Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 142: Quest and Teacher

His first few attempts were rigid. His stance shifted too much. The recoil lacked balance. She stepped forward without hesitation, adjusting his shoulder line and tapping his back foot lightly with her heel.

"Too narrow," she said. "Widen your stance. Your rear foot should anchor, not chase."

He corrected.

They moved into low kicks first—midline target practice.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Two hours passed.

And something started to unsettle her.

It wasn't the repetition. Nor the sweat dripping down his back, nor the bruises forming on his shins as he struck the padded dummy.

It was the way he learned.

She observed him carefully—his breathing, his posture, the way his feet landed more confidently after each rep. By the second set, his foot placement no longer needed correction. By the third, his recoil was clean. By the fourth, he had adjusted his shoulder weight without being told.

It was too fast.

This wasn't just memory. It wasn't even intuition. It was something else.

'He's not just remembering what I show him. He's mapping it. Executing it. Locking it in like he's already done it a hundred times.'

She narrowed her eyes, saying nothing.

His balance had already improved. The work they'd done on his flexibility? It was already showing. The rotational control in his hips was smoother. The recoil in his stance—sharper. The lateral drift he'd struggled with the night before? Gone.

He wasn't moving like a first-timer.

He was adapting.

'This is not normal.'

The truth was simple.

Kicks weren't hard because of strength. They were hard because of control—how one connected their limbs, how they timed momentum, how they resisted collapse. Control took time.

But Damien was devouring time.

And Elysia, for all her poise, could feel it.

She didn't know what was behind it.

Not yet.

She didn't know the words [Neural Synchronicity] had appeared in his status window only a day ago—a passive skill rooted deep in his body now, enhancing the signal between intent and action. Muscle memory forming in real-time. Reflex patterns rewiring as he moved. Learning curves demolished.

All she knew was this:

He was already kicking better than most initiates after a month of drilling.

And he hadn't flinched once.

Not from the pain. Not from her.

Just silent, relentless progress.

She stepped forward again, her hand reaching out to adjust his arm—only to realize she didn't need to. He had already fixed it mid-kick.

She lowered her hand.

"…Again," she said.

Damien exhaled, nodded, and raised his leg once more.

Elysia watched Damien complete the final kick, his leg snapping back into position with clean recoil and no loss of balance. She let the silence hang for a beat, eyes narrowing faintly.

Then she spoke. "That's enough."

Damien dropped his leg, breathing hard but composed. He met her gaze without question—already used to obeying when she called the session.

She turned and walked without ceremony toward the exit—but he noticed the faint glint of enchantment in her bracelets fade for a moment. Her strength limiter adjusting.

Five minutes later, she returned.

This time, she carried two trays.

One she placed in front of Damien—a monstrous plate stacked with seared direbeast flank, nutrient-loaded root mash, and thick-cut eggs bound in fortified oil. The other, smaller, more compact, she set beside herself.

Elysia didn't normally eat with him. She used to observe from a distance, like a sentinel. But now?

Now that she was his teacher?

Their meals were shared.

Damien was already halfway through his tray when he noticed she had barely begun. He smirked through a mouthful of meat.

"You're going to have to eat more than that if you're going to keep up with me."

Elysia didn't rise to the bait. She took a slow, deliberate bite of her greens, voice calm.

"You consume more than four times the average requirement. I am not the one under Ravenous Breath."

He chuckled and shoved another bite in.

They sat like that for a time. Quiet. Functional.

But the silence wasn't empty.

It was the silence of momentum. The pause before the next push.

After a while, Elysia set her fork down and looked across at him.

"You've grasped most of the basics."

Damien didn't stop chewing, but his eyes flicked up.

She met his gaze. "That pace is not normal."

He swallowed. "And?"

"I said it was not normal. Not that it is bad."

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A brief pause.

She looked down at her tray, then back at him.

"…We'll move to sparring."

Damien's lips twitched into a slow grin. "Finally."

*****

The ring was quiet.

No crowd. No pressure. Just padded walls, reinforced flooring, and two bodies poised on opposite sides of the mat.

Damien rolled his shoulders, exhaling once through his nose. The sweat from earlier had dried, but his muscles were still warm—fueled by the remnants of Ravenous Breath and a full meal settling deep into his core.

Elysia stood across from him, her stance relaxed, arms at her sides, her expression unreadable.

No announcement.

No signal.

Just a look.

Damien moved first.

A feint, then a forward dash—low and direct, closing the distance fast. His jab came in sharp, followed by a tight hook to the ribs.

Elysia shifted like water.

His fist met nothing but air.

Her palm redirected the hook, her foot slid forward, and—

Crack.

A sharp heel into his thigh.

Damien staggered.

And then she stepped in—one hand on his wrist, the other on his shoulder—and threw him.

The mat cracked under his back.

Pain lanced through his spine, but he rolled and pushed off, coming back to his feet.

He didn't grin this time.

He knew what this was.

He launched again. Kick, punch, step, retreat—fluid, built on everything she had taught him.

And still—

Elysia read every motion like a choreographed dance.

She didn't block. She moved.

Tilted her head just past his jab. Raised a knee to absorb his kick. Slapped his elbow mid-swing to destabilize his form, then slid around his guard and struck him in the ribs.

Each hit was precise.

Controlled.

Damien dropped again, breath knocked from his lungs. His side ached.

His forearm was bruised from an earlier deflection. His thigh was beginning to swell. He could feel the strain in his right ankle from the first toss.

Pain throbbed through him, steady and deep.

But it wasn't new.

And more importantly—it was manageable.

He pulled a small vial from his belt without pause. Snapped the top and drank.

Health Potion: Grade C. Alchemical-grade, brewed with monster blood and regeneration cores.

Damien tilted his head back as the bitter fluid of the health potion slid down his throat, the vial falling from his fingers with a faint clink as it hit the mat. The warmth spread quickly—liquid vitality flooding his limbs, stitching pain into numbness, coaxing bruised tissue to knit and mend.

His muscles twitched.

Then flexed.

He inhaled deep, nostrils flaring as he rolled his shoulders, testing the recovery. The dull ache in his ribs softened. The swelling in his thigh faded. His ankle? Stabilizing. He could still feel the aftershocks—the warning pulses of his body reminding him he wasn't invincible—but the pain no longer dictated his next move.

He rose to his feet.

And he felt it.

Sinew tightening. Ligaments falling into sync. Movements coming faster, smoother—like a body rediscovering its own blueprints.

He flexed his fingers, then looked to Elysia.

"Not bad…" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

She didn't respond.

But she was watching.

Always watching.

He could tell by the faint shift in her stance. The way her pupils sharpened slightly. She was reading him again—cataloguing his progress, noting his resilience.

And Damien?

He was beginning to feel it.

Not mastery. Not flow.

But momentum.

He hadn't learned a combat art yet. He still didn't know how to channel energy, hadn't studied the intricacies of stance discipline, hadn't memorized the frame data of dueling techniques.

But even so—

These injuries were fine.

Pain was manageable.

Fatigue was worse. Fatigue was what dragged you down like rot in your bones. But this? This bruising, this strain? It could be healed. Managed. Controlled.

And the moment that thought solidified in his mind—

Ding.

A flicker of light appeared at the edge of his vision. Sharp. Inevitable.

---------------

[New Quest: Surpass Your Instructor]

Elysia stands as your current peak. She holds the knowledge, the edge, the control.

Objective: Beat Elysia on a spar until midnight.

Rewards:

– +100 SP

– +100 EXP

– [Physique of Nature] will evolve.

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