Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 178: Combat

Strength, Agility, Endurance—they weren't just stats anymore. They were threads in a tapestry he hadn't finished weaving. He had a plan for them. A vision. And he wouldn't squander points blindly chasing numbers when he could feel the transformation coming. His body, his instincts, even the system itself—it all whispered the same truth.

Soon.

So he left them untouched. Shelved for later use. For when the next wall rose, and he'd tear it down with exactly the force required.

His interface faded, and the room fell into silence once more.

Now that the voices of his mother and father had faded behind polished doors and perfumed politics, it was time.

Time to return to the only place that mattered.

The grounds.

The training field.

Because this was the part of the plan no one would see coming—not until it was too late.

Damien moved to the closet without ceremony, fingers brushing over rows of custom-tailored outfits, silks, branded eveningwear, a graveyard of pretense.

None of it mattered.

He pulled out what he did need: a fitted black t-shirt—tight at the sleeves, light enough to breathe but snug enough to remind him of the weight he still carried. Plain combat shorts, flexible, cut above the knee. Neutral. Minimalist.

Efficient.

He slipped them on without fanfare, brushing his hair back and tying it loose behind his head. No vanity. No mirror checks.

Because he wasn't dressing to impress.

He was dressing for war.

And this body—this still-shifting, not-quite-there-yet mass of old fat and new muscle—was going to become a weapon.

One stat at a time.

His plan was simple.

Before Awakening, before mana and systems and traits turned him into something else, he would master the foundation.

Every physical attribute to 10.

No shortcuts. No injections. No cheats. Just raw, brutal repetition.

It was the human limit.

The peak of what someone could achieve before crossing the veil into something more.

Most never even reached 8.

But he would walk to the edge and own it—so that when the Awakening came, he wouldn't rise from weakness.

He would ascend from dominance.

And beyond that?

He needed technique.

Combat arts. Rhythm. Pressure. Spacing. Not just the instincts gifted by Neural Predator, but the form—the shape of violence honed and practiced.

Because intelligence could predict an opponent.

*****

The training grounds were quiet.

Not the silence of idleness, but of waiting. The air held that same heavy stillness as a coiled blade—motionless only until summoned.

The mats had been reset. The dummies lined along the perimeter remained untouched. The sun was low, casting long, sharp-edged shadows across the field. Evening training. No witnesses. No noise.

Just war, in private.

Elysia stood in the center.

Her posture was immaculate.

Dressed in her standard training gear: sleeveless grey compression top, black fitted pants tucked just above her boots. No jewelry. No visible weapons. Only the faint, shimmering trace of her limiter still active around her wrists—etched with sigils that glowed faint blue.

She had been waiting for him.

Not impatiently. Not curiously.

Just ready.

Damien stepped onto the field without a word. The soft tap of his boots against the rubber flooring echoed just faintly—punctuating his presence like a countdown.

Elysia's eyes tracked him the moment he entered. No nod. No smile. Just silent confirmation.

He stopped across from her.

Tied-back hair. Fitted shirt.

He looked at her evenly.

"Let us start."

Elysia inclined her head.

"Yes, Master."

Damien slid one foot back, dropping into a stance—balanced, fluid, tension coiled in his calves.

But then—

He spoke again.

"Elysia."

A beat.

Her eyes flicked up, attentive.

"From now on," he said, voice calm, steady, "use combat techniques when fighting me."

A faint pause. Barely perceptible. But it was there.

"…Are you sure, Master?"

"I am."

Silence lingered.

Then—

Elysia exhaled slowly through her nose, the closest thing she ever gave to a sigh.

"I must warn you," she said. "It will not be like before. Not controlled. Not… simple."

He didn't blink.

"That's fine."

Another second passed. And then—

"Understood."

Her posture shifted.

It was subtle.

But everything changed.

The softness in her stance vanished. Her spine straightened. Her knees bent lower. Her weight adjusted—front-loaded, heel light. One arm extended forward, hand open. The other pulled in tight to her centerline. Shoulders lowered, neck loose.

Not instructor form.

Combat form.

This was Elysia, unveiled. Not unshackled—but closer.

Her limiter still hummed faintly. Still active.

But her presence thickened.

Like a drawn blade.

Damien felt it the moment it happened.

'So this is how it feels, huh?'

Damien exhaled once, slow and silent.

The moment stretched.

Across from him, Elysia stood like a statue with breath—poised, predatory, lethal in stillness. There was no warmth in her eyes now. No trace of mentorship. Only the awareness of an imminent kill.

And yet, she wasn't questioning him.

Not once.

Not when he'd told her to fight without limits.

Not even now, when any outsider would've called him suicidal.

'Heh…'

His lips twitched at the thought.

Because from the outside, this decision made no sense at all.

Why would the heir of the Elford line—barely trained, lacking any combat technique of his own—ask an Awakened maid to fight him seriously? To unleash her full repertoire while his own was practically nonexistent?

There was no reason.

No logic.

Unless—

You were him.

Unless you had this.

His interface flickered at the edge of his vision, bright and cold.

—----------------------------------

Trait: Neural Predator

Classification: Custom | Type: Passive-Active Hybrid

▶ The host's brain adapts to combat patterns in real time. Every enemy is a data source. Every movement, a signal.

Effects:

→ Weakpoint Trace: Host can highlight physical and psychological vulnerabilities of any target within line of sight.

→ Combat Echo: When engaged in repeated combat, the host can register enemy techniques.

→ Stolen Flow: Exposure to a combat art allows partial mimicry. The more the host sees, the more complete the imitation.

Special Condition:

→ The more intelligent the host becomes, the faster the system adapts.

→ Intelligence stat is currently: [???]

Synergies:

→ [Singularity], [Predatory Focus], [Neural Synchronicity]

→ Unique boost when target is a former threat or emotional

—----------------------------------

'Let me download to see if it works.'

He didn't need to win.

He just needed to see.

To make her show him what combat truly looked like—every pivot, every compression of muscle, every slip and counter.

Because with every strike she threw, Neural Predator would be watching.

And he would be learning.

This was the plan.

He would make his body a forge.

And she would be the flame that hammered him into something new.

"Let us start."

*****

Damien's words barely left his mouth before she vanished.

No sound. No telegraph. No warning.

One blink—

And she was there.

Right in front of him.

His breath caught.

'What—'

THWAP.

Her palm struck his shoulder—not a blow, not a test, but a reset. It spun him slightly off balance, his guard thrown wide.

WHIP.

A leg swept low, cutting through his stance like a scythe. His shin lifted instinctively—but too late.

CRACK.

She pivoted off her heel, torso twisting—elbow slammed into his ribs.

Three moves.

THUMP.

Damien crashed to the mat, flat on his back, breath knocked clean from his lungs.

He lay there, staring up at the training hall ceiling, vision pulsing at the edges. His lungs fought for air that wouldn't come. Pain bloomed from his side, dull and spreading, and yet—

He wasn't angry.

He wasn't even surprised.

Because in truth?

He hadn't seen any of it.

Not the initial approach.

Not the first strike.

Not the transition from position to punishment.

Nothing.

His system didn't flash. His reflexes didn't twitch. He wasn't caught off guard—he was obliterated.

And yet—

His heart thundered in his chest, not from fear, but clarity.

'She's fast.'

Not Awakened fast.

Not mana-enhanced.

Just her—in raw, pure, mechanical movement.

Limited body. No energy output. No flashy steps.

Just perfect technique.

Executed like a blade honed over a thousand repetitions.

Damien's fingers twitched against the mat.

'Good.'

He smiled, chest still rising and falling with ragged breath.

That was the gap.

That was what mastery looked like.

Not strength.

Execution.

His body hurt. His pride didn't.

He pushed himself up, shaking slightly as he rose back to his feet.

His vision flickered.

And then—

A faint ting in the back of his mind.

A single line of text appearing like a breath on a mirror.

--------------

Combat Echo: Recording initiated.

Source: [Elysia Verdant] frёewebηovel.cѳm

Style: [Silent Vein]

Progress: %0.5

---------------

Seeing the name, he smiled.

'Interesting….'