Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 351

Capítulo 351: Parental (3)

“Do you still love them, even when they leave you behind?”

It was a question that came unbidden—quiet, unvoiced, and yet louder than anything Vivienne Elford had heard in days.

The question hadn’t come from anyone in particular. Not from a servant or a sister or one of those polished, pale nobles who asked things only when they already knew the answer. No, this one came in the quiet moments. In the mornings before her tea reached her hands. In the sound of her heels against the floor of an empty hallway. In the spaces where her son’s voice should have been.

Yes, she loved him.

That was never in question.

But love did not mean certainty. Not when it came to Damien.

Not when it came to this.

Vivienne stood at the far end of the manor’s eastern balcony, arms folded, coat draped neatly over her shoulders though the wind threatened to tug it loose. The lights of the upper city shimmered below in quiet, cold constellations, and above them, the night sky refused to offer even the faintest star.

Her breath came slow, even. Practiced. Like everything she did.

But inside?

Inside, the last few days had chewed her hollow.

She had known what the Cradle was. What it meant.

And her son—her son—had gone there.

With Dominic.

She had known it was Damien’s choice.

He had insisted—repeatedly, stubbornly, with that quiet fire behind his eyes that had become more familiar these past few months. No amount of reasoning had changed his mind. Not her warnings. Not her questions. Not even the conversations where she’d laid bare her fears and asked, gently but clearly, why now? Why this?

Because ambition had taken root in him.

And not just the shallow kind that bloomed in the mouths of spoiled nobles. No—this was real. Hungry. Dangerous.

Since his shift, Damien had moved with the force of someone who had something to prove—not just to the world, but to himself. As if the time he’d lost before needed to be hunted down and devoured in full. As if rest was a crime he couldn’t afford anymore.

From that weight—one hundred fifty kilograms—to ninety, in a month.

From near-academic failure to perfect scores in less than a semester.

From isolation to the foundation of a company.

He hadn’t just improved.

He’d transformed. Burned away who he used to be until only the sharpest parts remained.

And Vivienne could see it. Every time he entered a room. Every time he held her gaze without flinching. He was carving himself into someone else, someone more precise, more capable. And there was a part of her—deep, fierce, proud—that adored him for it.

But another part?

The part that remembered holding him in her arms, his fevered skin pressing into hers as she whispered lullabies into the cold?

That part just wanted him safe.

Was that too much to ask?

For her son to survive?

To wake each morning knowing he hadn’t bled for someone else’s ideal?

Apparently so.

Because Damien was no longer just her boy. He was becoming something larger, something more. He wanted to chase down old myths. To wrest power from the world’s closed hands. To survive the Cradle of the Primordials not because he needed to—but because he chose to.

And she wasn’t angry at him for it.

Truly, she wasn’t.

But oh, how she wished the universe rewarded caution instead of fire.

She rested her hands on the cold balcony rail, fingers taut with silent restraint.

You’re going to get yourself killed one day, Damien…

She didn’t say it aloud.

She never would.

Because he didn’t need her doubts.

He needed her strength.

And she had tried. She had played the composed mother. The encouraging one. She had even tried to reassure herself with prophecy.

Her mother—that woman, who rarely spoke in absolutes—had assured her that Damien would succeed. That the Cradle would not take him. That fate had other plans.

But even then…

Even then, she had added something else.

“There is always a cost,” her mother had said. “Even for those who survive. Especially for them.”

And then—softly, almost as an afterthought—”He will succeed… unless he doesn’t.”

It was the first time in years Vivienne had heard her mother leave room for doubt. And that room—small as it was—had opened a door inside her that let the fear come rushing in.

So no.

It wasn’t easy to wait.

It wasn’t possible to stay calm, no matter how well she wore the mask.

That was why, when no messages came, when no updates bled through the sealed comm-lines and not even a single pulse from Dominic’s private signature touched her terminal—Vivienne began to fray.

Not visibly. Not outwardly.

But the signs were there.

A wine glass left untouched for hours beside her chair. A report—normally reviewed and signed within minutes—sitting unopened until midnight. The staff grew quieter in her presence. More careful. Because even if she didn’t raise her voice, the tension in the air made it hard to breathe.

She knew—of course she knew—that the awakening process wasn’t swift. That it required time, conditions, thresholds that couldn’t be rushed. Kael’s outpost was secure, its walls thick with stabilizers and reinforced by systems even she hadn’t full clearance for. The Cradle was not just a trial—it was a sealing chamber, a birthplace for monsters and miracles alike.

Still.

Dominic should have told her something.

A single line. A timestamp. A message with no words at all—just confirmation.

But nothing came.

And in that silence, she had started to hear echoes. Of what could have been. Of what might have happened.

Until finally—finally—she reached out first.

The call had gone unanswered for only a few seconds, but in those seconds, she had felt her stomach coil. Then the screen lit, and there he was—Dominic, alive, whole, composed.

She hadn’t needed to ask.

Because she had already told her.

Her mother—cryptic, cold, impossibly gifted—had given her the confirmation. Not verbally. Not directly. But with that serene, maddening confidence that made her statements feel like inevitabilities.

“He is still among the living. His thread is bright. It has not frayed.”

Vivienne didn’t question the source. Didn’t need to.

When that woman said she could see her grandson’s existence—see him now, alive and real—it was enough.

But even so…

Even so, the ache didn’t stop until she saw him with her own eyes.

And now?

Now he was here.

Damien.

Not just alive, but standing in front of her. Whole. Unscarred. The faintest edge of tension still clinging to his frame, as if his body hadn’t entirely realized it was safe.

She held him tightly, and he didn’t pull away.

That alone was enough to make her breath catch in her throat.

The weight she’d carried for days—carefully hidden beneath silks and sharp words—began to lift, one fraction at a time. Not gone. Never gone. But eased.

He was warm. He was breathing.

He was here.

Vivienne closed her eyes for a heartbeat longer than usual.

Then, slowly, she let her arms fall away and took a step back, gaze steady as she examined him. Not clinically. Not like a doctor. Like a mother trying to memorize every detail.

“You’ve lost more weight,” she murmured. “And your posture has changed again.”

Damien gave her a faint smile. “I’ll take that as a welcome.”

Her lips twitched. Almost.

“It is.”