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

Elysia moved without thought.

Not because it was easy—but because she had no other way.

Teaching was foreign to her. Alien. An art form she had never needed to grasp.

She had been trained, not taught.

There had never been lessons. No gentle correction. No encouragement or guidance. Only command. Only punishment. Her world had been shaped in silence, molded under duress and precision. From the moment she was old enough to walk, she was made to crawl. To endure. To obey.

The Shadow Doctrine. That was what her lineage had called it. The art of serving not behind, but beneath—a protector whose presence was to be unseen and whose loyalty was absolute. And for that, they made sure to break them young.

Her first master was not kind.

He taught with a cane, with silence, with frostbitten mornings spent motionless in stance until legs collapsed from under them. She remembered the blood in her socks, the tight coil of her core locked in place until she vomited. The bruises had never mattered. Only posture. Only control.

And now… she was supposed to pass that on?

To Damien?

Her gaze flicked to him as he pushed himself up again. Still steady. Still trying. He hadn't said it aloud—but he had accepted the terms the moment he asked to be taught.

Pain will be the method. Progress will be the result.

Then pain it would be.

Because that was all she knew.

Elysia stepped forward again and struck—not hard, but accurate. Her fingers clipped his inner wrist. "Guard collapsing inward," she said. "Correct it."

Damien adjusted without argument.

Good.

'First we were beaten,' she remembered. 'Then we were made to stand. Only then were we allowed to learn.'

She stepped back.

"Horse stance," she said, voice like a blade drawn too slowly. "Now."

Damien blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone.

Elysia didn't repeat herself.

He spread his feet apart.

"Wider."

He adjusted.

"Lower."

He grunted, lowering his center of gravity until his thighs were trembling from the tension.

"Hands forward. Parallel to the ground."

He complied, though sweat already started to bead along his brow.

Elysia circled him slowly. Her voice remained neutral.

"You will hold that until you understand the weight of your body. Until your legs shake. Until your spine learns to remain upright even when your lungs collapse."

Damien didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

Elysia paused at his side, arms folded loosely behind her back.

'This is how it was for me. Ten minutes. Then twenty. Then an hour. No breaks. No water. Collapse, and you start over.'

Of course, she couldn't push Damien to that extent—yet.

But the shape was there.

She gave him two minutes before stepping forward.

"Rise."

He groaned under his breath but obeyed.

"Now—punch."

He looked at her, a single brow raised.

"One fist. Forward. Again and again."

He obeyed. One punch. Another. Another.

Elysia watched. "Too loose. Your elbow leaks energy. Correct it."

He adjusted.

"Now punch again. Until I say stop."

His breath came harder. Punch. Punch. Punch.

'This is how it begins,' she thought.

They had never taught her to explain. Only to execute. Only to respond.

So now, her teaching was mimicry.

And Damien would suffer the same way she had.

But as she watched him strike again—shaky, imperfect, but trying—something else flickered behind her eyes.

Not pride.

Not yet.

But memory. And a strange, quiet thought.

"Good," she said quietly.

Then added, "Again."

And Damien struck forward with everything he had.

*****

Two hours.

That was how long they had been at it.

Elysia stood still, hands resting behind her back as she watched Damien's silhouette under the dim glow of the training hall's overhead lights. Outside, the moon had fully risen—silver and distant—casting long shadows through the glass ceiling. The air inside was thick with sweat, the faint scent of burning calories, and Damien's ragged breath.

His body trembled—legs locked in a horse stance that would've snapped most students in half by now. His arms, slick with sweat, still pumped forward in rhythm. Punch. Reset. Punch again. His expression was grim, jaw tight, yet his eyes never lost that stubborn gleam.

'He should have collapsed by now.'

His muscles were quivering, and his breathing had gone ragged minutes ago. But still—his core held. He hadn't once let his stance fall apart, even when his arms faltered. Even when his balance teetered. He'd recover. Realign. Continue.

Elysia narrowed her eyes.

Damien's foundation wasn't flawless. She could see the tightness in his hip joints, the small strain at the edge of his range when he stepped forward. His flexibility was limited. His footwork—stiff, at times. Unpolished.

But the control?

That was the strange part.

He shouldn't have had it. Not like this. Not already.

Her voice was quiet, almost more to herself than to him.

"…How is it?"

She took a single step forward, eyes fixed on the way his back foot stayed rooted, the subtle angle of his knee shifting slightly to absorb force as his arm extended.

Punch.

Again.

Elysia's brows furrowed.

He wasn't just moving.

He was adjusting.

Each motion, each punch, each shift in posture—Damien wasn't just mimicking the form. He was correcting it. Iterating in real time. Like his body wasn't just executing commands—it was learning them. Testing. Refining. Almost like the feedback loop between brain and muscle had been shortened.

It didn't make sense.

Not for a beginner.

Certainly not from day one.

'He shouldn't be able to do this.'

Elysia remembered her own first weeks. The spasms, the failures, the bruises. The commands her muscles ignored. The time it took before her body began to obey with precision.

And yet…

Damien's body listened to him.

Not perfectly. But obediently. Rapidly.

Her gaze drifted lower, to his legs—still tense in that grueling stance. To his breath—faltering but never stopping. To the faint lines of sweat trailing down his jaw, the subtle tremor in his fists.

This wasn't just raw discipline.

This was control.

Too much control.

'Is he…'

The thought formed without her realizing.

Was my young master always like this?

Is this what it means to be a genius?

She stepped closer, the faint sound of her footfall lost beneath the rhythm of his punches.

It wasn't just talent.

It was instinct. Refinement.

Like he'd been fighting his body his whole life—and only now, finally, it had started listening.

Well, this might have been a little overexaggeration, but still….

'His body control is….'

Maybe that was the talent of Elford family?

And he was using it.

Efficiently. Quietly. Ruthlessly.

She tilted her head slightly.

Not pride. Not awe.

But something new.

Interest.

"…Enough," she said at last.

Damien stopped mid-punch, staggering slightly, catching himself with a breath that came too sharp. He didn't collapse, but his knees were on the edge. His arms dropped, heavy with fatigue.

He looked at her through sweat-matted hair.

And he smiled.

It was crooked.

Tired.

But real.

Elysia stared at him in silence, her voice soft—almost unreadable.

Damien steadied his breath, shoulders rising and falling with quiet effort. He glanced toward Elysia, still standing with that perfect, unmoving posture.

"So…" he rasped, dragging a hand through his soaked hair, "…it's over now?"

Elysia gave a single nod.

Damien chuckled, the sound low and dry.

He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he caught the last of his breath. Then, straightening, he looked at her with that same crooked grin.

"How'd I do?"

Elysia didn't answer right away.

She simply stared.

Her silence wasn't cold—just unreadable, like she was calculating how much to say, if anything at all.

Damien's smirk deepened.

"Do well enough to land a hit on you?"

Something in his voice—cocky, tired, but playful—cut through the room like static.

Elysia blinked.

Then, her lips parted.

"…You did fine."

Somehow she didn't want to give him the satisfaction he wanted.