Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 222

Chapter 222: Second Stage (2)
The sword came again—

FWIP!

A brutal arc from above, tight and fluid, aiming not to wound, but to finish.

Damien’s feet shifted. His knees compressed.

SLIP—CRACK!

He stepped in, not back, sliding beneath the trajectory just as the blade cleaved through empty space. His palm shot up—not to block, but to redirect—riding the underside of the soldier’s forearm.

It was close. Too close.

The soldier adjusted instantly, shield rotating—

CLANG!

It scraped past Damien’s shoulder as he twisted out again, pivoting on the balls of his feet, body low, spine tight.

No counterstrike.

Not yet.

Just position.

Just rhythm.

‘He’s not just faster,’ Damien thought, breath shallow. ‘He’s absolute.’

The kind of opponent who didn’t hesitate. Who didn’t leave mistakes to exploit. The kind where victory wasn’t taken, it was bled for.

And without Neural Predator?

He was naked.

Blind.

At least… that’s what it felt like.

But Damien gritted his teeth.

And smiled.

Because in the absence of that flickering system trait, something else rose.

Memory.

The long hours on the mat.

The repetitions Elysia had drilled into him until his joints screamed.

The thousands of corrections, parries, breaks, pivots—each one etched not into his mind, but into his muscle.

That was what he’d been building.

Not just reflex.

Not just power.

Foundation.

He’d relied on Neural Predator when sparring with her—yes. He’d used it to track her steps, dissect her form, optimize timing.

But that wasn’t all he was doing.

Every motion he saw, he mirrored.

Every failure, he absorbed.

And every opening he couldn’t reach before?

He filed it away.

For now.

So Damien’s next breath came easier.

His stance adjusted—not just defensive, but forward-leaning.

The soldier approached again. Sword raised. No flourish. Just that same, killing intent.

Damien moved.

CRK—TAP—TCHNK!

Low step. Redirected guard. Left arm fainted to draw the shield response—right elbow hooked under the soldier’s wrist.

A takedown wouldn’t work—not against someone this rooted.

So he didn’t try.

He took position instead.

The edge of his foot curved, stepping just inside the soldier’s stance. His hand whipped down—not to strike, but to press—

Just off-angle.

Just enough to compromise balance.

The soldier responded perfectly.

But Damien didn’t flinch.

Because this wasn’t raw improvisation.

This was what his body remembered.

What Elysia had beaten into his bones.

What he had bled to earn.

He moved again—faster this time.

No system.

No eyes glowing.

Just sharp turns, quick hands, a chest filled with fire and a jaw clenched against exhaustion.

WHUMP!

A blow scraped his ribs. Pain flared.

But he rolled with it. Let the motion flow past.

Recentered.

Slipped back in.

Not graceful. Not clean.

But effective.

The pain in his ribs pulsed, warm and sharp, but Damien pushed it aside.

Focus.

His breath came shallow now, but steady. No panic. No wasted gasps.

The soldier advanced again.

Damien met him—not with brute strength, not with some overwhelming technique, but with intent. Sharpened. Singular.

And in that moment—

The system stirred.

A low vibration pulsed beneath Damien’s skull. Not a voice. Not a message.

A shift.

A lens snapping into place.

[Trait Activated: Predatory Focus]

All non-essential stimuli suppressed.

Peripheral noise dampened.

Cognitive prioritization enhanced.

Target: Locked.

The wind faded.

The canyon’s echo died.

Even the burn in Damien’s lungs thinned into the background.

In his vision, there was only one thing.

The man.

The soldier.

Scarred. Drenched in grit and the pale ghost of old wars. His shield flexed slightly in his grip, his sword held in that same, unshaking guard.

No aura. No tricks.

Just form.

But even he—perfect as he moved—was human.

And Damien was starting to see it.

Not as colors. Not as glowing weak points.

But as weight. As flow.

The slight rise in his chest before a step.

The twitch in the hip before he twisted.

Cues.

The body told its story, and Damien—now—could read the ink.

The soldier struck again.

CLASH—

A shield bash aimed high.

Damien ducked low, rotating off the centerline. The strike missed his skull by inches.

FWISH!

A follow-up slash carved in horizontally.

Too fast to block.

But Damien didn’t block.

He stepped into it.

THNK!

The blade bit across his shoulder—clean, shallow. Skin split. Blood rushed.

But his arms wrapped the soldier’s sword side—one hand bracing the wrist, the other pressing into the elbow.

No time to disarm.

So he disrupted.

SKRCH—

His foot dragged across gravel, driving their center of gravity sideways. The soldier staggered—half-step off, just for a second.

And Damien used that second.

TCHT!

Elbow into ribs. CRACK.

Knee into thigh. THUMP.

Palm up under the chin—SNAP.

The soldier reeled—not finished, not broken—but now bleeding more than Damien was.

Damien’s own body ached. His shoulder was torn open, blood soaking his sleeve. His leg was bruised from the earlier impact. He wasn’t invincible.

But that wasn’t the point.

He didn’t need to be untouchable.

He needed to adapt faster.

He needed to last longer.

And now—with Predatory Focus compressing every flicker of motion into pure signal—he could.

Another step forward.

Another clash.

And Damien didn’t hesitate.

Because the storm hadn’t sent a god.

It had sent a man.

‘You are just a man, no different from me.’

Damien’s lips twitched.

It wasn’t defiance.

It was delight.

Because the figure in front of him—the one who’d stood unmoving as the storm parted, who fought like war itself had chiseled him into shape—he wasn’t divine.

He was mortal.

Scarred. Breathing. Bleeding.

And still standing.

Someone who might’ve defied the heavens once. Left a mark deep enough to linger.

Someone strong enough to leave behind an inheritance.

But Damien didn’t care about that right now.

He wasn’t here for relics. Or legacies. Or unlocked destinies.

He just wanted to beat him.

With no weapon.

No trick.

No system cheat.

Just his own body. His own timing. His own hands.

To prove—if only to himself—that he could rise from nothing and face the storm’s chosen memory head-on.

And maybe win.

CRACK!

Their shoulders collided again. The soldier’s blade scraped the side of Damien’s thigh, a shallow cut tearing fabric and skin.

THMP— Damien’s counter-jab clipped the shield’s edge instead of the rib.

Too slow.

Damien’s jaw tightened.

Because he could feel it now.

The shift.

His focus was narrowing. Not by choice.

By necessity.

The soldier’s strikes were no longer just fast.

They were strategic.

Measured.

Reading Damien.

Reacting before Damien had even committed.

He’s not just fighting back, Damien realized. He’s anticipating.

And that—more than the speed, more than the strength—was the problem.

This man had done this before. Fought men like Damien. Beat them. Buried them. Moved on.

He wasn’t reading movement.

He was reading Damien.

And Damien felt it—like cold steel pressed just between his shoulder blades, waiting to be driven deeper.

He dodged a high slash—WHISH!—only for the shield to swing low, catching his knee.

CLACK!

He staggered back, teeth grinding as the pain flared. Another feint from the soldier, a slip of the hip, sword arm twitching.

Damien didn’t bite.

He ducked the real strike, just barely.

Barely.

‘He’s adapting to me faster than I’m adapting to him.’

And still…

Still, Damien grinned.

Because he’d spent his entire life as less.

Less talented.

Less focused.

Less worthy.

And now?

Now he was staring down a ghost carved out of legacy—and he hadn’t gone down yet.

His ribs burned. His ankle wobbled. His shoulder was soaked in red. But his hands were still up. His breath still steady. His heart still hammering.

He could feel it building inside him again.

That fire that didn’t care about rank. Or bloodlines. Or fate.

Just the fight.

He raised his fists again, spine rolling back into form.

“This isn’t about your inheritance anymore,” he whispered. “I just want to knock you on your ass.”

The soldier tilted his head ever so slightly.

As if to say: Try it.

And Damien did.

TCHT—TCHT—FWMP!

Another clash.

Another round.

Pain singing in rhythm.

But the grin stayed.