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

Chapter 232: Father

The car slid to a stop in front of the Elford Mansion, its sleek frame cutting through the estate’s pristine quiet like a black blade through silk. The gates—towering, ornate, laced with subtle enchantments—parted without ceremony, opening to the circular drive bordered by manicured hedges and faintly glowing pathstones. The kind of place where everything was expensive, and nothing dared be out of place.

The moment Damien stepped out, the difference was immediate.

The air here was sharper. Older. Laced with power and legacy and unspoken rules.

Elysia stepped out behind him, a pace to the side, hands behind her back in formal stance. Her presence as calm and composed as ever.

The guards stationed at the entrance stiffened when they saw him.

Their eyes lingered—just a second too long. A flicker of recognition interrupted by something else.

Surprise.

“Young master, you have arrived.”

They didn’t show it outright. These weren’t rookies. Their posture remained perfect, their expressions blank.

“Welcome.”

But Damien caught the pause.

The subtle shift of weight.

The faint tick of breath.

These weren’t the same guards who’d seen him last. Not the ones who had witnessed the aftermath of his impossible weight loss, the confrontation with his father, or the quiet moment with his mother. These ones had only heard the whispers.

And now?

They were looking at him.

Not with disdain.

Not with pity.

Just… recalibration.

Like they had expected one man and gotten another.

Damien met their eyes in turn as he passed. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t nod. Just let them look.

‘Go ahead,’ he thought, steps echoing against the marble underfoot. ‘Update your internal files. You’ll need them.’

The massive double doors to the main hall opened without a word, the interior of the mansion stretching out before him like something out of a curated memory—high ceilings with gilded molding, soft gold light pouring from chandeliers, walls lined with oil portraits of dead men wearing the same blood as him.

Beautiful.

Damien stepped into the heart of the Elford mansion, each footfall swallowed by the plush silence of wealth. The air was warm, delicately scented with something expensive and subtle—amberwood, maybe. Familiar. Intentionally so. The Elford estate didn’t just smell like money. It smelled like legacy, curated down to the molecular level.

A few maids crossed the foyer ahead, all in matching midnight uniforms, moving with the seamless efficiency of long-trained staff. They paused when they saw him.

Not startled. Not tense.

Just… aware.

“Welcome back, young master,” one of them said, dipping her head in a polite, shallow bow. Another followed suit with a perfectly timed “It’s good to see you again.”

Routine. Practiced. Calm.

But not unfeeling.

He watched them as they passed—caught the way one of the younger ones faltered half a step too long before resuming her pace. Another’s eyes lingered on his jawline before she turned away, fast enough that it might’ve gone unnoticed.

It didn’t.

Not to him.

[Neural Predator] activated in the background of his awareness, a quiet hum sharpening his perception. Microexpressions. Breathing shifts. Dilated pupils. The tiniest flickers of biological truth.

Blush.

Not just one.

Three of them.

Mild, professional—barely there. But there.

‘Charm stat’s working overtime,’ Damien thought dryly. ‘Should probably warn the housekeeping division before someone spills a tray.’

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t acknowledge it.

Because this wasn’t flirtation.

This wasn’t interest earned through wordplay or proximity.

This was systemic.

The result of the [Unbreakable One’s Legacy] digging its roots deeper. His charm had quietly climbed to 9.5—and the world was starting to respond, even if no one consciously realized it.

Of course, increase in his charm was most likely thanks to his body advancing the basic mortal limits, but in essence that was fine.

They weren’t blushing because he smiled at them.

They were blushing because everything about him was beginning to tilt the room.

Still, it meant nothing more than proof of improvement.

A minor detail in a much bigger picture.

He moved past them, letting the moment dissolve behind him like mist in sunlight. No need to test the system on house staff.

The hall opened ahead.

Footsteps echoed softly across polished marble. Uniformed staff weaved through the corridors with silent coordination, carrying trays, reports, and fresh linens with mechanical grace. Soft murmurs of conversation drifted in from distant parlors. Somewhere deeper in the west wing, the faint notes of a string quartet rehearsal hummed against the walls—proof that the Elford household’s appetite for cultured perfection hadn’t dulled even slightly.

Everything was as it should be.

Almost.

Damien’s eyes narrowed subtly.

His mother wasn’t here.

If Vivienne had known he was coming, she would’ve been at the door. Not just waiting—hovering. Smiling like he was the second sunrise. Her overly doting side, cloaked in aristocratic poise but no less embarrassing, never missed a beat when it came to her only son.

But now?

Nothing.

‘She either didn’t know,’ Damien thought, ‘or she’s too preoccupied to care.’

Neither sat particularly well.

He let the thought sit as the soft click-click of measured steps approached from the east corridor.

Owen appeared around the corner—immaculate as always. His suit was charcoal gray today, pressed to crisp perfection, gloves tucked neatly beneath one arm, and his silver hair combed back with the kind of precision that made one question whether he ever slept. The old butler’s expression was calm, unreadable as a polished stone.

But Damien saw it.

The difference.

Not in Owen’s words—those were as formal as ever—but in the way he moved. The weight of his steps. The absence of that faint, performative pause he used to carry when addressing a “disappointment.”

“Welcome back, Young Master Damien,” Owen said, bowing his head with flawless etiquette.

Damien nodded slightly in return. “Owen.”

The butler straightened. “Master Dominic is waiting in his room.”

Not the study. Not the family hall. His room.

Even that phrasing meant something.

And coming from Owen? It meant more.

Damien arched a brow but didn’t comment.

He didn’t have to.

Because the change was clear.

This old fox—once one of the silent arbiters of his shame—was now speaking to him as an heir. No longer trying to correct him. No longer subtly measuring his worth behind neutral words.

Respect.

Not affection.

Not warmth.

But recognition.

‘As it should be,’ Damien thought.

The stains of his past hadn’t been erased, no. But the cracks had been filled in. Covered. Reinforced by new lines—lines that he had carved in with grit, weight loss, dominance, results.

He nodded once more. “Lead the way.”

Owen turned without another word, and Damien followed—his steps steady, Elysia silent at his back.

******

Dominic Elford sat near the tall window of his private chambers, back straight, one leg crossed over the other as he flipped through the latest packet of intel reports—digital screens hovering just above a stack of aged parchment. The room, while grand, was spartan in personality. Dark oak shelves lined with historical tomes, a few artifacts of his younger exploits on the far mantel, and a single, still-burning incense stick trailing a thin ribbon of sandalwood and iron bark.

Normally, at this hour—late on a weekend evening—Dominic would have been elsewhere.

Perhaps at the club, where nobles wore their vices like cufflinks and traded secrets behind vintage cigars. Or in the lower cultivation wing, realigning the inner circulation of his mana paths under isolation. But not tonight.

Tonight, he waited.

He had given the order personally. Tonight, he returns.

And now, as the minutes narrowed, he was no longer just waiting. He was preparing.

His thoughts drifted to the vice-head’s message earlier that day. The school’s internal report had arrived encoded, only meant for his eyes.

Damien Elford—Rank 23.

Dominic had stared at the screen for a long moment when the number first appeared. Not from disbelief—he had long since adjusted to being surprised by his son—but from the specificity of that number.

Rank 23.

From dead last.

Now sitting just shy of the top twenty students in the entire Private Vermillion Academy. The highest Damien had ever been, and more importantly, a territory dominated by scions from houses that trained since birth.

No cheating.

No assistance.

Dominic had verified that personally. Of course, in the Vermillion Private High School, in such a prestigious place, cheating would be incredibly hard, but Dominic just wanted to verify personally.

And the result was….

‘He clawed that result from the dirt with nothing but teeth and timing,’ he thought, eyes drifting across the floating screen in front of him. ‘Just like he clawed his way back into our name.’

A soft knock at the door.

Three precise taps.

Owen.

“Enter.”

The door opened with the whisper of oiled hinges. Owen stepped inside, bowing lightly.

“He has arrived.”

Dominic rose without a word.

Not slowly.

Not dramatically.

But with the quiet force of a mountain adjusting its stance.

After all, he was also question Damien regarding this change.

“Bring him in.”

——–A/N———

Ahem, sorry for not holding to my promise….I slept quite a lot.

I will try to compensate you today.