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

Chapter 244: Mother’s presence (2)

The car pulled smoothly onto the main thoroughfare, leaving the gates of the Elford estate behind. As the sleek black vehicle merged into the arterial lanes of Vermillion City, the horizon widened—skyscrapers rising like glass monoliths, each one a different language of power and ambition.

Vermillion wasn’t just a city. It was a declaration.

A fusion of old-world aristocracy and bleeding-edge innovation, the city unfolded in layers—each district bearing its own pulse, its own unspoken codes.

To the east was Marrowgate, a dense, ancient quarter threaded with cobbled lanes and low-arched bridges. Most of the city’s historical institutions were housed there—museums, grand libraries, old-world cafes with wrought-iron terraces and faded sigils etched into their stones.

Just beyond it sprawled Halix Spire, the education district—young, pulsing, alive. University banners lined the tram bridges, while students and researchers buzzed between crystalline lecture halls and mana-laced think tanks. Halix was chaotic brilliance distilled into motion.

Southward, the skyline narrowed into Rookfield, an industrial plateau of steel-gray towers, where refineries and mana-reactor plants hummed in rhythmic precision. The air carried the tang of ozone and reinforced mana vapor. Efficiency reigned here, and the people moved like gears in a larger machine.

To the west, Velmire Row cast a different kind of shadow—neon-glow nightlife, underworld markets, and black-cloaked Awakened peddling things not listed on any public registry. It was all glamour and grit—a place for secrets and scars.

But Damien and Vivienne weren’t headed to any of those.

They were heading to the Cadenza Promenade—the crown jewel of Vermillion’s elite. It wasn’t just the most expensive street in the city.

It was the stage.

The car turned off the express glideway, entering a boulevard framed by pale stone buildings and terraced glass towers. Storefronts here didn’t scream for attention—they whispered wealth. Clean gold-lettered signs, armored display windows enchanted to shift with the mood of the day, and valet portals designed for personal hovercraft and executive convoys.

This was where deals were signed without paperwork. Where marriages were arranged over imported espresso. Where image wasn’t just an accessory—it was a weapon.

And as the Elford car pulled into the reserved space outside Maison Vairelux—a high-end clothier known for dressing senators and sovereigns—Vivienne finally set her tablet aside.

“We’ll start here,” she said, stepping out without waiting for the chauffeur to assist.

Damien followed, adjusting his cuffs again, eyes drifting across the promenade as pedestrians passed—none hurried, none loud. The kind of people who didn’t carry wallets because everything they wore was the transaction.

“This street,” he murmured, more to himself, “smells like ambition and old perfume.”

Vivienne looked back over her shoulder, brow lifting ever so slightly.

“That’s because both are expensive,” she said. “And both linger long after they should.”

The luxury district was a world unto itself—sunlight filtered through enchanted crystal awnings, casting soft patterns on polished white stone walkways as Vivienne and Damien moved through the heart of Cadenza Promenade. Every boutique they entered was a vault of exclusivity: deep interiors scented with rare mana-dried florals, lighting that adjusted based on skin tone and mana signature, attendants who bowed just enough to show reverence but never too much to seem desperate.

At Maison Vairelux, Damien was fitted with tailored outerwear—coats spun from leviathan silk, lined with mana-dampening thread. Shirts that shimmered with temperature-reactive weave. Trousers that molded perfectly at the knee, crafted by designers who usually served only ministers and monarchs. Each item carried no tag—just discreet numbers written by hand, and a final nod from Vivienne before they were sealed and added to the growing procession of delivery drones fluttering silently behind them.

Then came the accessories.

At Quenlin Atelier, Damien stood still as a jeweler examined his wrist with a scrying lens, calibrating the right weight of mana-infused cufflinks. Polished obsidian, dragonbone inlays, and a single tie pin from the Ardent Flame Series—an aggressive but elegant piece Vivienne approved with a glance.

Everywhere they went, the atmosphere shifted.

Whispers floated behind them like perfume.

“That’s Vivienne Elford.”

“The chairwoman of Lucerne Holdings.”

“She’s even more stunning in person.”

She was recognized at once—admired by power wives and socialites, envied by heiresses, respected by men who knew better than to offer empty flattery. The wife of Dominic Elford. The mother of a lineage that traced back to one of the Council Seat Holders. A woman who ran her own empires while walking through her husband’s without missing a step.

She didn’t need to speak loudly to command presence.

Her silence did that for her.

But Damien?

The reactions were different.

Curious glances followed him—but not reverent ones. Murmurs rippled quietly behind display racks and velvet curtains.

“Is that… her son?”

“I thought Damien Elford was—”

“Wasn’t he the dropout? The one from the Everwyn scandal?”

“He looks… different.”

They didn’t know what to make of him.

Because until six weeks ago, there had been nothing to make.

The Elford family had never paraded him. No press conferences. No promotional campaigns. No polished appearances at summits or charity galas. Damien had been the ghost prince—the heir in name, unmentioned in strategy, and ignored even in scandal. His weight loss was public enough to spark rumors, sure. And the incident at Vermillion Academy had made noise among the student circuits.

But to most?

He was still the echo of failure. A name paired with indulgence. And now, stripped and repackaged in luxury threads and predator-cut suits, they didn’t quite know how to label what they were seeing.

That ambiguity hung in the air as Damien stepped out of Orris & Fen, the last boutique on their list. His final suit was matte black with storm-thread linings, the collar sharp, minimal.

Now, as Damien stepped onto the polished white flagstones outside Orris & Fen, his silhouette cut through the golden morning light like something engineered, not born. The matte-black suit hugged his frame perfectly—storm-thread glinting subtly with each step, collar clean, unapologetically angular. It wasn’t just tailoring.

It was design meeting dominance.

Because Damien Elford no longer looked decent.

He looked engineered for desire.

His weight loss had been the beginning. But the system—its unseen hands—had carved something deeper. [Physique of Nature] had laid the foundation: dense muscle, bone compression, metabolic mastery. But now, evolved into [Physique of Resistance], it had gone further. His musculature wasn’t just lean—it was coiled, efficient, a cohabitation of control and menace. His body didn’t bulk. It refined.

And it showed.

The lines of his jaw now carried a sharper edge, like a blade always half-drawn. His cheekbones had lifted just enough to frame the storm in his eyes—those cool, piercing blues that now settled on passersby like verdicts. His skin had gained that low, healthy glow—subdermal mana-flow regulating hydration and temperature without flaw. Even his hair had changed: thick, wavy, parted just enough to frame his face with deliberate disarray. A sculpted chaos.

And Charm: 9.5?

It was near the human limit. Not magic. Not illusion. Just a convergence of genetic perfection, conditioned refinement, and something deeper—a presence that walked ahead of him like a whisper and stayed long after he left.

A living checkmate in a world still trying to define the board.

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