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

Damien's eyes lingered on the words floating before him, the glowing line etched in system-blue:

| Style: [Silent Vein]

He chuckled under his breath.

'Interesting…'

His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. But loud enough.

"Silent Vein."

The moment the words left his lips, Elysia's stance faltered.

Not her form—never her form. But the stillness behind it shifted.

Her eyes widened.

Just a fraction.

But on her face, that was a reaction.

"…Master," she said, voice low. Measured. But for once, touched with something close to surprise.

Damien tilted his head, watching her with half-lidded eyes.

"Well," he said smoothly, "you were raised by my mother's family, weren't you? Isn't it natural that I'd recognize the combat art you use?"

Elysia said nothing at first.

Silence stretched—more telling than any answer.

Then finally:

"...It is not natural," she said, softly.

His grin deepened.

"You're sharp as always. That's true—it isn't."

He stepped forward slowly, muscles still aching, but his voice sharpened, focused.

"But does it matter, my dear maid?"

He met her gaze fully now.

"From this moment on, I'm going to learn this combat art of yours."

A beat.

Then another.

And Elysia, still staring at him, slowly straightened.

Her eyes, once widened, narrowed again—not in challenge.

In recognition.

"…Understood."

No argument.

No protest.

Only obedience.

******

THWACK.

Damien's back hit the mat so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs. Again.

His shoulder screamed where her elbow had caught him mid-feint, driving him down with all the elegance of someone swatting a fly.

Elysia stepped back in silence, offering no comment, no judgment.

Damien lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

'Sloppy weight shift. Telegraphed the hook. She punished both.'

His lip bled.

He smiled anyway.

***

CRACK.

He spun mid-air before landing hard on his side, gasping. His arm twisted underneath him, numb from a pressure point strike he hadn't even seen coming.

Elysia stood above him, calm, unreadable.

Damien pushed himself to his knees.

His fingers twitched.

'Two-step setup. She uses misdirection with her lead foot before committing.'

Progress: 3.2%

*****

BAM.

This time he didn't hit the ground alone—his momentum dragged Elysia's leg with him in a desperate counter-grapple.

But she adjusted mid-fall, flipping over him, and landed soundlessly on her feet behind him.

Damien groaned on the mat, ribs burning.

'She doesn't just react. She predicts. Her hips shift before the movement even begins.'

His breath was ragged.

But his eyes were steady.

Progress: 6.4%

*****

CLASH.

This time he saw it.

Barely—but enough.

As her hand shot forward in a sharp arc to his collarbone, Damien twisted his shoulder, parrying with a rising elbow—not to block, but to deflect.

Her stance stuttered. Just for a heartbeat.

And he used it.

Drove forward with a low sweep.

THUD.

She slid back, boots skidding. Not falling. But retreating.

Damien dropped to one knee, chest heaving.

Still grounded.

But not conquered.

-------------

Progress: 10.0%

|Combat Echo Updated

|Style: [Silent Vein]

|Basic Form Patterns Identified: 1/8

|Flow Calibration: Initiated

--------------

He looked up at her, sweat streaming down his brow.

And this time?

Elysia's eyes widened—just slightly.

A fraction of a reaction, but from her, it may as well have been a gasp.

She stared at him, the tension in her stance lingering longer than usual.

"…Young master."

Damien, still on one knee, glanced up at her with a breathless grin.

"What? Didn't expect I'd do that?"

Her lips parted—no answer.

Just a faint blink. Calculating. Processing.

"…How?" she asked quietly.

Damien smirked, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Let's say… your master is talented."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, equal parts bravado and truth.

Elysia didn't respond immediately.

But something in her shoulders shifted—subtle acknowledgment.

Then, after a quiet moment, she nodded to herself.

"I understand."

She stepped back into stance without further comment, but her movements were sharper now. Tighter. As though the stakes had changed.

And Damien?

He stood.

Despite the tremble in his thighs.

Despite the ache grinding behind his knees, the sting in his ribs, the blood drying on his lip.

He stood.

Because he wasn't done.

Not yet.

He didn't want to stop—not until he had seen more. Learned more.

Not until he reached 15%.

The fighting continued.

Strike.

Counter.

Fall.

Rise.

Fall again.

Sweat poured like rain. His shirt clung to his body. His breath came in grunts, short and ragged. Muscles burned. Nerves frayed.

But his mind?

It thrived.

Every failed deflection refined his instinct. Every redirected strike etched a clearer line in the data running through his system. Every takedown, every punish, every near-miss—

It was progress.

And after two more hours of being torn down and rebuilt…

Ding.

--------

Progress: 15.0%

---------

His legs gave out right after.

******

The rain pattered faintly against the tall glass windows of Victoria Langley's bedroom, trailing thin rivers down the panes as dusk cast long shadows across the ivory-and-rose decor. Her chandelier dimmed to a warm glow, the scent of lavender faint in the air from the oil diffusers discreetly placed by the wall.

Victoria lay on her side atop the chaise near her window, her pale legs folded loosely beneath her and her satin robe loosely cinched around her waist. Her golden-blonde hair spilled like sunlight across the cushions, but her expression was far from serene.

Her phone rested in her hand.

The screen was dark.

But the name in her contacts—Damien Elford—glowed in her thoughts like a curse she'd invited in.

Two weeks.

It had been two whole weeks since Celia had sent her the number. Since she'd stared at it, debated it, rehearsed the kind of message that wouldn't sound desperate or revealing. Since she'd considered the timing, the angle, the risk.

And still… nothing.

She hadn't contacted him. Not once.

And yet, he—

Damien had done nothing. Nothing outright, nothing bold.

But every day, she found herself watching him.

And what disturbed her more—was realizing that he was watching her too.

Not openly. Not with that same arrogance he used to flaunt. No, now his gaze was sharp and light, flickering between glances—measured. Calculated. Sometimes, it was fleeting. Other times, it lingered just long enough to make her skin tighten beneath her uniform.

And always…

That smile.

Not one of amusement.

Not scorn.

But something worse.

Knowing.

It was like he knew something she didn't. Like he was just… waiting.

Her fingers tightened around her phone, the pressure subtle but firm. She didn't unlock the screen, not yet.

Her mind flicked back—unbidden—to Friday.

P.E. had been loose that day. The instructor had let the classes split off, do what they liked. Most of the boys gathered around the lower field to play again—while the girls lingered near the outer courts, chatting, stretching, occasionally tossing a volleyball or leaning over benches to bask in the soft sun.

Victoria had been walking past the line of lockers, headed toward Lillian and Cassandra, when he'd passed her.

Damien.

He hadn't looked directly at her. Hadn't spoken with emphasis.

But as he walked by, he'd said it—low, too low for anyone else to catch.

| "Watch your boyfriend."

She had frozen in place.

It wasn't just the words.

It was the glance.

The subtle turn of his head.

The ghost of a smirk curling at his lips.

It hadn't even sounded like a threat.

Just a casual reminder.

Like he was simply informing her that he knew.

And he wanted her to know that he knew.

Now, in the silence of her room, that memory tightened like a thread around her chest.

'He knows.'

There was no more room for doubt. The way he'd said it. The way he moved since. The way he smiled.

She tapped the edge of her phone with her thumbnail, eyes narrowing.

But why hasn't he done anything yet?

Why hadn't he told anyone?

Why was he holding it?

Her heart twisted with unease—not fear, no—but the same sensation one got before a storm hit. Not the thunder. Just the pressure. The shift in the air.

And that was the most terrifying part.

He was waiting for something.

And she had no idea what it was.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second too long.

Then—tap.

The contact opened.

Damien Elford.

The text field blinked at her like an invitation and a trap all at once. Victoria's reflection in the darkened glass of her window stared back at her—composed, perfect, porcelain. But inside, everything twisted. Her lips tightened. Her heart, though steady, beat with a quiet sharpness beneath her ribs.

She needed to probe him.

To see just how much he knew.

And maybe—just maybe—pull the leash before he remembered he could bite.

Her fingers moved with grace, but her pulse wasn't calm.

Victoria [22:12]

| Hello.