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

Chapter 251: Forgotten passive skill ? (3)

‘Interesting.’

Damien took that feeling—thick, subtle, like the silence before movement—and stored it. Catalogued it. The system didn’t spell things out in neon. It suggested, nudged, highlighted threads others might walk past. It was up to him to pull.

This was the first time he’d felt it this directly. And already, he could tell—it wasn’t about making decisions for him.

It was about showing him where to look.

The rest?

That was interpretation. Judgment.

Instinct.

Damien took the seat across from Harren Kael, crossing one leg over the other with easy precision. The screen on the table between them hovered passively, displaying Kael’s profile—Logistics, C-tier, formerly contracted to Central Supply Coordination, graduated from Duskshore Institute with a degree in resource optimization and field deployment theory. Not top of his class, but not bottom either. Clean grades. Unremarkable evaluations. Nothing that stood out—

Except for the glow.

Damien tapped the side of the display but kept his eyes on the man.

“Kael,” he said smoothly. “Twenty-nine. Four years in logistics. Duskshore grad. Managed rotating routes for conflict zones before you were reassigned here. That about right?”

Harren gave a curt nod. “More or less.”

His voice was low. Even. Slightly rough—like gravel settling under calm water. No deference in it. But no arrogance either.

Respect, yes. But not submission.

Damien leaned slightly forward, resting his elbow on the armrest. “You didn’t stay in one department too long.”

“You didn’t stay in one department too long,” Damien said, voice neutral, watching for the twitch—any flicker across Kael’s face.

He got nothing.

Not immediately.

Just silence.

Kael’s gaze held, unreadable. The edge of his jaw tensed, almost imperceptibly. Like someone holding a breath not for discipline, but to keep something sharp from slipping out.

Damien didn’t blink.

“Why is that?”

There it was.

The twitch.

Kael’s eyes narrowed a fraction. His fingers tightened slightly on the armrest, knuckles flexing once, slow. He didn’t speak right away.

When he did, it was through clenched teeth, barely restrained.

“Because it didn’t matter how much I moved the numbers. Or how many late shipments I fixed. Or how many field delays I routed around while half the department sat on their hands.”

A pause. His tone darkened, not raised, but quieter—wound tighter.

“They already decided who they wanted to promote. I just wasn’t in the script.”

Damien didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

Kael leaned back, forcing the tension down. Shoulders loose again. The practiced shrug of someone who’d had this conversation too many times—with himself, mostly.

“Every win I pulled got stapled to someone else’s name. Every mistake—mine. Eventually, I stopped pretending I gave a damn.”

And then—he looked at Damien.

Really looked at him.

There was no disrespect in the words.

But in the way Kael’s eyes moved?

Yeah.

There was judgment.

The silent kind.

The kind that scanned Damien’s clean suit, the impossibly tailored look, the smooth command presence—and dismissed it as privilege wrapped in polish.

Not malice. Just assumption.

Damien was young.

And people who looked like Damien didn’t usually fight to keep credit.

They inherited it.

Kael’s mouth pulled into a faint line. “You’ve probably never had that problem.”

As Kael finished, that faint line still etched across his jaw, Damien leaned back slightly—not out of retreat, but to observe.

And to let the other part of him come alive.

The pulse of a second system flickered beneath his thoughts, subtle but precise. A low hum of readings, behavior threads, and emotional resonance overlaying the man in front of him like a half-seen aura.

[Neural Predator]

▶ Observing target…

▶ Micro-expression log: rising tension, suppressed hostility, pulse acceleration (slight).

▶ Emotion detected: resentment. Disposition: confrontational.

▶ Probability of escalation: Moderate.

Damien’s gaze sharpened, just slightly.

This one wasn’t just angry.

He was the kind of man who’d been buried just enough times to start thinking the world owed him a permanent fight.

And maybe he was right.

Damien’s [Merchant’s Intuition] still pulsed around Kael like a drumbeat under stone. The potential was real. This story—this bitterness—it wasn’t a fabrication.

It was carved from truth.

But that didn’t make the attitude acceptable.

It made it dangerous.

And Damien had no interest in carrying anyone who mistook his age for weakness.

He let the silence hang for a second longer. Let Kael sit in the weight of his own words.

Then, with the slow, deliberate calm of someone holding the real power in the room, Damien smiled.

Not politely.

Not kindly.

Just enough to bare the edge of a different truth.

“Oh?” he said, tone smooth. “You like to run your mouth quite a lot, huh?”

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say anything false.”

Damien smiled again. This time, it cut deeper.

Not because it was cruel.

Because it was measured.

Calculated.

And behind his eyes, the [Neural Predator] trait was already whispering—identifying the softest thread in the man’s frame. A tightness in the right shoulder. Subtle shift. Probably old strain, maybe combat or repetitive field labor. The kind of thing a desk jockey wouldn’t notice.

But Damien wasn’t one of those.

He stood without a word.

And then, slowly—deliberately—he walked around the table to Kael’s side.

Kael didn’t turn his head, but Damien could feel the slight realignment of his posture. Alert. Coiled.

Not in fear.

In calculation.

Good.

Damien rested a hand on the man’s shoulder.

Right on the weak point.

Kael tensed, barely—reflex—but didn’t flinch.

Damien applied pressure.

Not enough to bruise.

Just enough to speak.

“One can speak the truth,” Damien said quietly, almost conversational, “but the truth is often the reason one gets into trouble.”

He pressed a fraction harder.

Kael didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“I’m not asking you to lick boots,” Damien continued, voice low, next to his ear now. “I’m asking you to understand the difference between righteousness and utility.”

He held the pressure a moment longer.

Then released.

Straightened.

Kael looked up at him, eyes hard as forged iron. Still not broken. Still not submitting.

Just watching.

Damien looked right back.

And he liked what he saw.

That fire? It didn’t come from rebellion. It came from resolve. The kind of will that didn’t bend unless it decided the one standing above it deserved that weight.

These weren’t the eyes of a man who played games for favor.

This was a man who, once convinced, wouldn’t back down until the job was done.

No half-measures. No politics. No deals behind backs.

Just results.

And the glow?

[Merchant’s Intuition] surged—brighter now, richer, refined. Like it had found alignment. Like it was syncing deeper with Damien’s awareness.

A quiet confirmation in the back of his mind.

Perfect.

Damien stepped back, brushing invisible dust from his jacket sleeve.

“Not bad,” Damien said, brushing off his sleeve with lazy precision. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, locked directly onto Kael’s.

He took one step forward.

Then another.

No rush. Just presence.

“You will work for me.”

Kael’s eyes didn’t shift, but the crease between his brows deepened slightly. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t hedge.

But he did speak.

“Work for you?” he asked, voice flat. “And what exactly are you planning that needs people like me? Logistics? Fieldwork? Another boardroom reshuffle with prettier walls?”

Damien tilted his head, as if considering the question.

But instead of answering, he smiled.

Slow.

Controlled.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said quietly.

Then he moved again—just a step closer.

Close enough that Kael had to tilt his head slightly upward to meet his gaze. Close enough that the tension returned to the room like a thread drawn taut.

Damien’s hand came down again—not to the shoulder this time, but to Kael’s forearm.

He gripped.

Tight.

Not brutal, not enough to leave marks.

Just enough to make Kael’s hand shift under the pressure. Enough to remind him that Damien wasn’t just posturing.

“This,” Damien said, voice low and even, “is your warning.”

The smile vanished.

“Next time you look at me with that arrogant gaze, you better make sure you’re ready to back it with more than bitterness.”

His grip tightened, fingers locking briefly into the muscle of Kael’s forearm, making the older man’s jaw clench—not in pain, but instinct.

Controlled discomfort. Deliberate.

Then—release.

Damien stepped back again, smile returning like a flick of a blade being sheathed.

“I like that you don’t bend easy. That’s why you’re here.”

He turned toward the door, already done.

“But you will work for me, Kael. Not with me.”

“And if that ever gets blurry—”

He looked over his shoulder one last time, voice sharp as polished steel:

“—I’ll fix the focus myself.”

The door slid open.

And Damien walked out.

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