Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 223

Chapter 223: Second Stage (3)
CLANG—CRACK—TCHK!

Another impact.

Another cut.

Another burst of heat flooding from his skin.

Damien staggered backward, his footing unraveling under the weight of it all. His shoulder screamed. His leg buckled for half a breath before he forced it back into place. His chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like it was molten iron.

Blood soaked through the side of his shirt, matting against his skin. One eye was half-closed now, blurred with sweat and crimson. Every inch of him hurt—torn, crushed, battered.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t landed a single clean hit.

Not one.

The soldier was just always—barely—a step ahead. A tilt here. A pivot there. Not flashy. Not evasive.

Efficient.

Like fighting a cliff face that moved.

Every time Damien thought he’d found a crack, it vanished. Every strike felt like it was just almost there.

And that almost?

It clawed at him.

It chewed under his skin.

‘So damn close…’

He ducked another blow—CLANG!—but the edge of the shield clipped his temple.

CRACK.

White-hot light flared in his skull. He stumbled. Fell to one knee. Blood ran down the side of his face.

Still not broken.

But not winning, either.

His fingers curled into the dirt.

And then—

he heard it.

Faint.

Soft.

Like breath against the back of his neck.

| Give up.

His head twitched slightly.

| You can’t win.

The voice wasn’t his.

It didn’t echo from the system.

It wasn’t memory.

It was something else.

Older.

Slipping through the cracks of thought.

| You’re not worthy.

He flinched.

“Shut up,” he muttered, staggering upright again.

The soldier didn’t wait.

WHOOSH—THWACK!

A kick slammed into Damien’s ribs, launching him back several feet.

WHUMP!

He rolled across stone—bouncing once, sliding to a stop.

His mouth filled with blood. One of his ribs… maybe two, were cracked now.

He coughed. Red sprayed onto the dirt.

And the voices came again.

Closer.

| You were nothing before this.

| You’re nothing now.

| You think crawling through pain makes you strong? You’ve always been just a shadow.

He gritted his teeth.

Pressed his palms against the rock.

Felt the sting shoot up both arms.

The soldier waited, calm as ever. Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just watching.

Damien dragged his knee under himself.

One foot down.

Then the other.

He stood again—barely.

Wounds open. Blood dripping. Vision pulsing.

| Just give up.

| You are not him.

Damien coughed—wet, red.

Blood splattered on the stone beside him.

Then—

“Pfft…”

A short, rough exhale. Almost a laugh.

He shook his head, crimson trailing down his temple, soaking into the corners of his grin.

“You are not him?”

He echoed the words like they were some bad punchline.

His neck rolled—CRACK.

Then the other side—CRRK.

His fingers flexed once.

“Now…” His voice dropped lower, sharper. “Now you pressed on my pride.”

And he moved.

Not cautious. Not measured.

He launched.

WHUMP— SKRRCH!

The ground scraped underfoot as he dashed forward, body wide open, blood trailing behind him in arcs. There was no elegance now. No restraint.

Just momentum.

Just a decision.

‘What the hell was I even doing before?’ Damien thought. ‘Being on the defensive? Waiting for openings? Trying to analyze?’

He spat again—pure rage behind the rhythm of his sprint.

‘That’s not even my style.’

The soldier reacted instantly.

Of course he did.

He stepped into Damien’s path—shield raised, blade sweeping with brutal finality, the kind that said:

“What are you even doing?”

CLANG!

The sword came down—an executioner’s stroke.

But this time—

Damien didn’t dodge.

He stepped in.

His hand lifted.

Right into the arc of the blade.

SKLCH!

Steel punched through flesh—straight through his palm.

Blood exploded outward.

But Damien didn’t flinch.

He grasped the blade.

Fingers curled around it, bones groaning, flesh tearing, but he held it firm—tight—locking the sword in his grip.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed.

And that was the opening.

Damien dropped his weight.

WHOOSH!

His center of gravity fell like stone—legs bending, body tucking low, just beneath the sweeping shield now crashing toward his face.

Too high.

Damien twisted—his wounded hand still anchoring the blade—and with that torque, he yanked it down, dragging the soldier’s balance forward.

The shield missed—FWUMP!—skimming past Damien’s scalp.

And now Damien was inside the guard.

In the zone where even masters can’t defend cleanly.

His teeth clenched.

His other hand cocked back.

Wound tight with pain and something worse:

Pride.

He struck.

THUNK!

A brutal, rising fist straight into the soldier’s exposed jaw.

The impact shuddered up Damien’s arm—knuckles split, bone straining.

But it landed.

His first clean hit.

And that was all he needed.

Because in this fight?

He didn’t need perfection.

He just needed to break the rhythm.

And now, blood leaking from a pierced hand, body screaming with every breath, Damien grinned—sharp and ragged.

“Let’s dance properly, now.”

The pain in his hand was excruciating.

Every nerve screamed. His fingers trembled violently around the blade he’d forced through his own flesh. Muscle torn. Tendons barely holding. Blood poured from the wound, slick and hot.

But Damien didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

He’d destroyed his body before. Starved it. Crushed it. Rebuilt it from garbage and fat and desperation. He knew this pain. He’d earned this pain.

This was just another layer on the same broken foundation.

He gritted his teeth—”Bearable.”

Then, with a guttural exhale, he pulled.

SKRRT—!

The sword tore back through his hand as he yanked it free from his own grip. More blood. More heat. His vision pulsed at the edges, but he stayed upright.

Because now it was his.

No hesitation.

He moved.

A shift of the hips. An angle cut into space.

And then—

TCHK—TCHNK!

The edge of the blade drove with surgical precision into the soldier’s arm—right at the inner joint of the elbow. Then again, just below the shoulder socket.

Silent Vein.

A martial art not about damage.

But shutdown.

Targeted disruption.

The soldier’s arm shuddered.

Then went limp.

His fingers twitched once around the hilt—and then the blade slipped from them. It clattered to the ground beside them, useless now.

The soldier stepped back, unreadable.

His stance was still tight—but compromised.

And Damien?

He pulled the sword out again.

Blood spilled. Down his fingers. His forearm. Pooling in his sleeve and dripping from his elbow.

But he didn’t care.

Didn’t feel it.

He tossed the weapon.

SHHHH—THNK!

It spiraled through the air—a blunt throw, not meant to kill. Just to force a move.

The soldier lifted his shield instinctively—CLANG!—and that’s when Damien moved.

BLAM!

He shot forward, legs pistoning hard, dirt exploding behind him.

He jumped—WHUMP!—one foot planting against the raised shield.

And then—

He launched himself upward.

The shield tilted back.

The soldier’s head exposed.

And Damien came down like a hammer.

THWACK—!!

His heel crashed into the crown of the soldier’s skull—an axe kick driven from height, weight, and hate. The impact jolted the soldier’s spine, staggering him back.

Damien dropped with him, landing hard—feet skidding on stone.

But he wasn’t done.

CRACK!

His right elbow slammed into the soldier’s ribs—straight into the cage, under the armor lip. The sound wasn’t flesh—it was bone.

Broken.

And then—

Final strike.

Damien spun, his body screaming with momentum, and with one last breath, he drove his knee into the soldier’s side—

CRRRNNCH!!

A shockwave pulsed through the point of contact.

The soldier flew.

Crashing to the ground, limbs splayed. The shield dropped. His body twitched once. Twice.

Then stopped moving.

Silence again.

Damien stood there, trembling, blood pouring down every limb, his chest heaving.

No system chime.

No voice.

Just the sound of his own breath.

And the steady thrum of pain that said:

He won.

Alone.