Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 358

Capítulo 358: The one who sees (3)

It did not make sense.

It couldn’t make sense.

Damien – Writing said:

She had stared at the mirror-slab, thinking—this is a joke.

It had to be.

Damien, of all people? The boy who once faked an injury to skip an instructor’s lecture on basic mana resonance? Who yawned through dinner meetings and treated tradition like theater?

But looking at Vivienne’s face… and Dominic’s, silent beside her with that same rare grimness that only surfaced when something truly mattered…

No.

They weren’t joking.

Vivienne Valeheart did not joke. Not with her.

Not with the Matriarch.

And certainly not about the Cradle.

“I don’t understand,” Erin had murmured, gaze narrowing. “You’re telling me he chose this?”

“He did,” Vivienne replied, voice clipped. “He asked us directly. Said it was time.”

Erin could feel the lie—or rather, the lack of one. The threads of their voices, their expressions, their intentions—none of them carried falsehood.

It was real.

And they weren’t contacting her to seek permission. Not exactly.

They were asking for a final judgment.

“If he goes,” Dominic said, “and doesn’t return… then no promise, no legacy, no honor is worth it. We’d rather be cowards and hypocrites than bury our son.”

And Erin—who had seen wars sparked by lesser choices—could only nod.

She understood.

So she went to the sanctum.

Deep beneath Valeheart Tower, where silence did not echo and light moved like a thought. There, she prepared the ritual of Veit Koral—the Seeing of Decision.

It was one of the rarest rites in their bloodline. Forbidden to be used lightly. It did not show the full web of futures, but rather isolated the results of a singular act. A fork in the road. A choice about to be made.

She traced the inked lines.

Poured her blood into the bowl.

Spoke the true name of Damien Elford.

And waited.

The surface of the liquid pulsed once… then went still.

No vision came.

No response.

No color.

Nothing.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She tried again. Sharpened the ritual. Focused harder. The name, the intent, the moment of choice.

And again—nothing.

The water remained still.

Unseen.

Impossible.

The ritual only failed when the subject was powerful enough—independent enough—to resist the pull of Mystery. Only a few beings in the Dominion could block her Sight. Some Seat Holders. Certain divine-blooded hybrids. One or two lost ancients that stirred when the stars changed.

But Damien?

Her grandson who couldn’t be bothered to memorize his ancestral vows?

She widened her eyes, heart ticking slower, colder.

What had happened to him?

What had he become?

One last time, she invoked the rite—but not on Damien directly. That path was closed.

Instead, she shifted the focus. A broader lens. A spiral instead of a spear.

Show me the fate of the family, she whispered into the ritual,

if Damien walks through the Cradle.

This time, the bowl moved.

Flickered.

Burned with slow, deep colors. Threads shimmering into shape, forming glimpses of futures not yet written but yearning to be.

She saw Vivienne. Stronger. Clearer. No longer shadowed by disappointment.

She saw Dominic, head bowed at some ceremony—proud.

That was why she had allowed it.

The vision had not come cleanly. Not directly. But even through the roundabout lens of fate—the ripple in the family’s collective thread—she had seen enough. Damien’s path through the Cradle would not be a failure. It would not be his grave. Quite the opposite.

It would raise them. All of them. And for Erin Valeheart, that was enough.

She ended the call with Vivienne and Dominic with a rare, simple phrase:

“Let him walk it.”

But once the connection faded into silence, she did not move. She sat in the sanctum long after the braziers cooled, staring at the still surface of the ritual bowl.

She could not read him. Her own blood. Her grandson.

And that… could not be ignored.

The Cradle was not the only mystery. Damien Elford himself had become one.

So she began to investigate. Not publicly—of course not. The Matriarch did not move openly for anyone short of a war god or a dying Seat.

But in private? She pulled threads. Summoned whispers. Called on the eyes that had been watching the Elford Estate for decades.

And the news she received—

It unsettled her.

First came the report of the broken engagement. Damien had severed ties with Celia Everwyn.

She’d stared at that line longer than she expected.

Celia. Talented, sharp, one of the most gifted young nobles of her generation. A strategist’s mind with will. And most importantly—connected.

Celia and Damien’s threads had been tightly bound since their childhood. Twisting. Tangled. Not the soft knots of affection or politics—

But obsession.

His.

Even as a child, his soul had leaned toward Celia like a starving man toward warmth. The bond was thick, almost unnaturally so. And while Erin had disapproved of the girl personally—there was a sharpness to Celia she distrusted—she had compromised.

Because sometimes obsession was enough to anchor a soul. Sometimes, it was better to bind than to sever.

But now?

He broke it.

Not out of scandal. Not after some great public humiliation. He simply ended it. Walked away.

Well, in fact, from what she came to learn, it was him causing a public humiliation.

And what disturbed her more—

The thread was completely cut now….

That was not normal. Not for souls that entangled so deeply. For it to unravel so cleanly, so thoroughly—

Something must have happened.

And then came the next report.

Damien’s physical state.

The boy who had always hidden behind excuses, indulgence, sloth—was now lean. Toned. Moving with purpose.

Gone was the softness. The weight. The subtle rot of stagnation.

Whoever he had been was shed. No more old skin.

And finally—his Awakening.

No tutor. No Elford instructor. He had done it himself.

The Cradle.

The ritual confirmed his survival. But these pieces—stacked one after another—told a much larger story.

Damien Elford had not merely changed. He had become something else entirely.

And that—

That was why she had come.

Not just to witness. Not to question.

But to see him.

And now she stood here.

In the heart of the Blackthorne estate, facing the grandson she had once mourned in silence—mourned not for death, but for squandered potential. For mediocrity. For betrayal of blood.

But this?

This was not the boy she remembered.

Erin Valeheart stood still as stone, hands laced before her, Mystery thrumming beneath her skin like an old, half-forgotten song.

And yet—nothing.

No threads.

No shimmer of intent. No whisper of soul. Not even the faintest murmur of guilt or pride or hunger.

He was… blank.

‘Where are your threads, Damien?’

She narrowed her eyes, not in suspicion, but in disbelief.

He stood across from her, casual, composed. Not slouched. Not distracted. Eyes sharp, posture clean. Something that looked like calm rested in his bones—but it was the wrong kind. It wasn’t laziness. It was… containment.

‘This isn’t you.’

Because the Damien she knew—he always leaked. Leaked emotions, leaked whims, leaked thoughts before they even finished forming. His threadscape had once been a mess of impulse and fear and longing, tangled in loops he didn’t even try to cut.

But this version?

This one was sealed.

There was no Damien in front of her.

‘Something is wearing his skin.’

——————A/N———————–

I am sorry for not posting in the past month. With internships as well as moving out, everything stacked up.

The quality of my books went down, and I decided to take a break instead of presenting a lower quality.

From now on, daily chapters will continue, and in fact, I will try to post 3 chapters a day if I can. I may not be able to though, as my college semester also started.

In any case, I am back now, sorry for the wait.