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

Chapter 302: Plot (3)

’So this is how the stage is set,’ Damien whispered, dragging his fingers through the cooling water one last time. ’You give them a destiny, a purpose, a throne to reach for. And now, you’ve given me the ability to ruin it just by existing.’

His smirk returned, slow and cruel.

He stood.

Water cascaded down his body in sheets, steaming faintly against the chilled air of the room. His form had changed—sculpted tighter, leaner, honed from within. The bath hadn’t made him stronger in power alone—it had redefined his frame.

He caught sight of himself in the full-length glass across the room.

He looked like a weapon.

No longer a boy wrapped in pride and privilege.

Something different now.

Something that didn’t belong.

’Well,’ he thought with a flick of his wrist, letting a towel wrap lazily around his waist, ’fitting of me indeed.’

He turned, walking slowly to the tall window that framed the city’s evening skyline. Sunset bled gold over the distant towers, washing the horizon in fire and shadow.

And Damien?

He looked at it like a man already beyond it.

“The fate you’re arranging…” he said aloud, voice steady, quiet.

“I’ll fucking destroy it.”

Why?

Because there was no higher ideal to chase.

No righteous fury.

No tragic backstory.

No divine justification.

Just this—

’Because it would be fucking fun, wouldn’t it?’ he thought.

Damien’s gaze lingered on the city stretched out beneath him, the skyline carved in fire, towers cast in long bleeding shadows as the sun dipped behind them like a dying god. He stood there in silence, steam curling from his skin, his breath slow, heavy.

’So there’s someone out there,’ he thought, the words dry and bitter, ’arranging the strings. Pulling outcomes. Laying out their pretty little chain of cause and effect like a fucking stage play.’

It made his jaw tighten.

It wasn’t just that they existed. It was the implication.

That he—Damien Elford—was still part of a system. Still within someone’s grasp. Still walking on a path they thought they had paved for him. Like every thought in his head, every emotion in his chest, every decision he made was just another cog in someone else’s machinery.

And that burned.

Because it reminded him.

Of that one.

The [Righteous_One].

That bastard who clung to fate like a lifeline. Who justified his laziness with prophecy, with “higher will,” with the belief that the universe was blocking him. Who talked about balance, sacrifice, destiny—like they were some sort of chain holding him back.

Damien’s fingers curled into a fist, the knuckles whitening.

Damien’s gaze stayed locked on the skyline, jaw tight, fingers still curled.

’That lazy fucker…’

He didn’t say the name aloud. Didn’t need to. The image was vivid enough. That idiot with a righteous grin and watered-down conviction, sitting on broken ruins talking about fate like it was some divine wall no one could climb.

“Sometimes,” he’d said, voice trembling with that fake clarity, “sometimes you can’t just change fate.”

Damien snorted, eyes hard.

“Fuck that.”

His voice cut sharp through the steam.

That bastard didn’t try. He bent. He folded the moment the world pushed back. He wasn’t fighting fate—he was hugging it. Justifying his laziness. Coating his fear in the perfume of inevitability.

It reeked.

And now, this whole mess—the bath, the Authority, the quiet little script winding through the highborn rituals—it stank of that same submission.

Like some voice behind the curtain whispering: it’s not your fault. You were never meant to win.

And Damien?

He refused it.

He stood there, silent for a beat longer.

Then his thoughts shifted.

To the Cradle.

To Dominic’s face when he’d said it.

The silence. The hesitation. The weight behind the words.

Five centuries. Zero survivors.

But what if…

What if that wasn’t a fact?

What if it was a side-effect?

What if the reason no one made it through the Cradle was because their fate had already been scripted to fail?

Because the Authority had already carved the fear into their bones?

’System,’ Damien asked quietly. ’If I had been affected… would I have died in the Cradle?’

A pause.

[Assessment: High probability.]

[Explanation: Cradle of Primordials involves deep-tier existential pressure. Host’s prior state—if influenced by external Authority—would have resulted in core destabilization.]

[System Note: Cradle details are restricted. Full analysis unavailable.]

Damien’s lips parted slightly. Then curled.

So that was it.

If he’d let the Authority sink in, he wouldn’t just have been shaped.

He’d have been pre-broken.

He looked out again, this time not at the city—

But at the sky beyond it.

Beyond even the clouds, where only something like the Cradle could wait.

And he smiled.

’So that’s what you’re afraid of,’ he thought.

Those from the Cradle…

If that’s what they feared—

Then it made all the sense in the world.

Because the Cradle wasn’t just an awakening ground.

It was a forge.

And those who survived it?

They didn’t just awaken.

They Ascended.

Damien’s eyes flicked upward again, toward the sky that no noble ritual could reach.

’So you’re trying to control the Ascended…’

The realization settled like gravity in his chest. Dense. Immutable.

And suddenly, the method made perfect sense.

It wasn’t about manipulating the weak.

It was about crippling the strong.

A chain, hidden in luxury. In legacy. In carefully brewed rites and sterilized safety.

The most brilliant trap of all.

Because it wasn’t just tradition.

It was trust.

’Trying to control the Ascended…’

He let the thought drift.

’This is indeed a fine method.’

Any deeper answers would have to wait. The lines were too blurred, the system too quiet, the facts too veiled.

But this?

This was enough for now.

Damien stepped back from the window, the steam beginning to thin, his towel loose around his hips. His breath steady. His mind sharp.

’We will see everything later.’

*****

The sky burned blue above them, cloudless and high, a brilliant dome stretched across the heavens. Wind whipped past in layered currents, tousling cloaks and stinging eyes. Below, the earth was a patchwork blur—green ridges, silver rivers, the occasional glint of a watchtower’s spire. But none of it mattered here.

Not where they were.

Not on the back of a beast so massive its wings cast shadows over clouds.

Dozens flew with him—mounted atop their own skyborne leviathans. An escort. A pilgrimage. A fleet of Awakened bound toward a place only spoken of in breathless tales.

And at the head of them all, a man stood.

Not sat. Stood.

Boots planted atop the scaled ridge of his mount’s neck, arms loose at his sides, cloak snapping behind him like a banner caught in a gale. His hair whipped wildly, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just—

“Oh…”

A breath. Not wonder. Not fear.

Just… recognition.

Then his eyes opened.

And the sky changed.

Not in truth, but in reflection. Hues shifted within his gaze—rippling like oil on water, impossibly deep. Colors not meant to be seen shimmered and bled across his irises. The wind seemed to pause, for just a heartbeat.

“Supreme Elder. Did something happen?” a voice asked behind him—concerned, but careful.

The man lifted a hand and flicked it through the air, calm and practiced.

“Nothing,” he said. “Let us proceed.”

But his eyes told a different story.

In them—just for a moment—was calculation.

Tension.