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

Elysia blinked, a faint crease forming between her brows—not confusion, exactly, but a pause. A rare glitch in her usual seamless response time.

She tilted her head. "I do not understand."

Damien smirked, stretching his legs out in front of him, muscles still twitching slightly beneath the skin. "You have trained in combat, did you not?"

Elysia straightened slightly. "Yes."

"Then starting tomorrow," he said, leaning his weight back onto his hands, voice casual but firm, "you're going to teach me how to fight."

Another pause.

Then—subtle, almost imperceptible—her brows drew together again.

"That would not be appropriate," she said. "I do not have the qualifications to be your instructor."

"Why?" Damien asked.

Her mouth parted slightly, but no answer came.

"I…" she started, then stopped.

He leaned in, grinning. "You don't know how to teach?"

There was a long silence.

Then—slow, reluctant—she gave a small nod.

Damien chuckled. "Well. We won't know without trying."

Elysia's eyes flicked to the side, the faintest sign of unease breaking through the perfectly crafted exterior. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, but her fingers tensed.

"That would be counterproductive," she said at last, her voice steady again. "My strength is not calibrated for sparring. If I am forced to react instinctively, I may not be able to hold back."

Damien's grin widened. "You think I'm that fragile?"

"I know you are not yet at a level where you could defend yourself against me," she replied, without arrogance—just pure calculation. "Any misstep on my part could cause damage."

"And?" Damien shrugged. "That's how this works. Pain is part of progress."

Elysia said nothing.

'She's hesitating. Not out of fear. Out of habit. Conditioned to protect me. To serve. Not to strike. Not even to train me properly if it means risking injury.'

Damien's gaze sharpened.

"I'm not asking for a play fight," he said, his voice low, edged now. "I need someone who can actually help me learn how to kill. You're the only one here qualified for that."

Still, she didn't answer.

So Damien tilted his head and smiled, just a little too sharp.

"Or are you just afraid I'll land a hit?"

That did it.

A flicker—a twitch at the corner of her mouth. The subtlest tightening of her posture. Her eyes finally locked on his, hard and unblinking.

"I do not fear that."

"Then don't hold back," Damien said, rising slowly to his feet. "Starting today, you're my teacher."

"You may regret it."

He looked down at her, still grinning. "Only if you're too slow."

Elysia stood as well, straightening with all the grace of a blade being drawn.

There was no agreement.

No formal acknowledgement.

Just silence.

And in it, something shifted.

Damien could feel it.

She was going to test him.

Good.

'About time someone tried to break me again.'

*****

The moonlight filtered in through the upper skylights of the training hall, casting long lines of light over the padded floor. This room hadn't existed a week ago—it was something Damien had demanded. Reinforced combat flooring, collapsible barriers, impact-resistant padding—all installed with one purpose:

To be broken.

He stood at the center, dressed in a sleeveless compression top and reinforced tactical pants, hands already taped. His knuckles itched—not from tension, but anticipation. Sweat still clung faintly to his skin, a residual layer from the last cycle of drills, but his breathing was calm now. Controlled.

His recovery had kicked in hard after just a few hours of sleep. Muscles repaired. Nerves reset. He felt the dull ache of fatigue—but dulled, not blunted. Manageable.

'Good enough to bleed.'

The door opened.

His gaze shifted.

Elysia stepped inside.

She wasn't wearing her maid uniform this time. No corset, no skirt, no lace. Just a fitted black training vest over sleek, dark leggings. Her long black hair was tied into a sharp ponytail that swayed slightly behind her as she walked. Practical. Silent.

Her arms were bare save for a set of silver-black bracelets clasped tightly around her forearms—dampeners. Magical restrictors forged to suppress her output to non-lethal levels. Damien had seen them used before in high-level sparring circuits. Seeing them on her now only made his blood pump faster.

She walked toward him with the same grace as ever, but her pace was slow. Deliberate.

Those cold green eyes locked onto his.

And though her expression didn't shift, the question was written clearly across her face.

Are you really sure about this?

Damien gave a single nod.

"I am."

His voice was steady. No arrogance in it. Just clarity.

Elysia stopped just a few steps in front of him, her eyes narrowing slightly. Not in condescension—never that. But caution.

She studied him for a breath longer, perhaps noting the slight tension in his stance. The way his arms trembled—not from fear, but residual exertion.

"You are still recovering."

"Recovered enough," Damien said, rolling his shoulders once. The joints popped, loose and ready. "If I wait until I'm fresh, I'll never learn how to fight when it counts."

A beat of silence passed.

Elysia studied him for another moment, then finally gave a small nod—short, precise. Her eyes didn't leave his as she spoke.

"…How," she asked quietly.

Damien blinked. "How?"

Her voice was firmer this time. "How do you want to learn?"

He exhaled through his nose.

"From basics."

Elysia tilted her head slightly, as if turning the words over in her mind. Then again, with that soft, clinical repetition—

"…Basics."

A pause.

Then, the faintest flicker of something passed through her eyes.

Not hesitation.

Memory.

She stepped back, just one pace, enough to draw the line between them.

"I understand," she said.

She raised her hands—no stance, no form. Just two open palms, relaxed at her sides.

"This is how I was taught."

No announcement.

No countdown.

She moved.

Her hand snapped out like a whip, fingers striking across his shoulder—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to sting. Before Damien could react, a second tap came to the side of his knee. Then another, this time to his stomach. Light touches. Fast. Clinical.

He staggered a step back, instincts flaring. His arms went up into a guard on reflex.

"That was four openings," Elysia said flatly. "You left all of them open when you shifted your stance."

Damien frowned, adjusting.

She stepped around him, walking in a slow, tight circle.

"The body is a chain of moments. Pressure. Posture. Leverage."

She stopped behind him. "Your weight is too far forward."

She kicked.

Not hard—but perfectly placed. The back of his knee gave out and Damien hit the floor with a sharp grunt.

"You lost balance. You lost everything."

Damien growled, pushing himself up.

'She wasn't kidding.'

No kindness. No sugar-coating. No words of encouragement. This wasn't how a coach taught. This was how soldiers were forged.

Elysia stood in place again, her eyes unreadable.

"You will repeat the stance."

Damien exhaled, rolled his shoulder, and got up.

He mirrored the posture again—feet spaced, center low, guard up.

Elysia walked forward this time, hands still at her sides.

Then—

A slap.

Open palm. Controlled. Cracked against his forearm as he flinched.

"Too slow."

Another strike, knuckles tapping his ribs. "Guard too wide."

She stepped in, grabbed his wrist, and twisted.

He gasped as his knees buckled again—but she didn't let go.

She held him there.

"Young master…..Don't think."

He gritted his teeth.

"Move."

And then nodded.

"I got it."

"No," Elysia said calmly. "You don't. Not yet."

And then she threw him.

A shoulder toss—smooth, fast, and perfectly measured.

He hit the padded ground with a dull thud, air knocked from his lungs. Not painful. But loud. Undeniable.

He lay there for a second, staring at the lights above.

'She's not playing with me. Not even close.'

Good.

He pushed himself up again, limbs aching, but fire burning in his gut.

"Again," he said.

Elysia nodded, and adjusted her stance.