gone wrong. A teacher that didn’t care. Bullies who laughed as they pushed him past the safety barrier.

Lost in the canyon.

Crying. Bleeding.

A monster appears. Just a G-rank, maybe weaker. Still enough to kill.

But by luck—or divine interference—the kid wins.

Scratches. Scrapes. Maybe a broken arm. But he wins.

And then—

[You were not meant to survive.]

The world changes. The power answers.

He returns.

Stronger.

Different.

The kind of revenge arc that writes itself. Chapter titles. Cover art. Fan theories.

Damien chuckled low in his throat.

The sound didn’t echo.

‘That story writes itself a thousand times in a thousand novels,’ he mused. ‘And maybe it’s true. Maybe that’s how it was meant to go.’

He reached for the hilt of his short blade, testing its balance with a subtle shift of his fingers.

Light. Clean. Simple steel. Not enchanted. Not special.

Just his.

‘But details don’t matter.’

His eyes narrowed.

‘Only the trigger does.’

And he was ready to pull it.

————A/N———-

Sorry for the later chapters. I had an exam yesterday. Now the normal update schedule will continue.