Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 72: Closed Ends (4)

The morning air was crisp, the faint scent of polished wood and fresh linen lingering in Damien's quarters. He stood before the mirror, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and assessing.

119.3 kg.

A week ago, the very thought of standing here, waiting to be dressed, would have been unbearable. Back then, the reflection in the mirror had been a bloated, sluggish excuse of a body, one that disgusted him to his core.

But now?

Now, there was progress.

Still, it wasn't enough. His skin, loose from the rapid weight loss, clung uncomfortably in places, a reminder of what he had been. A nuisance. It had to be dealt with.

The soft knock at the door came precisely on time.

"Enter."

Elysia stepped in, her movements composed, precise. As always, she was dressed immaculately, her uniform crisp, her demeanor cool. She approached without hesitation, the new uniform neatly folded over her arm.

"Young master," she greeted, inclining her head slightly. "I will assist you in dressing."

A week ago, when he had first made her do this, she had barely concealed her revulsion. Her hands had been rigid, her touch distant, and though she had said nothing, her disgust had been as clear as daylight.

Now?

Now, there was no disgust.

Just the quiet, practiced efficiency of a servant fulfilling her duty.

Interesting.

Damien smirked but said nothing as he lifted his arms slightly, allowing her to begin. She moved methodically, adjusting his shirt, fastening the cuffs, her fingers grazing over the areas where his skin hung loose. The first time, her touch had been hesitant—barely there, as if she loathed the idea of coming into contact with him.

This time, there was no hesitation.

'No disgust… but no interest either.'

His smirk twitched.

'Tch. That's annoying.'

The loose skin, though expected, irritated him. It wasn't just an eyesore—it was an imperfection, an unnecessary flaw in what was supposed to be a refined process.

"Elysia," he said casually, watching her through the mirror. "Book an appointment with a clinic. I want this excess skin removed."

She didn't pause. "Understood, young master. I will schedule the earliest available appointment."

Her efficiency was admirable. But what interested him more was the way she hadn't reacted—not even slightly—to the order. No judgment, no curiosity, no hesitation.

'How very professional of you.'

Elysia moved with precision, placing the folded trousers onto the nearby chair before straightening. "Young master," she said, her tone neutral, "your new uniform is prepared."

Damien turned, his eyes flickering over the neatly pressed fabric. The trousers were dark, tailored to perfection, the crisp lines running down the legs betraying the level of care that had gone into their selection. She had chosen well.

He clicked his tongue. "Took you long enough."

Elysia didn't react, merely stepping aside as he approached.

Damien picked up the trousers, inspecting them briefly before meeting her gaze in the mirror. "Comfortable?"

"They are fitted to your new measurements," she replied. "You will find them appropriate for movement."

He smirked. "Efficient as always."

She inclined her head slightly. "That is my role."

With measured ease, he stepped into the trousers, feeling the way they settled over his frame. They weren't just well-fitted—they were perfect. No unnecessary tightness, no excess fabric, just a smooth, streamlined fit that complemented his refined appearance.

A week ago, he wouldn't have cared. A week ago, he would have thrown on whatever was convenient and shuffled out the door.

Now, he noticed.

Now, he had standards.

Elysia stepped forward, adjusting the waistband before securing the belt with practiced efficiency. "The School's emblem has been embroidered onto the blazer," she noted, retrieving the matching jacket. "You will be expected to wear it at all times."

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Damien smirked, shrugging into the blazer as she guided the sleeves over his arms. "Expected to," he echoed, "but not required."

She glanced at him through the mirror, her expression unreadable. "I imagine you will test that theory."

He chuckled. "What's the point of rules if not to see how far they can be bent?"

Elysia said nothing, merely smoothing the fabric over his shoulders before stepping back.

Damien turned, rolling his wrists, adjusting to the feel of the uniform. It was a statement—one that declared his presence at Vermillion Private School, one of the most elite institutions in the country.

Damien adjusted the cuffs of his blazer, exhaling slowly as he took in his reflection. The uniform was more than just fabric; it was a symbol. A declaration that he belonged at Vermillion Private School—a place where the future rulers of Azaria Dominion took their first steps toward power.

Power. Influence. Control.

That was what defined Azaria Dominion, the corporate republic that ruled over this land. A country that claimed to be a democracy but was, in truth, an empire of wealth. Unlike other nations that still clung to outdated ideals of equality, Azaria embraced the natural order—where the strong, the intelligent, and the ruthless rose to the top, while the weak were left to rot.

The Council of Twelve, an informal yet absolute authority, dictated the true course of the nation. They were the silent rulers—old aristocratic families and corporate elites who had transcended mere politics. While there was a President and a National Congress, everyone knew they were little more than puppets dancing on strings of gold.

And at the heart of it all?

Vermillion City.

A metropolis unlike any other. The economic capital of the world, where fortunes were made and dynasties were broken. Towering skyscrapers reached into the heavens, owned by the most powerful conglomerates in existence. The rich thrived in lavish districts filled with luxury, while the poor clawed for survival in the city's lower levels, where crime festered like a disease.

It was the city of kings. A place where ambition was either rewarded with riches beyond imagination or crushed beneath the weight of failure.

And within it stood Imperial Arcanum Academy—the crown jewel of Azaria's education system.

The Academy of Elites.

Not a place for warriors. Not a place for those who would one day Awaken. No, Imperial Arcanum was where the world's future rulers were molded. The next generation of business magnates, corporate sharks, political masterminds, and societal architects.

It was a battlefield of a different kind.

Damien rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight of the uniform as he turned away from the mirror. Vermillion Private School. For now, it would have to suffice.

It was a necessary stepping stone—nothing more, nothing less. The true battlefield awaited him at Imperial Arcanum Academy, but there was an inconvenient truth that couldn't be ignored.

He had yet to Awaken.

That alone dictated everything. No matter his intelligence, no matter the power he wielded in the shadows, without an Awakening, his entry into Imperial Arcanum was impossible. The Academy was built for those on the precipice of transformation—students who had already honed their potential and were ready to step into true power.

For the time being, he was behind the timeline.

The realization made him smirk.

'Tch. What a joke.'

If things had gone according to plan, if reality followed the sequence set by Shackles of Fate, he would have already stepped through the gates of Imperial Arcanum by now. The game didn't waste time on irrelevant school life. When the story began, Damien Elford was already there—thrust into the depths of a brutal, cutthroat social hierarchy where every move carried weight.

And yet, here he was.

Forced to endure this prelude.

The irony didn't escape him.

'They wouldn't even have designed this damn school properly.'

Vermillion Private School didn't exist in the original setting. It was simply an assumed background, a placeholder—a convenient excuse for why the protagonist had suddenly appeared at Imperial Arcanum Academy with all the necessary skills and knowledge.

But now, he was living in the part of the story that was never meant to be played.

His smirk widened.

'How fitting.'

He always hated it when a game railroaded the protagonist—pushing them down a predetermined path with no room for deviation. In the past, he had mocked the idea of pre-scripted suffering, rolling his eyes at tragic backstories designed purely for dramatic effect.

And yet, now?

Now, he was standing in one.

Damien leaned against the edge of his desk, fingers idly tapping against the polished wood. Vermillion Private School—a stepping stone, a waiting room before the real game began.

And yet, despite being a side note in Shackles of Fate, this place wasn't entirely worthless.

After all, most of the characters from the game would be here.

It was only logical. The elite didn't scatter their children across random institutions. No, the powerful trained their successors together, molding them from a young age. Vermillion Private School was where the future titans of Azaria Dominion first crossed paths.

And today, he'd be meeting them.

Before their intended introductions.

Before they had developed into the roles they were meant to play.

Before the game even truly began.

Damien smirked. This was an opportunity.

He wasn't just an observer following a pre-written script—he had the chance to see the pieces before they were set on the board.

There were characters he already knew would rise to power.

And, of course—

Celia.

Damien's smirk twitched.

She was here too.

Before she became the cold-blooded woman who shattered the original Damien Elford. Before she stood at the peak of Imperial Arcanum Academy's hierarchy, looking down on everyone with disdain.

Before she uttered that infamous line.

"I never wanted you anyway—just like your parents."

His fingers curled slightly.

How interesting.

Seeing them all before their established personas had solidified? Before they became the figures the game had scripted them to be?

This was going to be fun.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

Elysia entered, composed as always. "Young master. Your ride is ready."

Damien exhaled, rolling his shoulders before turning toward her.

"Good."