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

Chapter 238: Controlling Bloodlust

Adeline’s posture remained proud, but her lips were pressed in a taut line—somewhere between annoyance and disbelief. She gave Damien one last, unreadable look, then turned toward the door.

Before she reached it, Dominic’s voice cut through again—measured, cool.

“Adeline.”

She paused.

“You may go. This discussion is over for now.”

Adeline hesitated just a second too long, but she nodded, straightened, and left without another word. The sound of her heels faded into the hall, then vanished entirely.

The door shut behind her.

Silence.

Dominic didn’t speak right away. He didn’t look at Damien, either. He remained seated, hands steepled under his chin, gaze fixed on the far wall. Then, slowly, he shifted his eyes—cold gray locking onto Damien with quiet weight.

“The wager was your idea,” he said. “But it’s not why I called you here.”

Damien didn’t flinch. “I figured.”

Dominic stood again, the firelight catching the faint silver at his temples as he turned away from the desk.

“You’re leaking,” he said flatly.

Damien’s brow twitched. “Leaking?”

Dominic turned fully now.

“Bloodlust,” he said. “You’re exuding it. Every step you took in this room carried it behind you like a shadow. You didn’t even notice, did you?”

Damien’s expression sharpened—not out of fear, but focus.

Dominic nodded slightly. “You wouldn’t. Most don’t at first. Especially if it’s raw. Untrained.”

He paused a moment, as if weighing what came next.

Then he gestured for Damien to follow.

“Come,” he said. “You’re going to learn how to stop bleeding into every room you walk into.”

And with that, Dominic moved toward the back corridor—one that didn’t lead to the usual study or parlor.

It led deeper.

To the reinforced floors.

To the places where Awakened trained in silence.

*****

Dominic’s steps echoed with practiced weight as he led Damien through the lower halls of the estate—halls that most of the household staff weren’t even cleared to access. Reinforced doorways, motion-sealed passage sensors, and the cold steel hum of mana-reactive lighting lined their path.

They stopped in front of a thick sliding door carved from obsidian-laced alloy. Dominic pressed his palm against the control panel. A soft chime rang out, followed by a cascade of clicks as the door unlocked with a deep mechanical groan.

It opened slowly.

The room beyond was vast—taller than it was wide, lined with advanced combat-grade technology, reinforced floors etched with mana-conductive patterns, and walls that shimmered with kinetic dampeners. At the far end, training mannequins stood idle, their cores waiting to be activated. On the ceiling, automated targeting nodes flickered to life with a low thrum.

The Elford training chamber.

Damien stepped in, his eyes narrowing slightly at the ambient pressure. It was cooler here. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. Like the space itself remembered pain and didn’t mind offering it again.

Dominic followed behind, then let the door hiss shut with a finality that meant isolation.

No servants here.

No observers.

Just father and son.

He turned to face Damien fully now, folding his arms.

“This is where I broke my limits,” Dominic said, voice low but clear. “And where I watched others fail to.”

He let the words hang before stepping toward a nearby wall panel. With a flick of his fingers, a display materialized, mapping the room’s various training settings—gravity control, mana field intensity, feedback diagnostics.

Dominic didn’t activate anything yet.

Instead, he turned back to Damien, gaze sharp.

“Strip the coat.”

Damien didn’t question it. He slid it off in one smooth motion, the black fabric whispering as it left his frame and was tossed to the bench behind him.

Beneath it, he wore a fitted compression shirt—its sleeves short, its surface clinging to his form and leaving no doubt about the changes his body had undergone.

Dominic nodded once.

“Good. No excuses.”

He stepped closer—just enough that the edge in his voice felt more present.

“Now listen carefully.”

He gestured at the room around them.

“The mana in here is compressed. Just slightly. Enough to feel. Not enough to kill.”

He stepped to the center circle of the room, where the training field was marked with concentric rings.

“When bloodlust seeps out, it lingers. Fills a space. Even without intent, it influences everything—how others perceive you, how allies respond, how enemies gauge your threat.”

He gestured for Damien to join him.

Damien did.

Dominic’s eyes didn’t blink. “The first rule,” he said, “is awareness. You cannot suppress what you refuse to sense.”

He paused.

“Close your eyes.”

Damien did.

Dominic circled him once, silent.

“Now feel the air,” he said. “Trace it.”

Damien exhaled, slowly.

“Your presence—right now—it’s leaking. Not in waves. In pulses.”

Dominic’s voice lowered.

“Focus. Feel the echo you’re casting.”

Damien exhaled slowly through his nose, his brow knitting—not in pain, but in effort. The room was quiet, but not still. The walls didn’t echo; they listened.

Trace it, Dominic had said.

He tried.

But it was like reaching into fog with numb fingers. There was something there—some weight, some echo—but it didn’t obey the usual logic of sensation. It wasn’t touch. It wasn’t pressure in the physical sense. It was presence. A ripple of self he couldn’t see but knew existed.

And that made it maddening.

He clenched his jaw, grounding his breath.

Dominic watched from a step away, arms folded. His tone remained level, but there was a subtle sharpness to it now.

“Difficult, isn’t it?” he said. “Good.”

Damien’s eyes stayed shut.

“You can’t feel it because you’ve never needed to,” Dominic continued. “Bloodlust is instinctual. Emotional. It pours from the soul without asking.”

He circled again.

“But now you’re trying to control it. Trying to put a leash on a thing you didn’t even know was there until this week.”

Another pause.

“And that’s what makes this harder than controlling mana.”

Damien twitched at that—not in irritation, but in realization. His breath hitched for a moment, then steadied again.

“You’re saying it’s worse?” he asked, low.

“No,” Dominic replied. “I’m saying it’s deeper.”

He stepped back, speaking more like a field instructor now than a father.

“Mana is energy. It can be cultivated, shaped, harmonized. Bloodlust isn’t cultivated. It erupts. It’s tied to survival, violence, will. Most Awakened suppress it as a side effect of discipline—not because they train it.”

“But if you can train it,” Dominic said, voice dipping lower, “you’re already ahead of most.”

Damien’s fists clenched slightly. He reached again—not outward, but inward. Toward that echo. That presence. That thing in him that had stirred in the canyon. The moment before the monster died. The moment he killed it.

He found it, for just a second.

A flicker.

A pulse.

Like the tension before a blade slips free of the sheath.

But it slipped away again, and his brow furrowed.

“I can’t grab it,” he muttered. “It’s there, but it doesn’t stay.”

Dominic’s voice didn’t shift. “It won’t. Not yet.”

He moved toward the console again, adjusting a dial.

The room changed.

Not physically. But the air grew tighter—just a notch. Enough to make every breath feel slightly weighted.

“Bloodlust responds to intention,” Dominic said. “But it thrives on pressure.”

He turned back.

“This room mimics threat. It’ll press on your nerves. Trigger adrenaline. You’ll want to fight, or flee. Ignore it.”

He pointed to the floor beneath Damien’s feet.

“Don’t move from that ring. Don’t raise your fists. Just feel. Until you can sense your own killing intent the way you’d sense your hand closing into a fist.”

Damien exhaled again. Longer this time.

He didn’t complain.

Didn’t argue.

He simply stood there, eyes closed, and listened to himself.

And slowly… something stirred.

Not obedience.

Not fear.

But hunger.

The same thing that had driven him to step into the canyon. The same thing that had watched the beast bleed and thought—more.

Not power.

Not vengeance.

Something older.

Dominic didn’t speak again. He watched. Waited.

Because if Damien could reach it again—if he could begin to leash what others barely contained—then this wasn’t just training.

It was awakening.

Not of mana.

But of something rarer.

A killer’s will, refined through discipline.

Not instinct.

Choice.

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