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

The recovery pools loomed ahead, their surface a stark contrast to the agony still wracking Damien's body. Steam curled lazily from the scalding-hot bath on the left, while the freezing waters of the right seemed almost predatory in their stillness. A brutal cycle of heat and ice—shock therapy for his shredded muscles.

He stepped forward, shedding the sweat-drenched compression wear, his body aching with every motion. The moment he sank into the scalding water, a sharp hiss left his lips. His nerves screamed, his torn muscles twitching violently under the sudden heat, but he forced himself to relax. This was part of the process. This was necessary.

Minutes passed. Then—movement.

Elysia.

She entered without a word, carrying a silver tray with his post-training meal. Steak and eggs. No garnish. No seasoning beyond salt. Just raw fuel.

The scent alone should have been enticing, but right now, all he felt was a gnawing emptiness in his gut. A deep, primal hunger that came not from indulgence—but from necessity. His body was starved, desperate to replenish what he had burned.

He shifted, pulling himself from the hot bath and moving to the ice-cold pool. The moment his skin hit the freezing water, every nerve lit up in protest, his body seizing from the sheer drop in temperature.

Good.

That meant it was working.

Elysia remained silent as she set the tray beside him, her sharp green eyes watching with unreadable intent. This wasn't the usual laziness she was accustomed to. This wasn't the Damien Elford who would have barely touched his meals before drowning himself in alcohol and pills.

This was something different.

Something dangerous.

Damien exhaled sharply, shifting to the edge of the freezing pool, his skin flushed from the sudden extremes. His fingers wrapped around the fork, stabbing into the steak with sharp, deliberate precision.

He knew his diet was going to be hell.

No carbs. No sugars. Nothing to soften the withdrawal his body was about to endure. His brain would scream for glucose, for the immediate energy it was accustomed to, but he would deny it. His body had to learn.

It would burn fat first.

Not sugar. Not glycogen. Fat.

His jaw clenched as he took his first bite, chewing with slow, measured movements. The meat was dense, packed with iron, but his stomach twisted the moment it registered food. His entire system was still in overdrive, still burning, still adjusting to the potion's effects.

His body wanted fuel.

But it hated the form it was being given.

A dull ache crept into his skull. The first warning sign.

His brain was already protesting.

The lack of carbohydrates, the sheer absence of easy energy—it would make him sluggish. Slower. His body was conditioned to need it.

But he didn't care.

This was temporary.

Pain was temporary.

Results lasted.

He forced down another bite. And another. His stomach churned, rejecting the sudden influx of dense protein and fats, but he commanded it to obey. He wasn't about to let something as insignificant as discomfort stop him.

Elysia finally spoke.

"This is extreme." Her voice was neutral, but there was something else beneath it. "Even for you."

Damien didn't look at her, cutting into another piece of steak. "I don't have time for anything less."

She was silent for a moment, then exhaled through her nose. "You could at least add some greens."

"No." His tone was final.

Vegetables had their place. But not now. Not in this stage. His body needed pure efficiency—fat and protein to rebuild, nothing else. Anything unnecessary was just wasted effort.

He continued eating, each bite a battle against the protests of his own biology. His head pounded, his limbs heavy from exhaustion, but he pushed through.

This was the price.

****

The cycle repeated.

Again. And again. And again.

Ten grueling hours of relentless suffering, a process so brutal that any normal man would have collapsed long before the halfway point. But Damien wasn't normal—not anymore.

His body burned, trembled, broke apart, and reassembled itself with each cycle. The potion, amplified by [Physique of Nature], rewove his muscles stronger every time, forcing his body to adapt at an unnatural rate. The recovery pools cooled his inflamed flesh, soothing what little could still feel pain before he threw himself back into the inferno.

Train. Break. Destroy. Repair. Eat. Recover.

By the final round, Damien could barely think.

His movements were sluggish as he stepped out of the last ice bath, his body still trembling from the toll he had forced upon it. His stomach felt hollow despite the absurd amount of protein he had shoved into it, his muscles so overworked that even lifting his arms felt like dragging lead weights through molasses.

And the smell—

Fucking hell.

The room reeked.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat—his sweat. Ten straight hours of punishment, and with his body still over a hundred kilograms, the sheer volume of it was overwhelming. The training hall, once pristine, was now stained with the evidence of his struggle—pools of sweat where he had collapsed between cycles, discarded towels that had long since been soaked through.

His lips curled in disgust.

Tch. He really was a mess.

With what little strength remained, he forced himself forward, making his way to the showers. The movement was slow, heavy, his limbs uncooperative, but he didn't stop.

Even in exhaustion, there were things that had to be done.

The instant the scalding water hit his skin, a sharp hiss left his lips. His body ached from the contact, raw and oversensitive from the hours of relentless strain. But he welcomed it.

Water cascaded down, washing away the filth clinging to his skin. He grabbed the soap, working it through every inch of his body with mechanical efficiency. No half-measures. No laziness. He scrubbed with the precision of a man cutting away the remnants of something that no longer belonged to him.

This scent. This filth. This weakness.

Gone.

His fingers dug into his scalp, lathering shampoo through his damp hair, ensuring every trace of sweat and exhaustion was erased. The water swirled down the drain, taking the last remnants of the old Damien Elford with it.

When he finally turned the water off, steam still curled around him, clinging to his skin. His breathing was slow, controlled, his mind clearing from the haze of training.

And then—

A quiet presence outside.

Elysia.

She had been there for a while, waiting in silence, ever the picture of efficiency.

He stepped out of the bathroom, the cooler air biting against his freshly washed skin. His sharp blue eyes flicked toward her, taking in the neatly folded pajamas she held out, crisp and clean.

She had finished tidying the training hall while he was showering. The air outside no longer carried the weight of sweat and suffering. The mess—the evidence of his torment—had been erased with quiet precision.

Typical.

Elysia, as always, left no trace behind.

Wordlessly, Damien took the pajamas from her grasp. His fingers brushed against hers for half a second, and he caught the faintest flicker of reaction in her eyes—something brief, something unreadable.

Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.

"Sleep well, young master," she said evenly, stepping back.

Damien smirked, shaking his head. "I will."

And for once—

He actually meant it.

****

A full week had passed.

Seven days of relentless, merciless destruction.

Damien's cycle remained unchanged—training, breaking, rebuilding, recovering. No wasted motion. No wasted time. He had transformed his body into a machine, stripping away everything unnecessary, carving himself into something new.

The first three days had been the worst.

His body had fought him at every step, clinging to its old habits, resisting the sheer brutality of his training. The carb withdrawals had been a fucking nightmare—headaches that felt like his skull was being drilled into, dizziness that left him teetering on the edge of collapse, an exhaustion so deep it made every moment outside of training a battle against unconsciousness.

But he didn't stop.

Because by the fourth day, something changed.

His body had learned.

The cravings dulled. The dizziness faded. His metabolism had fully adjusted, burning fat like a furnace, pulling from the reserves of his once-bloated form. His heart, once burdened by the excess weight, beat stronger. His breathing, once labored, now carried no unnecessary heaviness.

The layers of flesh suffocating his muscles were thinning.

And now—

Now, he stood before the scale.

The training hall was silent. No treadmill whirring, no weights clashing, no ragged breathing cutting through the air. Just Damien, standing in front of the cold, metal device that would give him his answer.

Elysia stood a few steps behind him, as expressionless as ever, but he could feel her eyes on him. Watching. Measuring.

Damien exhaled through his nose.

Then, he stepped onto the scale.

A beep.

The numbers flickered. Calculating.

And then—