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

The morning sun had barely begun to rise over Blackthorne Villa, casting long shadows through the high windows of the training hall. The air was sharp with the bite of early dawn, but the room was already pulsing with movement—

Damien was training.

He moved like a shadow across the reinforced flooring, every step more precise than the last. No wasted motion. No stumbles. The results of a week-long assault on his agility were finally beginning to show.

His footwork, once heavy and inefficient, now flowed like water, light and fast. The training he had gritted through—sprints, ladder drills, underwater balance movements, high-resistance footwork patterns—had honed his coordination into something sharp. Deadly.

And the system had finally acknowledged it.

—----------------------------------

[STATUS] [Synchronization: Complete]

▶ Name: Damien Elford

▶ Age: 17

▶ Level: 3

▶ SP: 945

Traits: [Arrogance] [Simp] [Lazy Bitch] [Spineless Donor] [Impulsive] [Naïve Fool] [Does Not Bend] [Singularity] [Sociopath] [Anarchist]

Passive Skills: [Merchant's Intuition] [Physique of Nature] [Neural Synchronicity]

—----------------------------------

[Attributes]

▶ Strength: 7

▶ Agility: 7 ↑

▶ Endurance: 8

▶ Will: ??

▶ Intelligence: ??

▶ Charm: 8

▶ Luck: 8 ↑

—----------------------------------

Damien scanned the panel, his breath steady despite the dripping sweat on his brow.

Agility, 7.

Finally caught up with the rest.

He could feel it too—every dodge, every pivot, every micro-movement flowed more naturally. His neural feedback had tightened, his reflexes synced with his motor control. He had seen the difference in his runs, his balance, his recovery.

'Neural Synchronicity's doing some work,' he mused. That passive wasn't there last week, and well, it was now much better.

But that wasn't the only change. His gaze flicked to the lower part of the panel.

Luck: 8.

He smirked.

'Cost me everything.'

He had poured every single attribute point he'd gained from his level-ups into Luck.

It had seemed simple at first—

Going from 5 to 6? One point.

6 to 7? Two.

7 to 8? Three.

Six points gone. Just like that.

But he knew what he was doing.

Luck wasn't just some hidden stat tied to gacha rolls or random crits—it affected drop rates, encounter modifiers, perception events, even rare system responses. In Shackles of Fate, players had mocked Luck builds, right up until they realized how game-breaking it became in the mid-to-late stages.

And he was getting there faster than any of them ever did.

Still, that investment came with a cost—he hadn't boosted Strength, Endurance, or even Charm since.

That was fine.

He'd laid the foundation. Now it was time to build again.

He rolled his shoulders and stepped off the track, walking toward the reinforced meal station where his fourth breakfast of the day waited.

Eight meals a day.

All of them calculated.

Each plate: high-protein monster meats, grilled in alchemical oils to boost cellular repair; boiled and seasoned monster eggs for dense energy; darkroot greens and ember sprouts mixed with powdered mineral herbs for vitamin absorption. A little fat—mostly from bone marrow, to keep hormonal function from crashing.

He didn't eat out of hunger anymore.

He ate because he had to—because Ravenous Breath turned every moment of rest into a calorie bonfire.

He picked up the plate and began to eat, methodical as ever. Bite. Chew. Swallow. No joy, no indulgence. Just fuel.

Today was only Saturday morning.

He still had the entire weekend to push.

And he already had plans for the next level.

******

By the time night settled over Blackthorne Villa, the training hall was thick with heat and effort. The marble floor beneath Damien's feet was slick with sweat, his breath a steady rhythm of exhaustion and momentum. Hours had passed since sunrise, yet he was still moving—striking, sprinting, submerging—each repetition cleaner, faster, more controlled.

His body was drenched, shirt soaked and clinging to sculpted muscle that hadn't existed a month ago. The results were finally catching up with the madness. What had once been pure willpower was now visible in his frame—in the sharp definition of his arms, the tapering of his waist, the sheer force in his movement. Every nerve felt lit, but focused. Controlled. Not just fire anymore.

This was transformation.

A quiet click echoed from the far side of the chamber.

The door opened.

Elysia stepped inside, carrying a tray.

She didn't speak. She didn't have to.

Her footsteps were silent on the stone as she approached. The tray held his next meal—another mountain of dense fuel, precisely arranged for consumption: grilled chimera flank, blistered marrowbread, root-tuber mash with fortified oils. A glass of fortified water, laced with electrolyte threads and alchemical stabilizers. Everything calculated.

Damien leaned back against the wall, sliding down into a low crouch, body still trembling from the final sprint through the obstacle track. His chest heaved slightly, sweat dripping from his jawline. But his eyes remained sharp.

He reached for the plate.

Elysia offered it wordlessly, hands steady.

He took it and began to eat. Not slowly, but not rushed either. It was a rhythm now. Mechanical. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Reset.

Elysia remained at his side, eyes drifting across the training hall. Watching the slight trails of steam rising from the resistance pool. The faint scorch marks in the center ring from his explosive footwork drills. The small cracks in the wall from earlier impact tests. Signs of constant damage. Constant growth.

This was routine now.

Her standing by his side while he recovered. Him eating with barely a word. The house around them mostly unused, untouched. The rest of the mansion faded into silence—no idle music, no visitors, no distractions. Just Damien. Just Elysia. Just progress.

She wasn't here to serve tea to nobles or decorate for guests anymore.

Now, her role had narrowed into something singular: manage his recovery, monitor his system spikes, and ensure he didn't burn out mid-transformation.

His safety. His evolution.

That was her world now.

Damien paused halfway through the chimera flank, flexing his fingers once before glancing at her.

"You can sit," he said, voice a bit hoarse.

Elysia didn't respond immediately. But then, she gave a small nod and lowered herself beside him—not close enough to invade his space, but not distant either. Just present.

Damien's teeth sank into the marrowbread, the dense texture rich with fats and fortifiers, but his mind wasn't entirely on the meal anymore.

His eyes flicked to the side, catching Elysia's profile in the low light. Still, always. Her gaze hadn't moved from the hall, like she was watching for threats that hadn't existed here in weeks. Like even now, she couldn't let herself relax. Not even a fraction.

He swallowed, then said quietly, "Do you get bored here?"

Elysia's eyes didn't turn. She blinked once, slowly.

"Boredom is not permitted," she replied. "I do not have the right to be bored."

There was no sarcasm, no emotion, not even a hint of offense in her voice. Just a fact, stated with absolute precision.

"It is my duty," she added after a beat.

Damien scoffed lightly, shaking his head.

"Heh…"

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, setting the plate aside once he finished the flank. His fingers flexed again, still twitching slightly from the aftershocks of movement, and he leaned his head back against the cool stone.

'Of course she'd say that. That's just like her.'

His eyes drifted toward her again, watching the soft glow of the ceiling lights catch the edge of her pale hair, the way it framed her expressionless face.

'My cute kuudere little maid. Stubborn to the bone. Always composed. Always obedient. And yet, never truly lifeless.'

He knew her well enough to read the shifts—however slight. The way her fingers sometimes curled tighter when she was anxious. The way she scanned the room twice instead of once when something bothered her. The flicker of hesitation before answering a question she wasn't used to.

'She's not a machine. Just very, very good at pretending.'

Damien smirked to himself.

"Well then," he muttered, his voice low, just above the hum of silence between them. "Let's spice things up, shall we?"

Elysia turned to him at last, faint curiosity glinting in her eyes—but no outward expression. She was always like that. She waited. Listened. Calculated.

Damien leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees as he wiped his fingers with a cloth, breath now steady.

'She's always followed. Always stayed within the role assigned to her. But this place is too quiet. Too still. And I'm not the same idiot I used to be. So maybe it's time to test a few boundaries. See what moves her.'

"Today," he said, casually, "you'll be training with me."