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

The scent of warm water and alchemical salts filled the bathroom, mixing with the faint traces of lingering sweat. The bath was designed for rejuvenation—scalding hot at first, then rapidly cooled, forcing the muscles to adjust, to recover, to harden.

Damien sat in the water, arms resting against the edge of the tub, his breathing even, steady. The bruises from earlier had already begun to fade, the healing potion doing its work beneath the surface of his skin.

Elysia stood nearby, her posture as composed as ever, but her sharp green eyes never left him. She was assessing. Calculating.

How much had he lost now?

In just over a week, his form had changed drastically. The layers of fat that once buried his body were melting away, leaving behind something strange—halfway between ruin and renewal. His skin, now loose and wrinkled in places, hung from his frame unnaturally, a consequence of rapid weight loss beyond anything normal.

And yet, he never stopped.

Never hesitated.

"Your cooking is excellent as usual."

His voice broke the silence.

Elysia blinked, shifting her gaze as Damien continued eating the meal she had prepared, his tone casual.

It was a simple dish—seared monster meat, eggs, water. Nothing extravagant. Nothing special.

Which was why she did not understand the compliment.

She had been trained in many things. Combat. Strategy. Etiquette. But cooking? That had never been a focus. The meals she prepared were functional, nothing more.

'He must be too hungry to care.'

That was the only explanation.

And yet—

"…"

For some reason, something inside her felt… strange.

She pushed the thought aside.

"Your appointment at the clinic is today," she informed him.

Damien exhaled, setting down his utensils before stretching his arms lazily. "I know, I know. One hour from now, correct?"

"Yes."

"Hmm…"

Elysia watched him carefully. He had been aware of his schedule lately, something that had never happened before. The old Damien would have needed to be reminded, dragged to his appointments, forced into taking care of himself.

This one?

He was already preparing.

Her gaze traced over his form again, noting the way his body had changed.

His skin had become even looser over the last few days. Excess flesh, hanging in places where fat had rapidly disappeared. His transformation was happening too quickly for his body to keep up, the speed of his weight loss unnatural, almost violent.

And today—

That excess skin would be removed.

Another step in his evolution.

The thought lingered in her mind as Damien rose from the bath, water cascading off his frame in slow rivulets. Without a word, Elysia stepped forward, extending his robe—

But he waved a hand dismissively.

Instead of reaching for it, he walked past her, heading straight for the scale.

Elysia remained still, her fingers curling slightly around the fabric of the robe.

Watching.

Waiting.

Because she knew—

Whatever number appeared on that scale would only confirm the impossible.

****

105 kg.

Damien stared at the number on the scale, his smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

'Ridiculous.'

He had started at 150 kg. Now, just two weeks later, he had stripped himself down to 105 kg. Forty-five kilograms—gone. Erased. Burned away through sheer, relentless brutality.

It was impossible. It shouldn't make sense.

But then again—nothing about what he was doing was meant to make sense.

Any doctor, any trainer, any so-called expert in health and fitness would have called it suicide. A reckless, catastrophic approach that would have left an ordinary man broken, crippled, unable to move.

But Damien wasn't an ordinary man.

His Physique of Nature had rewritten the rules. His system—his sheer, unshakable will—had turned the impossible into something real.

His body had suffered, had screamed in protest, had tried to fight back against the punishment he inflicted upon it.

And yet—

He had won.

The weight was gone. The bloat, the useless layers of excess flesh that had shackled him, suffocated him, made him slow, heavy, weak—

All of it was gone.

"Heh…"

A short, breathy chuckle escaped his lips.

But he wasn't smiling out of pride.

No.

This alone was not enough.

His hands curled slightly, fingers twitching as he traced his gaze over his own reflection. His form had changed drastically—leaner, more defined, but still unfinished. His body was caught between two extremes: the ruins of what he once was and the beginnings of what he was becoming.

His skin, stretched and loosened by the rapid destruction of fat, clung unevenly to his frame. It hung from his waist, his arms, his chest—wrinkled remnants of the past refusing to let go.

And that was why today mattered.

He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking to Elysia.

She had remained silent this entire time, watching, waiting, assessing him with that same cold, unreadable gaze. She had seen everything—his downfall, his transformation, his relentless pursuit of something beyond what anyone else could comprehend.

Her hands were still lightly gripping the robe she had offered him earlier. She had yet to move.

Damien took the robe from Elysia's grasp, the fabric cool against his fingers as he pulled it over his shoulders, covering himself with slow, measured movements.

"I will be ready. We leave in ten minutes," he said, his tone calm, final.

Elysia bowed her head slightly, acknowledging the command. "Understood, young master."

Damien smiled at her—not a warm smile, not kind, but something laced with quiet amusement, something that carried the weight of his thoughts.

Then, without another word, he turned and made his way toward his room, his steps unhurried. His bare feet met the cold marble floors with each silent stride, his mind already shifting toward the next phase.

'Status.'

The familiar ding echoed in his mind, and the translucent blue panel flickered into existence before his eyes.

—----------------------------------

[STATUS] [Synchronization: Complete]

▶ Name: Damien Elford

▶ Age: 17

▶ Level: 2

▶ SP: 745

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

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

—----------------------------------

[Attributes]

▶ Strength: 3 → 7 (+4)

▶ Agility: 1 → 5 (+4)

▶ Endurance: 1 → 8 (+7)

▶ Will: ??

▶ Intelligence: ??

▶ Charm: 3 → 6 (+3)

▶ Luck: 5 → 6 (+1)

—----------------------------------

Damien's smirk widened as he scanned over the numbers.

'Now we're getting somewhere.'

His physique had improved drastically. His strength, agility, endurance—all of it had surged upward. He was no longer just enduring the training—he was adapting to it, pushing past human limits at a speed that should have been unnatural.

And yet, this was only the beginning.

Then his gaze lingered on the glowing blue panel before him, his smirk unwavering. Charm, huh?

It had increased, albeit only slightly. At first glance, he would have dismissed it as meaningless, nothing more than an incidental gain from the weight he had lost. After all, shedding forty-five kilograms in such a short time had already begun to alter the way people looked at him.

But there was another possibility.

His fingers lightly traced the edge of his robe, brushing over the loose skin that clung to his body. The remnants of his past weight still lingered, an unsightly mark that he had yet to erase.

'Maybe that's the issue.'

It wasn't just about muscle definition or appearance. The excess skin gave him a certain… unpolished look. It was the last tether to the old Damien Elford, the last visible reminder of who he had once been.

If his Charm had increased now, even while looking like this, then what would happen after today?

His smirk deepened at the thought.

'If the system rewards presence, if it rewards perception, then once my body is fully sculpted—'

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. No need to think about it too much. The next step was clear.

With a slow exhale, he turned toward his wardrobe, pulling it open with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Rows of expensive, tailored outfits lined the space—suits, vests, coats, all arranged in perfect order. Clothes meant for a noble. Clothes meant to impress.

Damien ignored them entirely.

Instead, his hand reached for the old section of his wardrobe—the side that hadn't been touched in weeks.

Baggy. Oversized. Loose-fitting.

The old Damien's clothes.

The T-shirt he pulled out hung wider than it should have, the sleeves slipping slightly past his elbows. The fabric pooled awkwardly around his torso, swallowing his new, leaner frame beneath its weight. His old sweatpants sagged slightly at the waist, held up only by the tightened drawstring.

It was a stark contrast to how he had begun to look beneath it all—his body, sharper, refined, battle-worn in ways no one else could yet see.

And he liked it that way.

For now.

He had no interest in parading his transformation around just yet. Let people assume he was still the same. Let them stay blind.

When the time came, they would see.

Damien adjusted the shirt slightly before running a hand through his damp hair, ruffling it into a naturally tousled state. Satisfied, he turned toward the door.

His movements were slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of anticipation.

Because when he returned from the clinic—

The last traces of his past would be gone.