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

"If you lose weight…."

Damien's smirk didn't waver. "What is the estimated weight?"

"You are tall," Dominic mused, gaze flicking down Damien's frame with detached scrutiny. "At 1.82 meters, the ideal weight for someone lean would be around eighty-five kilograms."

Damien raised a brow, waiting.

"But," Dominic continued, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smirk, "for the sake of this bet, I will be generous."

Owen's eyes slightly narrowed at that word.

"Ninety-five."

Damien's grin didn't falter. If anything, it deepened, a slow stretch of amusement playing across his lips as he leaned back slightly in the too-small chair.

"Ninety-five, huh?" he mused. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest before his gaze flickered back to his father. "And how much time do I have?"

Dominic didn't answer immediately. Instead, he exhaled, his sharp gray eyes narrowing ever so slightly before he spoke again.

"Before I decide that," he said, "I need to know where you're starting from."

Damien arched a brow, but before he could respond, Dominic's gaze hardened.

"What is your current weight?"

Silence.

Damien's smirk twitched slightly.

"I don't know."

Owen, who had been silent throughout the exchange, let out the faintest sigh—whether in exasperation or something else, Damien couldn't tell.

"Of course you don't," the butler muttered before turning toward the study's entrance. Without another word, he strode toward the door and disappeared beyond it.

Damien chuckled under his breath. "Efficient, as always."

Dominic didn't respond, his expression unreadable as he studied his son. Neither of them spoke as they waited, the tension in the room settling into something thick and unspoken.

Then—footsteps.

Owen returned, carrying a sleek, digital scale in one hand. He set it down in the center of the room, its surface gleaming under the dim chandelier light. Then, without looking at Damien, he stepped aside.

"Stand on it," Owen said simply.

Damien exhaled, his smirk never fading.

"Since you went through all that effort," he mused, pushing himself up from the chair, "I suppose I can humor you."

He stepped forward, his movements smooth, unhurried, as if this was nothing more than a game to him. But the moment he placed both feet onto the scale, the digital numbers began to climb.

And climb.

And climb.

Damien's smirk remained intact, but the room itself seemed to still as the numbers finally settled.

150.2 kg.

A silence fell over the study, thick and absolute.

Huge.

Owen's expression barely shifted, but there was something tight in his jaw, something unreadable in the way his fingers curled behind his back.

Dominic's gaze, however, was the sharpest of all. Not shocked. Not angry. Just... piercing.

"You've certainly made things difficult for yourself," Dominic finally said, his voice unreadable.

Damien merely chuckled.

"That just makes the bet more interesting, doesn't it?"

Dominic leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied the numbers glowing on the scale. The weight—150.2 kg—lingered in the air like an unspoken challenge.

Owen's gaze was colder now, unreadable, but his silence said everything. He thought this was impossible.

Damien, however, stood tall, completely unfazed. He wasn't blind to the weight. He had lived with it, carried it for years. But that didn't mean it was permanent.

"So," Damien said, his tone as light as ever. "How much time do I have?"

Dominic didn't respond immediately. He was thinking. Calculating. His sharp gray eyes trailed over Damien's frame, taking in every excess inch of weight that had settled from years of indulgence.

Then, with a slow exhale, he spoke.

"Six months."

Owen's head snapped toward Dominic, his composed expression finally cracking. Even he hadn't expected that.

Damien, however, only grinned.

"Six months, huh?" He rolled the words over in his mouth like a fine wine, savoring the weight of them.

To anyone unfamiliar, it might seem like a fair challenge. Reasonable, even. But for those who understood the human body—who knew the sheer effort it took to lose weight properly—it was brutal.

A normal person could safely lose 4 to 5 kilograms a month with proper diet and exercise. At that rate, it would take over a year to get from 150 to 95.

But Dominic wasn't giving him a year.

He was giving him six months.

That meant Damien had to push his body beyond safe, beyond reasonable. He would need to lose nearly 10 kilograms per month—something that could only be achieved through absolute discipline, calculated suffering, and relentless willpower.

Owen's voice was ice. "Master, this—"

Dominic raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze remained locked onto Damien's, unreadable but heavy with meaning.

"This is your condition," Dominic said. "Lose the weight. Prove you have discipline. If you succeed, I will acknowledge your readiness for Awakening."

The room fell into silence once more. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of the impossible challenge set before him.

Damien, however, wasn't done.

His dark eyes flickered with something unreadable as he looked straight at his father. "And if I succeed?"

Dominic exhaled, unimpressed. "Then I will acknowledge your discipline. That was the condition."

A slow grin spread across Damien's lips. "Then, can I enter the [Cradle of the Primordials]?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Dominic's gaze sharpened, his fingers pressing together as he leaned forward. "Absolutely not."

His voice was final. No hesitation, no room for negotiation.

"Even if you prove your discipline, I will not let you throw yourself into that death trap." Dominic's voice was cold, unwavering. "Losing weight is one thing. Surviving the Cradle is another. You are not ready."

Owen, standing beside him, inhaled deeply, but he remained silent. He didn't need to speak. His agreement with Dominic was clear in his expression.

But Damien's smirk didn't fade.

Instead, his eyes glinted—sharp, calculating.

"That," he murmured, "is where the real bet comes in."

Dominic's expression barely shifted, but Damien saw the flicker of interest. "What?"

Damien's grin widened. He took a step closer to the desk, his presence suddenly heavier, as if he were the one holding authority in the room.

"One month."

Dominic's eyes narrowed.

"I am going to reach ninety-five kilograms in a single month."

Silence.

Owen's posture stiffened. His usually impassive face finally broke, a hint of disbelief flashing across his features.

Dominic, however—

His eyes widened.

For the first time in a long time, his mask of control cracked.

But it lasted only a second. A breath later, his expression turned frigid, his gray eyes cutting through Damien like a blade.

"Are you mocking me, Damien?" Dominic's voice was low, dangerous. "Are you trying to play a prank?"