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

Chapter 233: Bloodlust but without being an Awakened ?

“Bring him in.”

Owen gave a small nod and stepped aside, holding the door open in silent invitation.

And then—footsteps.

Measured. Unrushed.

Damien stepped into the room, the low light catching against the sharper angles of his face, the lines of his now refined frame outlined beneath a high-collared black coat.

Dominic’s gaze sharpened as his son entered the room, the overhead light casting narrow shadows along Damien’s face, making the contours of his jaw and cheekbones seem more severe, more cut from stone than flesh. The coat he wore didn’t hang like fabric—it settled like weight, as if it had been tailored not just to his frame, but to his will.

Dominic had already made peace with the fact that Damien had changed.

That truth had arrived weeks ago, in layers—first through the sheer, undeniable physical transformation, then through words sharp enough to wound and poised enough to be remembered. He had seen the pride in his son’s spine, the controlled aggression in his voice, and the cold fire behind his eyes.

And yet…

Now?

Now he wasn’t so sure that what he’d seen before had been anything more than the surface.

Dominic didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He simply observed, because something deeper had begun to register. A shift that was less seen and more felt.

A pulse. A ripple.

Pressure.

Not spiritual pressure, not in the formal sense of awakened cultivation techniques—but something older, rawer, threaded through the soul like a knotted thread pulled taut.

This…

Dominic’s pupils narrowed slightly, and his senses—those honed over three decades of advancement as an Awakened—flared instinctively.

Damien hadn’t released a technique.

He hadn’t activated a skill.

And yet, there was a weight to his presence now. A gravity that didn’t just fill the room—it bent it.

That was how it felt.

Dominic’s gaze narrowed.

This wasn’t normal.

He had walked beside Awakened for decades—trained them, fought with them, fought against them. The kind of pressure that twisted the air, that folded the room around a person’s presence like cloth folding around a blade—that was a known quantity. The mark of one who had harmonized with mana, whose spirit and flesh no longer moved as mere mortal matter but as conduits of force.

It was common among the high-rankers. Expected, even.

But Damien was not Awakened.

Not in any official capacity.

Not in any recorded capacity.

Not even partially.

And yet… this weight. This tension. This subtle atmospheric bend around him—

It was real.

Dominic could feel the mana particles in the air brushing against his own skin like faint currents being redirected. The pressure wasn’t suffocating—but it was unnatural in one very precise, very dangerous way:

It should not be possible.

His eyes remained locked on Damien, who now sat with unshaken calm, one leg crossed neatly, posture relaxed—but perfectly upright.

Dominic spoke.

Low. Controlled.

“What happened today?”

Damien didn’t react at first.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t tilt his head.

But his lips curved—just barely.

Not into a smirk.

Into something quieter.

Amused.

Damien’s eyes flicked to his father’s, the faint smile still lingering at the corners of his lips. He exhaled softly through his nose, then leaned back in the chair just slightly, his tone light—almost teasing.

“Shouldn’t you greet your son first, Father?” he asked. “This feels less like a welcome home and more like an interrogation.”

Dominic didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he sighed—deep, tired, but not without intention—and studied Damien in silence for a moment longer. His eyes lingered, not on his face, but on the stillness of his form. The way he sat. The way the air itself seemed to pulse faintly around him like a living shell.

Finally, Dominic gave a single nod, voice low. “Welcome home, Damien.”

Then, a beat.

“But… you need to control whatever this is better.”

Damien tilted his head this time, faint curiosity dancing across his features. “Whatever this is?”

Dominic didn’t answer with words immediately. He reached forward, pulled up the spatial graph from the room’s ambient readings—mana distribution, heat flux, air density shifts.

And there it was.

A faint spiral, centered around Damien’s seated frame.

Like a storm with no wind.

A pressure system made not of weather—but of intent.

Dominic’s eyes flicked back to his son.

“Did you fight a monster today?”

The smile vanished.

Damien’s fingers paused where they rested on his knee, his posture freezing—not dramatically, but subtly. Like a soldier who’d just heard the click of a rifle from the trees.

“…How did you know?”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “I knew it.”

The confirmation didn’t come from what Damien said.

It came from how he stopped.

From that stillness—too sharp, too sudden.

The kind of stillness that came only after violence.

Dominic sat back slightly in his chair, watching him with the careful attention of a man staring at something still half-formed.

“You’re letting it out,” he said quietly.

Damien’s gaze didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes did.

“Letting what out?”

Dominic’s voice was steady, but weighted now with certainty.

“Bloodlust.”

Damien’s brow twitched ever so slightly.

“Bloodlust?” he repeated, the word leaving his mouth with a measured kind of disbelief—not denial, but curiosity. Like someone trying the sound of it for the first time, weighing the shape of it against what he already knew.

Dominic nodded once, slowly.

“Yes.”

He shifted back in his chair, folding one leg over the other, voice returning to that clinical tone he reserved for lectures and battlefield debriefings. Detached, but never impersonal.

“It’s something that happens often with the newly Awakened,” he began. “A common mistake. A phase, even.”

Damien didn’t interrupt.

Dominic continued.

“When someone Awakens—really Awakens—the next step is almost always combat. Whether it’s a sanctioned field test or a monster extermination trial, it doesn’t matter. Most have never truly fought before. Not with stakes. Not with blood.”

His eyes met Damien’s with faint weight.

“And certainly not with death on the line.”

A pause.

“Then it happens. The first real encounter. You face a creature born to kill. One that emits real bloodlust. Not the kind you feel in a spar. The kind that makes your body scream to run. That twists your stomach and tries to turn your limbs to lead.”

He tapped a finger gently against the armrest.

“But you don’t run. You fight. And maybe you win.”

Another pause.

“Maybe you kill it.”

Damien remained perfectly still. But there was something unreadable in the way his jaw tightened—something Dominic didn’t miss.

“And that’s when it starts,” Dominic said, his voice lowering slightly. “The change.”

“The body remembers how the monster fought. How it felt. That raw, primal instinct to dominate or die. Some say it’s the mana reacting. Others believe it’s deeper than that—something in the survival centers of the brain. A mimicry rooted in desperation.”

He looked at his son, gaze sharp.

“Whatever it is, most new Awakened start leaking it. Bloodlust. Without meaning to. Without knowing how to stop. It’s not just a feeling—it becomes ambient. A scent. A pressure.”

He gestured vaguely toward the space around Damien.

“Like what you’re doing right now.”

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