Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 217

Chapter 217: The first monster
The monster snarled—spittle and heat pouring from its jaws as it charged again.

THMP-THMP-THMP!

It closed the gap in a heartbeat.

Damien shifted. His stance narrowed.

FWUMP!

The beast struck low, a sweeping claw that could’ve split a boulder.

Damien didn’t block.

He slid—his shoulder rolling back, torso slipping just above the arc of destruction. The edge of the claw grazed his coat, but nothing else.

CRACK!

He responded with a hammering palm to the side of the beast’s knee.

The force transferred clean.

But the cost—

POP!

Pain surged through Damien’s wrist.

He gritted his teeth as bone compressed against resistance far beyond what a normal body could handle.

Not enough. Not yet.

His physique absorbed the impact without fracturing—but barely. The vibration traveled up his elbow, spreading dull agony into his shoulder socket.

The monster stumbled—barely.

He moved again, faster now.

SHFF—THWACK!

One-two strikes to the ribs, followed by a short hook under its jaw. Clean. Snapping.

But as his fist connected—

CRKKK—

Pain again. Not breaking, but close. His knuckles screamed from the recoil.

Fuck, he hissed inwardly. It’s like punching rebar wrapped in meat.

His muscles didn’t tear. But they threatened to.

His skin didn’t split. But the force rebounded through every tendon.

Physique of Nature had changed his body—compressed it, refined it—but this wasn’t the same as true Awakening.

He was still muscle and blood. Still a work-in-progress.

And this thing?

This monster was already a finished blade.

“Tch…”

He ducked beneath another strike—WHOOSH!—and pivoted around the monster’s flank.

He couldn’t brute force it.

So he didn’t try.

His eyes narrowed. Every micro-movement of the beast mapped in real-time.

A pulse ran through Damien’s skull.

Cold. Mechanical. Clean.

Not adrenaline. Not instinct.

Something else.

[Trait Activated: Neural Predator]

Target Complexity: Moderate

Mapping Completed

zAnd then—

Everything lit up.

The monster’s body flared in his vision—veins of tension, stress fractures in muscle fibers, asymmetry in its stride. Joints overused. Ligaments straining to hold form. The mana coursing through its frame sputtered in uneven waves, overcompensating for unstable limb rotation.

Weak points.

Vulnerabilities.

It hadn’t happened right away—not like with lesser prey. Damien understood that now.

There was a delay.

A delay tied to rank.

A beast this wild, this refined—it took time. He had to feel it, move with it, earn the data.

And now?

Now the puzzle was solved.

‘So that’s how it works,’ he thought, eyes tracking every twitch in the beast’s frame. ‘The higher their complexity, the longer the scan. Makes sense. If that is the case, then Elysia’s scan might not even be %1 complete.’

He exhaled.

No more wasted motion.

No more pain for the wrong reasons.

It was time.

His stance shifted.

No dramatic wind-up. No glowing aura.

Just silence.

Just stillness.

‘Heh…’

He had gotten ready for the technique.

‘Shouldn’t I test it to see how it works?’

A martial art passed down in whispers. No wasted movement. No expressive flare. Each strike designed to shut down function, not display strength.

A killer’s method.

Elysia’s technique.

WHMP!

The monster struck again—frantic now, power bleeding from its attacks. Its claw swiped with killing force.

Damien didn’t meet it head-on.

He slid under the arc, pivoting on one foot. His elbow snapped up into a tendon behind the knee.

TCHK!

A precise hit. Not to break.

To disrupt.

The limb buckled.

WHISH!

Damien moved again—faster now. One step, a twist of his hip, then a sudden palm jab straight into the soft nerve cluster beneath the jaw hinge.

THNK!

The monster jerked violently. Drool and blood flung out in a sharp arc. Its legs tried to recover.

Too late.

CLACK—TCHIK—FWUP!

Three more movements.

One into the floating rib. One behind the eye socket. One at the base of the throat.

No noise. No flash.

Just the sound of systems failing.

The creature’s body stuttered—like a puppet pulled too tight, then dropped.

It staggered.

Damien didn’t pause.

He pivoted again, this time behind its right shoulder. His arm hooked around the neck, not for a choke—but to guide his knee up, directly into the exposed spinal node beneath the mane.

CRACK!

A final jolt.

And the monster collapsed.

Twitching.

Breathing shallow. Limbs spasming. Brain still active. But no command left in its nerves.

It was done.

Damien released the grip and stepped back. Not triumphant. Just calm.

His hands ached. His wrist throbbed. Sweat ran down his spine. But his eyes?

Cold. Focused.

He watched the monster’s chest rise—once. Twice. Shallow. Struggling.

Then he stepped forward. Slowly.

One final strike.

No hesitation.

TCHNK.

Two fingers—knife-hand—drove through the creature’s eye. Straight into the brainstem.

It stopped moving.

Completely.

No last roar. No spasm.

Just quiet.

Just silence.

Damien stood still.

Completely.

The monster lay slumped beneath him, unmoving. A heap of muscle and mangled nerve endings, still warm. Blood—a deep, oily purple—coated his fingers, his forearms, streaked up his neck. It dripped slow, thick, clinging to his skin like it didn’t want to let go.

For a moment, there was nothing.

No movement.

No sound.

Just the ragged pull of air through his lungs.

Hah… hah…

His breath hitched. Once. Twice.

Then came the rest.

The throb in his knuckles. The sharp protest in his wrist. His knees locking too tight. His spine buzzing like it wasn’t sure whether to collapse or coil tighter.

And under all of it—

A rise.

Low.

Cold.

From somewhere near his gut, crawling up his throat.

A wave.

The need to vomit.

Not from exertion. Not from blood.

From the truth.

He had taken a life.

Not a simulation. Not theory.

This wasn’t a training dummy or a clean spar.

He’d driven his fingers through a living brain.

And now the air around him knew it.

The silence wasn’t calm anymore. It was final.

Something shifted inside him—like a thread pulling taut behind the ribs.

His stomach lurched.

His jaw clenched tight. Muscles locked. He swallowed the bile down hard. Forced the instinct back where it came from.

No gagging.

No shaking.

Just control.

‘Breathe.’

He did.

‘Again.’

He pulled in another breath—slower this time. Controlled. Shaky on the inhale, steadier on the exhale.

The adrenaline was still there—roaring under the surface. His nerves felt like piano wire, strung too tight, humming with leftover energy that had nowhere to go.

But his mind?

Cold.

Still.

Processing.

He had done it.

Without powers. Without cheats. Without backup.

He had killed something with his own body.

Did he do it because he had to?

No.

He did it because he wanted to.

Because this world—the real one—didn’t run on ideas or ideals. It didn’t care for restraint, civility, or borrowed honor.

It ran on force.

One way or another, Damien would kill.

So he chose the method.

He chose the moment.

And now—standing over the still-warm corpse of something that could’ve gutted him five minutes ago—he understood the purpose of this test in full.

He had needed to know.

If he could end something with his own hands.

Not just physically.

But cleanly.

Mentally.

And now?

Now he knew.

The disgust was real. Sharp. Sudden. But already it was fading. Fading like the sting of an ice bath.

His breath evened. His spine loosened. His gut cooled.

Not because he forced it.

Because it simply… passed.

‘It wasn’t moral,’ he thought, flexing his fingers slightly. Blood cracked and flaked at the knuckle. ‘It wasn’t monstrous either.’

It was just motion. Execution. A necessity expressed through technique.

No hesitation.

No regret.

And beneath that—something else began to settle.

Satisfaction.

‘This feeling of accomplishment…’ he thought, pulse finally stable, ‘it feels nice.’

Not pride.

Just proof.

That he wasn’t the same as before.

He was different.

And the world had noticed.

Because just then—

A sound.

Not external. Not physical. Not in the air.

It rang through his skull like a tuning fork made of silence.

[You were not meant to survive.]

Damien’s pupils contracted.

Wind stopped.

His feet—solid beneath him—suddenly weren’t.

The earth peeled away, not violently, not with drama.

But with purpose.

A fold in space.

A seam in the canyon wall that hadn’t been there a moment ago blinked open—not light, not dark, just absence—and he felt the pull.

Not backward. Not upward.

Inward.

“—!”

There was no time to shout.

No time to brace.

Not even time to look back at Elysia.

Because in the next breath—

Damien vanished.