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

Chapter 231: Trivial

he walls of Blackthorne Villa held a different kind of silence—less curated than the Langley estate, more like a breath held mid-laugh. Damien sat on the edge of his bed, one arm propped on his knee, the glow from his phone screen casting thin shadows across the sharp lines of his face.

He was smiling.

Not the fake one—the bored, smug half-smirk he wore to deflect attention. No. This one had teeth. Subtle. Real. The kind of grin born not from malice, but from amusement soaked in undertone.

Victoria Langley had messaged him.

And not just once.

She’d chased the thread. Bit it. Tried to tug it loose like it hadn’t been looped around her neck from the start.

Damien scrolled lazily through the chat again, letting the words dance beneath his fingers.

“A genius, huh?”

“What kind of genius needs someone else’s notes?”

He huffed out a soundless chuckle. She had clawed for dominance like a cat knocking glass off a counter—deliberate, pointless, cute in a way she’d kill you for pointing out.

“Efficient margins,” he murmured aloud, echoing his own text. He tossed the phone onto the pillow beside him, the screen still lit. Still pulsing her name.

She was trying to wrap her head around him. That much was obvious. The questions, the bitterness, the weird pause between insults—she didn’t know where to file him in her head anymore.

And he liked that.

Let her scramble.

He stood and peeled off his sweat-damp training shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to his back before falling to the floor with a soft thud. The cool air of the villa’s central system brushed across his skin—half-clammy from the last hour of training.

Not that he’d pushed hard. Today wasn’t about muscle or milestones.

It was about shutting off.

Letting the body move while the mind wandered. A kind of meditation. One where he didn’t have to listen to tutors or posturing nobles or the endless parade of whispering classmates pretending they didn’t see him clawing his way up the rankings.

No—this was his time.

And she’d cut into it.

The cool glass of the mirror caught Damien’s gaze as he crossed the room, feet bare against the stone floor, body still humming with the faint tremor of exertion. The light from his phone still lit up the bed behind him—Victoria’s name pulsing like a heartbeat—but he wasn’t looking at that anymore.

He looked at himself.

His reflection stared back, sharper than before. Not just leaner, not just stronger—refined. Distilled. A sculpted echo of something primal now uncoiling beneath his skin.

‘Tch… so this is ten-plus stats, huh?’

He rolled his shoulder slowly, watching the muscle shift under taut skin. There was no bloat, no strain. Just precision. The kind of density that didn’t come from vanity gym reps, but from some system-deep optimization that chewed through inefficiency like acid.

The [Physique of Resistance] had leveled up. Evolved. And now? He could feel it. In the way his spine aligned perfectly without thought, in the ease with which he could balance on the balls of his feet, in the tension coiled low in his core like a drawn bow.

‘Feels like I could take a hit from a bull and come out grinning.’

He pressed a thumb to the faint ridge of his obliques, tracing it with idle curiosity. Not just show muscle—these weren’t there for flash. They braced movement, real movement. Fluid and brutal.

‘And yet, flexible.’

He tested it, stretching lightly, his palm sliding down to his heel without strain. No creak of tendons, no tight pop of misused ligaments. Just flow.

That was the reason he has been training lightly. To just get used to everything.

‘Peak human potential, huh? Not flashy. Not glowing. But real.’

The kind of body that didn’t need magic to kill a man. That didn’t need permission to dominate a battlefield. That didn’t need anyone’s validation to exist.

He grinned faintly.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

Then, almost as an afterthought, he flexed once—just to feel it. The smooth, unbroken tension under skin. The way his entire frame moved like it was meant to.

Just then, the door eased open with a soft click—no knock, no warning.

Of course not.

Elysia didn’t need to knock.

She stepped into the room with her usual quiet precision, a folded set of dark formalwear draped neatly over one forearm, her other hand already reaching to set a holster belt on the dresser by instinct. Every movement crisp. Efficient. Designed for function, not flourish.

Damien didn’t turn. Just met her gaze through the mirror.

“So,” Damien said, voice smooth, low. “You’re finally here.”

Elysia’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly—a flicker of acknowledgment, the barest dip of her head. “Apologies for the delay,” she said. “I was verifying the condition of the garments myself.”

Damien waved a hand without looking. “Don’t apologize for doing things right.”

She stepped closer, setting the folded formalwear beside him on the bed with practiced grace. “Everything’s fresh. Pressed. Tuned to temperature. Even the belt’s been rebalanced.”

He reached for the jacket, letting his fingers run across the collar once. The fabric was cool, textured—weighted just enough to remind someone they were wearing legacy on their back.

“Not bad,” he murmured.

Elysia remained silent at his side, eyes steady, waiting for instruction—or correction. He gave neither. Instead, he picked up the shirt, began slipping it on with an ease that came from a month of finally caring about the little things. Buttons. Seams. How it all fit together.

“Master Dominic’s tone,” Elysia said quietly, “sounded… serious.”

Damien didn’t answer her immediately.

He just moved—shoulders rolling slightly as he let the shirt settle across his back, his arms only half-threaded through the sleeves before he turned, lifting his chin with quiet command.

“Help me.”

The words weren’t sharp. Weren’t forceful. Just inevitable. Like asking her to breathe.

Elysia paused. Only for a breath. But she moved—of course she moved—stepping forward like it was a habit carved deeper than duty. Her hands rose without hesitation, fingers brushing lightly along the shoulders of his shirt, adjusting the seams with a touch so precise it bordered on reverent.

He watched her through the mirror.

Not the way her body moved—that was always elegant, efficient. No, it was the little things.

The way her thumbs smoothed the line of his collar, then lingered.

The way her gaze tracked not just his clothes, but his skin beneath.

The way she pressed in, just a little, when flattening the placket of his shirt. A touch too firm. A moment too long.

Not enough to be inappropriate.

Just enough to be noticed.

She wasn’t doing it on purpose. He could tell. Her face remained still, unreadable as ever, eyes locked on the details. But her fingers told a different story. They ghosted along the line of his sternum as she reached to fasten the middle buttons, and for a second—just a second—she exhaled through her nose a little too sharply.

He heard it.

The change.

Small.

But not nothing.

Her breathing, always so even, now sat just slightly uneven behind her lips. A catch. A tension. Like her body realized it was closer than her mind had permitted.

Damien’s lips curled.

He said nothing. Let her keep going.

She slid the next button through its hole, fingers brushing against his chest in a way that felt far less like servant’s work and far more like memory. Her knuckles grazed his ribs when she adjusted the fabric, and though her expression didn’t flicker, her next breath stuttered again. Short. Audible.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers in the mirror.

Damien held her gaze through the mirror, that slow smirk creeping across his lips like ink through water.

“My maid’s fingers,” he said, voice low and amused, “are getting bolder.”

Elysia froze.

Just for a second.

Her hands paused mid-motion, fingertips still grazing the edge of his buttoned shirt. Then, like clockwork, she straightened abruptly and took a measured step back.

“A—apologies,” she said, clearing her throat with the quiet dignity of someone trying not to combust on the spot. “It wasn’t intentional.”

Damien chuckled—not cruelly, just with that same irreverent edge he wore so naturally, like a crown tilted sideways.

“I know.”

He didn’t press the moment. Didn’t drag it into anything heavier than it already was.

He turned toward her fully, the last button still undone, and stepped close.

Too close.

Elysia’s posture didn’t shift, but her chin tilted slightly upward, just enough to meet his gaze. Eyes steady. Shoulders tense.

Damien leaned in.

No preamble.

No drawn-out stare.

He just kissed her—soft, brief, exact.

A press of lips that didn’t ask. Didn’t promise. Just confirmed something already understood.

He pulled back just as easily, his voice quiet.

“Satisfied?”

Elysia blinked, her eyes wide for a breath, then flicked away. Her lips parted, but no sound came—just a faint exhale.

She nodded.

Once.

Almost shy.

“Good then,” Damien murmured, reaching for the holster belt with casual ease, sliding it into place as he stepped toward the door.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

Her presence followed naturally, footsteps syncing behind his own with that familiar, silent cadence. Guard. Maid. Shadow. Whatever title she carried—right now, she was simply with him.

As they stepped out into the foyer, the polished floor of the villa reflecting their silhouettes, the driver was already waiting by the car just beyond the arching threshold. A dark suit, a clean bow, and the crisp efficiency of a man who didn’t ask questions.

The door opened with a soft click.

Damien slid inside first.

Elysia followed, silent.

Blackthorne Villa faded behind them, swallowed by the tinted glass.

——–A/N———

My exams are over now. Apparently, yesterday’s exam was so strong that it made me catch flu…..

Anyway, I will post 2 more chapters later.

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