Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 212: Game

When he’d first heard the system whisper "Child of Fate," Damien had paused.

Not in confusion.

In calculation.

Because that phrasing? That wasn’t from the original game.

Not exactly.

The system spoke in terms that hadn’t appeared in any event text, sidequest chain, or NPC dialogue. There was lore, sure—rich with divinity, prophecy, golden threads of destiny and coded illusions of control—but that particular phrasing?

It hadn’t existed in the script.

’That’s the thing about perspectives,’ Damien mused, his gaze locked on the still horizon. ’The game was told from mine. Or rather—from his. The original Damien. And he was too weak, too lazy, too scripted to ever see the larger web.’

Which meant the real story had always been hiding beneath the surface.

The players only saw what the waste saw.

So of course there wasn’t information about Children of Fate. Of course there were no direct paths, no explicit lore trees, no system logs that explained them.

Damien—the original Damien—was never meant to interact with them.

But.

There had always been something... off.

Stray lines in background files. NPCs with oddly specific dialogue that made no sense in their given quests. Areas of the map that didn’t spawn mobs but still had music, lighting, ambience—as if something was meant to happen there, even if nothing ever did.

Things only obsessive players noticed.

The ones who wandered off from the main story paths.

The ones who couldn’t accept that Damien had to be pathetic.

Because the devs had made one mistake.

They left the world open.

Not fully.

Not enough to escape fate.

But enough to scrape against it.

’And some of us did,’ Damien thought, eyes narrowing. ’We wandered. Dug into the corners. Read the item flavor text like scripture. Talked to every useless NPC just in case one had a line that didn’t match.’

And in doing so, they found it.

A location.

Tucked far out in the western subcontinent. Past the edge of the warzone border. Beyond the reach of the safe zones and level-locked strongholds.

A valley, nameless on the map.

No teleport beacon.

No quest marker.

Just a single, forgotten canyon trail, guarded by mobs that dropped nothing and gave no experience.

And at the bottom?

A structure.

Old. Crumbling. Half-sunken into the ground like the earth itself had tried to bury it out of shame.

But once you stepped inside, the system reacted.

Not with a boss.

Not with a cinematic.

But with silence.

Weight.

As if the code was holding its breath.

Some players thought it was a glitch. An unused dungeon.

Others—the right ones—knew better.

That place wasn’t a dungeon.

It was a test.

The kind that didn’t show up in patch notes or lore wikis.

It had no boss fight. No loot table. No celebratory fanfare.

But it had weight.

Because it wasn’t built for players to grind.

It was built for someone to inherit.

A legacy left behind by someone greater. A figure the game only hinted at through fragmented item descriptions and broken monument carvings—always referred to in vague, mythic language.

"The First Unwritten."

"The Last Before Chains."

"—he who defied timeline, traitline, and thread."

And that structure, buried in the nameless canyon, was his tomb.

Or more accurately—his vault.

His will.

A sealed chamber not meant for fame or balance, but for succession.

It was only later—years into the fanbase’s obsession with breaking the game open—that someone realized what it really was:

A Heirloom Trial.

Not announced. Not acknowledged. Just quietly waiting, half-glitched into the world engine like even the devs were scared of letting it work properly.

And when players somehow managed to get through it—by offering something intangible, something no guide could explain—the game would react.

Not with rewards.

But with mercy.

Because for one day—just one—the original Damien would change.

Stats reset.

New unique trait: [Ashes of the Forgotten].

And in that single day, the game bent. The world stopped spitting on him. NPCs respected him. Dialogue changed. Doors opened.

It was the only time the narrative ever let him breathe.

But only briefly.

Because when players woke up the next in-game morning—

The screen would fade to black.

And this would appear in sharp white font:

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

[System Override: Restoration of Fate In Progress]

The World Has Corrected Itself.

You Have No Right to Inherit What Was Never Yours.

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

After that, the area would vanish from the map.

Even if you had coordinates saved, tried teleportation hacks, or glitched through the edge of the canyon—it was gone.

Like it had never been there at all.

Now that he had the information, it wasn’t hard to figure out.

What the inheritance was.

The answer wasn’t obscure. It wasn’t lost in metaphor or buried in deep lore.

It was obvious.

Criminally obvious.

The vault—the Heirloom Trial—was never meant for Damien.

Not the original.

Not the new.

It was scripted for someone else entirely.

Some random Child of Fate the developers never named, or maybe a companion character Damien had long forgotten. Maybe one of the golden boys of the second arc. Maybe someone not even introduced in the base campaign.

It didn’t matter.

’Whoever it was meant for,’ Damien thought, stepping back from the window, ’they aren’t here now.’

He clenched his jaw once. The quiet strength of it didn’t come from anger.

It came from conviction.

’I will take it.’

Not because he believed he deserved it.

But because the world had already tried to erase him once.

And failed.

That vault hadn’t required strength. It hadn’t required title, or class, or approval.

It had only required loss.

And Damien?

Damien had lost everything before the game even started.

He lifted his hand, fingers twitching once in the air.

"Status," he murmured.

The familiar gold-white screen slid open before his eyes.

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

[STATUS] [Synchronization: Complete]

▶ Name: Damien Elford

▶ Age: 17

▶ Level: 5

▶ SP: 800

Traits:

[Reforged One]

[Does Not Bend]

[Singularity]

[Sociopath]

[Anarchist]

[Neural Predator]

Passive Skills:

[Merchant’s Intuition]

[Physique of Nature]

[Predatory Focus]

[Attributes]

▶ Strength: 9.5

▶ Agility: 9.5

▶ Endurance: 9.5

▶ Will: ??

▶ Intelligence: ??

▶ Charm: 8.5

▶ Luck: 9.0

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

He scanned it in silence, pupils narrowing.

There it was.

So close.

9.5 across the board.

The system had already begun to push—feeding edge into every breath, every movement, like it wanted him to break through naturally.

But he was done waiting.

’Ten is the threshold,’ he thought. ’The line between compression and explosion. Between the human shell and what comes after.’

He didn’t need to finish those last five points here. He’d take them with him.

Let the final surge happen inside the canyon.

Inside the test.

Inside the place that was never meant to welcome him.

’Perfect symmetry,’ he thought, a dry edge in his grin. ’The world tried to delete me. Let me awaken in the heart of its mistake.’

He flicked the screen closed, already turning toward the far cabinet to change clothes to train.