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

Chapter 227: So she recognized him (2)

“My master is Master Damien Elford.”

The words left her lips like stone from a siege engine—deliberate, absolute. Not a declaration. Not defiance. Just truth.

The screen on Dominic’s end remained frozen in silence, but Elysia didn’t look at it. Her eyes were on the canyon. On the place he had vanished. On the space where something had shifted—and not just in the air.

In her.

In them.

She inhaled once, quietly.

And beneath the silence of the call, her thoughts began to unspool.

He acknowledged me first.

That was the beginning.

Not with ceremony. Not with binding vows. No crest pressed into her palm. No branded seal of servitude. He had simply looked at her—truly looked—and said, “You are mine. And I will be yours.”

A contract without a contract.

Recognition without chains.

And from that moment on, something changed.

It wasn’t just her sword he trusted.

It was her judgment. Her voice. Her presence.

He let her see things no one else had. Shared truths that didn’t belong in their world—secrets that, by all rights, should have shattered it.

Pockets of reality that bent the rules of mana.

Artifacts that didn’t obey known enchantment systems.

Events that felt less like coincidences and more like hidden threads being pulled behind the world’s curtain.

He had shown her too much.

But not to boast.

To invite her in.

And what kind of maid—what kind of woman—would accept all of that and then fold at the first demand of a different master?

If I betray that trust now, she thought, it wouldn’t reflect on Damien.

It would reflect on me.

Her character. Her loyalty. Her worth.

Because the truth was simple.

A maid wasn’t a tool. Not in the way she had been taught.

A maid was a sword with choice.

One that could only be drawn by the one it chose to kneel for.

And she had knelt once.

Not to the House.

Not to its legacy.

But to him.

Damien.

The boy who broke his body to find a limit.

The man who stepped into death’s mouth with nothing but intent in his bones.

The master who gave her no orders unless he trusted she could carry them.

Her hands tightened behind her back.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was even quieter than before—but no less firm.

“It is not you.”

****

From Dominic’s side, the silence pulsed louder than words.

He stared at the screen—at Elysia.

Her posture remained the same. Perfect. Unmoving. Disciplined to the last strand of hair.

But it was the eyes.

Her eyes had always been cold.

Sharp, but controlled. Like the edge of a sword that had never tasted true heat—only training, obedience, doctrine. She was a weapon refined by Vivienne’s bloodline, a combat maid bred and built in the image of one of the oldest northern houses. Not a mere servant, but a sentinel forged in silence.

And until now, she had reported to him.

Not out of loyalty, but hierarchy.

Because while she had protected Damien—stood at his side when commanded—she had never once bowed to him in truth. Never once used the language, the posture, the instinct of someone who belonged to the heir.

Dominic had always known this.

He had never trusted Elysia’s position.

She came with Vivienne when they married. A dowry of power wrapped in human form. Vivienne’s unspoken claim to autonomy within the house, her leverage in all things maternal. Elysia was not Elford by blood or by oath.

She was loaned.

And now?

Now, for the first time, she stood there—not facing him, not answering him.

Defying him.

“My master is Master Damien Elford.”

The words echoed again, unshakable.

Not mechanical.

Not trained.

Chosen.

Dominic leaned slowly back into his chair, his face unreadable. But behind his gaze, something shifted—cracked, quietly.

“…I see,” he said at last.

There was no anger in his tone.

No thunder. No chastisement.

Just something harder to name.

Recognition, perhaps.

The kind one gives to a sword that has been taken by another’s hand.

“You never said that before,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

“No,” Elysia replied.

“Not even once.”

“No,” she repeated.

Dominic’s eyes narrowed.

And still—he saw it.

That change.

The way she didn’t flinch. Didn’t lower her gaze. Not from arrogance, but from conviction.

She wasn’t his anymore.

Not in spirit. Not in structure.

That had passed.

He studied her a moment longer, the weight of memory passing through him.

He remembered when she first arrived at the estate—barely seventeen, thin as a blade, eyes sharper than steel. He remembered how she refused to speak more than ten words in any room, how she had once disarmed a rogue intruder with a hairpin and a dinner tray. He remembered how she stood over Damien’s shoulder during public events like a statue—not out of loyalty, but because the matriarch ordered it.

And now?

Now she had chosen to be Damien’s sword.

Not the family’s.

Not Vivienne’s.

His.

Dominic folded his hands, his voice quiet but heavy.

“I suppose he’s earned more than we thought.”

Elysia didn’t reply.

She didn’t need to.

Dominic’s gaze drifted to the side—toward the suspended image of Damien’s signal, still dark, still unreachable.

He took a long breath.

And after letting the silence breathe for a moment longer, he exhaled, slowly.

“If you don’t wish to answer,” he said at last, “I won’t press it.”

His tone had shifted—not softened, but cooled. Resigned to the line that had been drawn.

But his eyes stayed sharp, locked onto the screen.

“…Is he safe?”

Elysia didn’t hesitate.

“He is.”

There was nothing dramatic in her voice. No flourish, no dramatization—just certainty. Cold, clipped, absolute. The kind of certainty that didn’t beg belief—it commanded it.

Dominic leaned back in his chair.

He studied her face one last time and gave a short nod.

“Then I have nothing else to say.”

He paused.

“But.”

His voice deepened slightly.

“When he returns—tonight—I expect him at the family estate. No more hiding behind signal blocks or sealed chambers.”

His gaze hardened, though the words came quiet.

“We’ll have a talk. A proper one.”

Elysia’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a small tilt to her head—like a blade acknowledging another blade.

“I will inform Master Damien.”

Dominic nodded once, curt.

“Good.”

And then, without flourish or farewell, the screen flickered.

The call ended.

Silence returned to the room, save for the low tick of the mantel clock.

Adeline, still standing behind him, finally stepped forward, her voice breaking the tension.

“…She really said that,” she muttered, half to herself.

Dominic turned slightly, his eyes narrowing at her tone.

Adeline frowned faintly, arms folded. “Elysia. Of all people. Saying ‘my master is Damien.’ I thought she was incapable of devotion, much less sentiment.”

“She isn’t sentimental,” Dominic said flatly.

Adeline raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you call that little performance?”

Dominic didn’t answer right away.

He turned back to the console, eyes still fixed on the image of the suspended signal—still dark, still unresponsive.

“…I call that loyalty,” he said at last. “The real kind.”

Adeline said nothing more.

Because even she couldn’t argue with what they’d just witnessed.

Dominic’s fingers drummed once against the edge of the desk, the corner of his mouth curling—not quite into a smile, but something close. Something earned.

“He managed to get Elysia,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Hmph. He is my son after all.”

The words weren’t boastful.

They were measured.

Reflective.

Like a man acknowledging a bloodline that had finally proven it ran true.

Adeline turned her head slowly, shooting him a sideward glance.

‘Men….’

She could only think.

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