Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 219

Chapter 219: Trial (2)
The moment the words settled—

[Trial Initiated]

—everything changed.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

The ground beneath Damien didn’t shift so much as rearrange. A pulse ran through it—like stone remembering how to be earth again—and the space around him bloomed with definition.

Sky formed above.

Not blue. Not black.

Something between—ash-colored and boiling, stitched with veins of flickering lightning that danced without warning.

BOOM.

Thunder crashed overhead.

Raw. Close. The kind that wasn’t just sound, but weight—the kind that rattled through bones, not ears.

Damien didn’t flinch.

He just raised his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the storm-churned sky.

A wind began to move.

Wide. Circular.

Pulling the air around him like a spiral drawing breath before it speaks.

And then—

It did.

A voice.

Not from above. Not around.

Just in.

Not telepathy. Not projection.

More like memory. Like something had been waiting in his blood to finally wake up and speak.

[You, candidate, have fulfilled the conditions of a Trial.]

The voice was layered. Deep. Old. The kind that didn’t echo in space, but in time.

Every word held weight—each syllable like it had taken a lifetime to pronounce.

You stood without power. Faced death without aid. And defied odds not by fate’s gift—but by choice.

Damien didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

He simply listened.

The air seemed to contract around him—pressure thickening like the storm above was now sitting just above his skin.

Many survive by accident. Some prevail by favor. Fewer still by birthright.

A pause.

The next words came colder. Sharper.

But you—

—you fought with nothing.

And won.

The words echoed in his chest.

“You fought with nothing. And won.”

And for a moment—

Damien almost smirked.

Inwardly. Quietly.

Not out of pride. Not from arrogance.

Just amusement.

‘Nothing, huh?’ he thought, eyes flicking once toward the hanging lightning in the sky. ‘That depends who you ask.’

Because was it true?

Yes.

And no.

He had won that fight alone.

No help.

No backup.

No awakening.

Just grit, instinct, and raw motion.

But also—

He’d fought with a trait no human should have.

[Neural Predator]

He’d adapted to a technique that should’ve taken months—maybe years—to master, in a matter of weeks.

He’d rebuilt his body through [Physique of Nature].

He’d sensed pressure, read motion, slipped through killing intent—all made possible by one thing:

The system.

The shop.

The silent scaffolding gifted by Selene, goddess or trickster or both.

So did that mean it wasn’t really him?

He turned that question once in his head.

‘If someone else had the system,’ he thought, ‘would they have gotten the same traits?’

The answer came instantly.

No.

He had unlocked [Neural Predator] not because it was handed to him, but because of how he thought. How he moved through the world. How he viewed people. Systems. Weakness.

It wasn’t the system choosing for him.

It was him defining the system.

The same way someone else might’ve begged for a sword skill.

Or armor.

Or healing.

He asked for an edge.

And earned one.

So yes—he’d had help.

But he’d wielded it correctly.

Like a scalpel.

Like a weapon.

And whoever this voice belonged to?

Whatever it was—trial or remnant or god-killed echo—

It didn’t know the system existed.

He could tell.

It judged by action. By result.

Not by hidden mechanics.

And that made this trial pure, in a way nothing else in his life had been.

‘So be it,’ Damien thought, letting his hands rest loosely at his sides. ‘Let the past whisper what it wants.’

He was here now.

And the voice continued.

———————-

You have shed blood without calling on birthright.

You have moved without being summoned.

You have taken death and shaped it into motion.

So now, the candidate….

———————

The thunder pulled inward, centering over him like a collapsed sky.

—————–

Show us if you are worthy of more than survival.

——————

The final word rang like a closing gate.

And then—

It hit.

A pulse of force, invisible and absolute, slammed down from the air like gravity gone rabid.

WHUUMPF.

Damien staggered—not back, but down. His legs locked. Knees bent instinctively, muscles screaming in protest.

The air thickened.

No—compressed.

Not from wind. Not from weight.

From mana.

Pure pressure.

A presence—unseen—poured into the space. Not in the shape of a figure, not a monster or illusion. Just bloodlust. Controlled. Condensed. Ancient.

It struck like an avalanche without snow. A command etched into the air itself.

Kneel.

Damien didn’t.

But his lungs rebelled.

He sucked in air and got weight instead.

His throat closed.

His body fought to compensate, but the pressure crawled inside him, uninvited. His chest constricted. His fingers trembled once. And—

KHH—GHK.

He coughed, hard.

Spittle hit the ground at his feet—red-tinged.

A rupture. Small. But real.

His ribs felt like they were folding inward, and every instinct screamed to drop, to flatten, to surrender.

—————-

[System Notification: Passive Alert]

[Mana Pressure Field Detected: Intensity Level—Super High, Source: Unknown Entity]

[Warning: Host does not possess a developed mana core. Natural resistance to ambient mana is minimal.]

[Effect: Pulmonary strain, neurological destabilization, blood-vessel constriction in progress.]

[Note: This is expected.]

——————

Damien’s eyes narrowed through the haze.

[Show me things that you are not meant to.]

He clenched his jaw.

His vision swam. The world blurred. But his mind stayed sharp.

‘Endure it… huh.’

His knees hovered on the edge of collapse. The world blurred—edges smearing like half-finished brush strokes.

And still—

Damien smiled.

Low.

Thin.

Crooked.

Blood ran down from one nostril, a slow, ticklish line across his lip.

“Pfft…”

The chuckle broke out like a cracked whisper.

‘Endure it?’ he thought. ‘That’s not why I came here.’

His fingers flexed, the tremble in his hand turning into something tighter. Sharper.

Will.

‘I didn’t crawl into a myth just to kneel through it. I came to use it.’

He pushed.

Against the ground.

Against the pressure.

Against the command trying to press him into ash.

His thighs trembled. A vein in his neck bulged. Blood hissed from the corners of his eyes—but he rose.

Slow.

Unclean.

Every inch like dragging himself through fire.

But he stood.

Bent-legged. Shoulders trembling.

But upright.

—————–

[System Notification: Immediate Warning]

[User is advised to cease physical resistance. Mana pressure is not meant to be contested directly.]

[Optimal strategy: adjust physiology to ambient rhythm. Do not force adaptation.]

—————-

He ignored it.

His foot slid forward, planting.

The other followed.

One. Two. Three steps in place.

Not running.

Not advancing.

Moving.

His arms lifted. Elbows tucked. Hands loose.

He began to box the air.

Slow.

Measured.

Each movement carving a line through the storm—too light to matter, too stubborn to stop.

And then—

It happened.

A pulse ran through his bones.

Not external.

Internal.

Like something inside had stirred in response to the motion.

His muscles convulsed. Tendons spasmed.

But not from failure.

From alignment.

———–

[Foreign Authority Detected in Mana Field]

[Contaminant Mana Signature: Legacy-Class]

[Residual imprint attempting forced induction through musculature.]

—————

Hah….

It started as he intended.