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

119.3 kg.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then—

A slow, satisfied smirk curled his lips.

He had started at 150 kg.

119.3 kg.

For a moment, Damien simply stared at the number.

Then—

A slow, satisfied smirk curled across his lips.

30 kilograms in just a single week.

'Fucking insane.'

This was a number that most people wouldn't even dream of achieving. The kind of weight loss that broke medical guidelines, that defied everything nutritionists and trainers preached about "safe, sustainable progress."

But Damien had never given a single fuck about playing safe.

He turned slightly, glancing at his reflection in the training hall's full-length mirror. His body was still heavy, still thick with remnants of his old form, but the difference was undeniable. His stomach, once bloated and protruding, had shrunk significantly. His arms no longer felt like useless sacks of dead weight, and his legs—though still thick—had lost the sluggishness that once plagued his every step.

Of course, there were side effects.

His skin was loose in places, hanging slightly where the fat had melted away too fast for his body to keep up. Around his waist, his arms, the faint crinkling of excess skin was visible, an inevitable result of such extreme weight loss.

But Damien barely paid it any mind.

'Tch. As if something this minor fucking matters.'

He could fix this with a simple surgery later. A quick procedure and the extra skin would be gone, erased like it had never been there. If he really cared, he could have started with surgery, using modern procedures to strip away the weight instantly.

But he hadn't.

Because that would have been pointless.

'Losing the weight doesn't mean shit if I don't actually change. What would be the point of a quick fix if my body was still weak, still slow, still nothing but a stripped-down version of the same useless mess?'

No. His body needed to be rebuilt.

Strength. Endurance. Speed. Agility. The foundation of something beyond what he was before.

And even beyond that—

His father.

Damien's smirk twitched slightly. That old bastard.

'Tch. If I walked in with some pathetic weight-loss shortcut, I wouldn't hear the end of it. He'd sneer. Look down on me. Call me a disgrace in that condescending tone of his. And you know what? The system would probably fucking agree. I know there's a hidden quest tied to this.'

It wasn't that his father's approval mattered to him. Not really.

But the rewards?

Now that was worth something.

And besides—

Damien rolled his shoulders, feeling the dull ache of exhaustion in his bones, the lingering tightness in his muscles from the past week of relentless destruction.

'Why the fuck not?'

Why take the easy way out when he could crush the challenge head-on? Why skip the suffering when he could turn it into fuel? This was better. This was real. The pain, the exhaustion, the sheer effort—all of it was proof of what he was becoming.

Damien exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he stared at his reflection for a few more seconds. Then—

He raised his middle finger to the ceiling, tilting his head slightly with a smirk.

"See? Fuck you, you wimpy bastard."

That was for him. The old Damien. The one who wasted away in this body, letting himself rot in self-pity. The one who made excuses, who drowned himself in drugs and alcohol, who fucking gave up.

Weak, pathetic bastards like him didn't deserve a second chance.

And that Righteous_One motherfucker, too.

Somewhere, in whatever self-righteous hellhole he crawled into, that delusional piece of shit probably thought he understood suffering. Probably still convinced himself that his failure was the world's fault, that he was a victim of fate, that there was no other path except to wallow in his own misery.

Tch.

They were the same.

Old Damien. That bastard.

All the weaklings who let themselves stay weak.

But not him.

Never fucking again.

As if on cue, the door to the training hall opened, and a familiar voice called out.

"Young master."

Elysia's cold, steady tone cut through the air, devoid of any unnecessary emotion.

Damien didn't turn immediately, letting the moment stretch for just a second longer before flicking his gaze toward her.

She stood there, ever composed, dressed in her pristine uniform, her sharp green eyes locked onto him with that unreadable expression. She had a measuring tape in one hand and a notebook in the other.

"Please allow me to take your measurements."

Damien let out a short chuckle. Of course. His old uniform was useless now. The fabric that once clung to his bloated form would hang off him like rags. Tomorrow was the school's opening day, and he wasn't about to walk in looking like a fucking mess.

He stepped forward, lifting his arms slightly in mock surrender. "Go ahead."

Elysia wasted no time. She moved with the same quiet precision as always, measuring his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Her fingers brushed against his skin—barely, but just enough to feel the crinkled remnants of his rapid weight loss.

Loose skin. Wrinkles where fat once stretched his flesh taut. The unpleasant aftermath of an extreme transformation.

But she didn't react.

Her cold gaze remained steady, indifferent.

Of course, she didn't care.

She had already seen worse.

She had watched his body convulse in the past week, muscles twisting unnaturally beneath his skin, veins bulging as if something inside him was trying to claw its way out. She had watched him destroy himself, rebuild, repeat. Compared to that?

This was nothing.

Damien, however, didn't stop watching her.

The way she moved. The way she felt against him. The way she remained composed, calculating, detached—like she hadn't even considered looking at him as anything else.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

'Soon…'

Another ten, maybe fifteen more pounds. Then, he'd deal with the loose skin. A simple procedure. Quick. Effective. And when that was done?

Then, his body would be complete.

Then, he would be pleasant to look at.

And then—

'I wonder how you'll react, Elysia.'

Would her gaze waver then? Would her steady hands falter? Would that cold, professional mask crack?

Damien's smirk deepened as he let the thought settle in his mind.

Because he wanted her.

He wanted to pin this damn maid down.

To taste her. To hear that smooth, impassive voice break under him.

But not yet.

It wasn't the time.

Elysia finished the last measurement, her hands precise and efficient as always. She noted the final numbers in her notebook, then stepped back, her sharp green eyes scanning him one last time.

"Your new uniform will be ready by morning, young master."

Damien met her gaze, smirking slightly. "Of course it will."

She didn't respond. She simply closed her notebook, gave a small nod, and turned on her heel, exiting the room without another word.

The moment the door clicked shut, Damien let out a slow breath.

Tch. That woman really was something else.

But whatever. He had more important things to focus on.

Without another thought, he threw himself onto his bed, sinking into the mattress with a deep exhale. His entire body ached—not the sharp, agonizing pain of failure, but the dull, heavy soreness of progress.

He had earned his rest.

Tomorrow, the school would begin.

The school where the game's scenario would unfold.

Where everything had started.

A place filled with the privileged, the powerful, the ambitious.

And more importantly—

A place filled with the characters he knew.

A slow, amused smirk curled across Damien's lips as he stared at the ceiling.

"Celia…"

He murmured the name, tasting it on his tongue like something bitter and sweet at the same time.

"I wonder how will you react."