Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 356

Capítulo 356: The one who sees

How many things are there that people never truly see?

Not because they are hidden, exactly—but because most minds are not shaped to perceive them. Not trained. Not cursed. Not blessed.

And would it even be a blessing?

To know everything?

To see the deeper truth behind faces and masks and motives—to feel the tremor of a soul when it lies, even as the voice remains calm? To look at someone and know they’re doomed before they do?

Would that be wisdom?

Or simply a slow death in disguise?

Erin Valeheart had asked herself that more than once.

Because she could see.

Not through walls, not through illusions, but through people. Through the fragile scaffolding of personality, through the messy knots of fate and contradiction that defined them. She had never learned it. She had been born into it. Birthed into a lineage so steeped in mystery that truth and madness had long ago learned to walk hand in hand.

They called it Mystery. A strange, slippery affinity, harder to quantify than any flame or steel. The Valeheart bloodline bore it like a crown—and a chain.

She remembered the first time the veil lifted.

She had been six.

Kneeling in the center of the Valeheart sanctum, knees pressed to the woven circle of memorythread—a relic cloth stitched from the hair of their ancestors, soaked in centuries of rituals and visions. Around her, the elders stood in silence. No chants. No guiding words. Just the slow, rhythmic drip of candle wax falling to stone.

Her mother had not held her hand.

No one held hands during the Awakening.

Because the gift—Mystery—was not passed down like a family secret.

It revealed itself.

You either survived it, or you didn’t.

The moment it came… it wasn’t light. It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t even pain.

It was understanding.

Sudden. Brutal.

As if the world peeled itself open and whispered, “This is what they are.”

And they—the people around her, the attendants, the guards, the instructors—were raw in her eyes. Not their faces, not their skin, but the pulsing threads beneath. Truths they would never speak aloud. Shames they didn’t realize had shaped them. Loves they carried like broken things in their chests, years old and unhealed.

Their souls.

And from that moment on, Erin Valeheart was never allowed to forget what people really were.

They told her to endure.

They trained her in silence. Fed her not only knowledge, but paradoxes. Books filled with contradictions. Languages meant to collapse upon understanding. Lessons in seeing what wasn’t being said.

Because the Mystery didn’t respond to control.

It responded to perception.

You didn’t use it. You lived it.

To see truth not as a weapon, but as a burden.

And in time, she understood.

Why so few of her bloodline made it to adulthood. Why so many Valehearts whispered to shadows that weren’t there. Why some wept during dinner without knowing why.

Mystery fractured the mind.

Unless the mind learned to fracture the world first.

But you get used to it.

The first time she watched a man lie and saw the color of his soul turn rusted ochre.

The first time she met a girl who smiled as she plotted her own sister’s death—threads sharp, braided with ambition and rot.

The first time she kissed someone and saw, in his thread, the slow, steady disintegration of love before it had even begun.

You get used to it.

Because you must.

Because when your eyes can no longer stop seeing, you either learn to carry it—or it crushes you.

She grew. She studied. She bore titles she never asked for. And eventually, the world noticed.

Not just nobles and merchants and mystics—but Seat Holders.

She had seen them all.

Giants walking cloaked in flesh, souls burning with density so vast that even she could not parse all their strands in a single glance.

Even the Dominion feared her not for what she could do—but for what she might say.

She rose.

Not by design. Not through some meticulous climb with banners and strategy and courtship of the Dominion’s elite.

No—Erin Valeheart rose the way a mountain does. Slowly. Inevitably. As if the world itself simply reshaped around her.

Because she went deeper.

While others trained with blades, she trained with silence.

While others broke mountains, she broke assumptions.

While the Seat Holders clashed in duels of force and fire, Erin descended into the weft of fate itself and pulled truths that no one dared speak.

And she spoke them.

That was what she was….

A power under the concept of socialization of humanity itself.

Because the world could tolerate mystery. It could respect it. Even fear it.

But what the world dreaded—was a woman who could look a monarch in the eye and say the thing they’d spent a lifetime hiding from themselves.

A woman that made the world go from “could tolerate mystery” to “would have to tolerate mystery”.

And smile.

She had once stood before the 8th Seat, a warlord clad in iron and arrogance, a man whose bloodline had ruled for three generations.

He asked why a “seer of whispers” thought she belonged on the same Council as warriors who could tear through armies.

She had not raised her voice.

She had only looked at him.

And when her eyes met his—his soul folded.

Two weeks later, he abdicated his Seat.

No explanation. No reason.

He never spoke in public again.

That was the power she wielded.

Not through strength. But understanding.

Erin Valeheart could unravel kingdoms without lifting a single hand.

And so, yes—she became a Seat Holder.

The 11th Chair. The one always left open, always treated like a formality—until she claimed it.

She filled that seat not with force, but inevitability.

Because unlike her predecessors—reclusive, enigmatic, content to whisper to shadows—Erin wanted more.

She had ambition.

Not hunger for war or land or dominion over the weak—

But ambition to see truth laid bare. To reshape the world not through conquest, but through clarity.

To pull the Valeheart name out of its cursed, whispered legacy…

…and into a place where even tyrants flinched when they heard it.

Because that was who she was.

Erin Valeheart.

Matriarch of the Valeheart Line.

11th Seat Holder.

The Black Seer.

Bearer of Mystery.

Watcher of Threads.

The woman who could make truth hurt more than death.

And yet—

…yet, for all that she had unraveled, for all the truths she had excavated from kings and criminals alike,

there remained a single thread that eluded her.

Thin. Quiet.

Not tangled—but missing.

A soul that should have carried part of her own.

A boy born into the world with Valeheart blood in his veins, but none of the weight.

Her grandson.

Damien Elford.