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

Dominic's refusal came as no surprise. The moment Damien uttered the words "[Cradle of the Primordials]," his father's expression had turned to stone. No, not just stone—something sharper, colder, filled with immediate, unwavering rejection.

"Absolutely not," Dominic repeated, his voice cutting through the dimly lit study.

Damien met his father's gaze, unwavering. "And why not?"

Dominic exhaled slowly, fingers pressing together as he studied his son. Owen, still standing at the side, had barely moved since Damien's declaration, but his silence was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken disapproval.

"You have no idea what you're asking for," Dominic said at last.

Damien's smirk didn't waver. "Oh, I do. That's why I'm asking."

The silence stretched between them, tension coiling in the air like a predator ready to pounce. Damien had expected resistance, but his father's reaction only confirmed what he already suspected.

The [Cradle of the Primordials] wasn't just another Awakening method. It was the most extreme, the most dangerous—and the most rewarding.

Awakening itself was a sacred, fundamental process. The formation of one's core, the restructuring of the body, the refinement of one's very veins—each of these steps determined the trajectory of a cultivator's entire existence.

The core was everything. It was the foundation, the essence of a cultivator's being. Forming one was a process of agony and rebirth, a tearing down of mortal limitations to forge something greater.

And cores were ranked—G through SSS—each level signifying talent, potential, and the raw capacity to harness power.

A G-rank core was trash. A life destined to remain in mediocrity, struggling to even touch the lower rungs of true cultivation.

An SSS-rank core? That was divinity in the making.

But talent alone wasn't everything.

The human body was not designed for cultivation. The veins, the bones, the meridians—they had to be reshaped, reforged through an Awakening method. Over centuries, countless techniques had been developed, refined, and categorized.

Some were safe, stable—designed to ensure that even those with weaker bodies could form a solid foundation.

Others? Others pushed the limits of what a human body could endure.

And then there was the [Cradle of the Primordials].

A method so dangerous, so unforgiving, that only a handful had survived it.

It was designed to rip apart the natural limitations of a cultivator before a core was even formed. It didn't nurture the body—it destroyed it. It forced the veins to rupture, the bones to crack, the very foundation of the cultivator's existence to be shattered before reconstructing itself anew.

But if one survived?

If one endured?

The rewards were beyond comprehension.

It was not just an Awakening—it was a rebirth into something far beyond human.

And that was precisely why Dominic's refusal was immediate.

Dominic's expression remained cold, unyielding. But this time, there was something heavier behind it. Not just refusal. Not just disapproval.

Finality.

"In the last hundred years, not a single person has survived the [Cradle of the Primordials]," Dominic said, his voice steady, absolute. "Not one, Damien."

Damien said nothing, merely watching as his father continued.

"Do you understand what that means?" Dominic's fingers tapped once against the polished wood of his desk. "It is not a trial, not a test of strength. It is a death sentence. A method designed not for success, but for failure."

His voice dropped lower, sharper. "And most importantly, with your body in its current state, you wouldn't even last a fraction of the process."

Owen finally moved. His presence, which had been eerily still throughout the conversation, now shifted with unmistakable weight. He straightened, stepping forward slightly—just enough to make his presence known.

"Master," Owen spoke, his tone always calm, always measured.

Dominic nodded, giving him permission to speak.

Owen turned his gaze to Damien, and for the first time in years, his impassive mask cracked.

"Young Master," Owen began, his voice colder than ever, "this is ridiculous."

Damien's smirk twitched.

Owen never spoke out of turn. Never raised his voice. Never let emotions slip.

Yet right now?

Damien could hear the anger laced beneath the words.

"You come here, speaking of Awakening—speaking of using the [Cradle of the Primordials]—as if it were some trivial choice. Do you even understand what you're asking for?"

Damien tilted his head slightly, letting the words wash over him, the heat behind them pressing against his skin like a sharp winter wind.

"For years," Owen continued, his jaw tight, his usually impassive face unreadable, "you have lived in indulgence. You have squandered every resource given to you. You have let your body rot in comfort, let your skills dull in laziness." His voice dropped lower, colder. "And now you expect us to stand aside and watch as you throw yourself into something that not even true prodigies have survived?"

The air in the study had thickened.

Owen was rarely expressive. And he was never cruel.

But this?

This was more than disapproval. This was disappointment.

For a lesser man, it would have been unbearable.

But for Damien?

'Heh…'

His lips curled, his chest vibrating with something dangerously close to amusement.

Everything was playing out exactly how he wanted.

The rejection. The disbelief. The anger.

Because in the end, none of them understood.

They still saw him as the same man he used to be.

'Good. Keep thinking that. Keep underestimating me.'

His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, his smirk widening.

"I see," Damien murmured. "So that's how you see me, Owen."

Owen exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression unreadable once more.

"Here I thought you had changed, Young Master," he said quietly.

Damien chuckled under his breath.

The tension in the study crackled like a live wire. The weight of Owen's words hung between them, heavy and unyielding, but Damien's smirk didn't fade. Instead, his amusement only deepened, sharpening into something colder.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the armrests of the too-small chair, his dark eyes narrowing.

"It appears," he murmured, voice slow, deliberate, "that the talk we just had had no effect."

Owen didn't flinch under the glare Damien leveled at him. If anything, his stance became firmer, his expression unreadable but unwavering.

"Young Master," Owen said, his voice steady, "this time, I truly do not wish to look down on you." He exhaled, his gaze momentarily softening—but only for a fraction of a second. "I truly wish the best for you. And for you to see what is before your eyes."

Damien's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but before he could speak, Dominic's voice cut through the thick air.

"What happened?" Dominic asked, his sharp gaze shifting between them.

Damien turned to his father, shaking his head, his smirk returning. "Nothing important, Father."

Dominic's eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced, but he didn't press further.

Instead, Damien straightened, stretching his fingers against the armrests before grinning.

"Then," he said, his tone almost playful, "let's have a bet."

Owen's brow furrowed slightly, but he remained silent. Dominic, however, leaned back in his chair, one hand resting against the polished wood of his desk.

"A bet?" his father repeated, voice laced with intrigue.

"Yes." Damien's smirk widened. "Father, what should happen for me to convince you that I am disciplined?"

Dominic exhaled through his nose, his sharp gray eyes raking over Damien's frame—assessing, calculating. And then, after a long pause, his fingers tapped against the desk once, slow and deliberate.

"If you lose weight…."

Something that Damien was already expecting…