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

Capítulo 329: Origin pulse (2)

Damien’s eyes opened.

No fanfare. No glow. Just the slow, deliberate lift of his gaze as the world returned around him.

The battlefield snapped into clarity. The beast and the shadowed intruder still tore through each other in vicious arcs of raw force, the pool of mana glowing beneath them like molten silver. Light refracted through the waterfall’s curtain, distorted but steady.

But Damien didn’t move.

He didn’t need to.

Because in that moment—he realized.

He could command it.

Mana.

Not just draw it. Not just survive it.

Command it.

He inhaled—lightly. The air shimmered. Particles of ambient energy bent toward him, not in chaos or resistance, but in response. Not passive. Not wild. But deliberate. Attentive.

He exhaled—and the circuits inside him thrummed to life.

The flow obeyed.

Like blood through arteries. Like electricity through a wired will. Each thread moved along the paths he’d forged earlier—not strained, not stuttered. Synchronized.

The circuit wasn’t just stable.

It was loyal.

The core pulsed gently, no longer the volatile storm it had once been, but a structured engine. Elemental strands—fire, water, wind, earth, and shadow—each cycled through with clean precision.

And it wasn’t just coexistence.

It was unity.

They moved together.

Swirling around each other like dancers in a spiral orbit—never clashing, never fading. And deeper inside—at the center of it all—Damien felt something else.

A presence.

Not like the Pulse.

Not like the elements.

Something… in-between.

His brow furrowed.

“What…?” he murmured, gaze narrowing inward, not outward.

At the heart of the core, in that tightly packed storm of elemental equilibrium, there was something new. Not a flame. Not a stone. Not a current or shadow.

But a print.

A mark.

A… formless shape.

It didn’t burn.

It didn’t shine.

It didn’t even pulse.

It simply was.

Empty—utterly so.

And yet…

Everything moved around it.

It didn’t contain the other energies. It didn’t force them. But they followed it. Reacted to it. As if the very concept of order inside his core came from this silent, undefined thing.

The elements didn’t orbit it because it was powerful.

They did so because it was first.

His thoughts spun.

What is that?

It wasn’t element. It wasn’t aspect. It wasn’t shadow or force or structure.

It was…

Origin.

Not the Pulse. That was the rhythm—the breath of mana across time.

This was different.

This was prior.

A presence without expression.

A void that wasn’t empty—but pure.

A print, not etched in power, but in meaning.

And Damien—

He understood.

Not logically. Not in terms he could explain.

But in instinct.

This was the governor of all other forms. The first spark that didn’t burn, the first breath that didn’t exhale. A silent hand guiding shape without ever needing shape of its own.

The core he’d formed… wasn’t just a vessel of many attributes.

It was a host.

And at its center sat the Blueprint.

The formless source from which all elements branched.

Damien stood.

Not staggered. Not uncertain.

He rose like a tide breaking the shore—inevitable, precise.

Every part of him moved with purpose, though he hadn’t decided to move at all. It was his mana—his body—pulling him forward, driven by something internal and wordless.

Because now that the Blueprint had settled inside his core, everything had changed.

He could feel it: that connection pulsing out from the core, bleeding through his veins, threading along muscle and marrow. Not just through his circuits—but through himself. As if his entire form had been rewritten to function not as a container, but as an extension of something deeper.

And it wasn’t passive.

It was urging.

Move.

The word didn’t echo in his head. It didn’t need to. His flesh knew it. His instincts burned with it. The pressure in his limbs wasn’t pain—it was potential, demanding release.

Then came the sound.

Barely audible. A crack of air. A groan of force.

Not close.

But not far either.

His head turned, almost involuntarily.

And there they were—still mid-strike.

The beast. That towering, sinewed, primal force of nature, barreling toward the cloaked figure with reckless, protective rage.

The figure—unfazed, sharp, monstrous in its precision—twisting between blows, claws slicing arcs through space that cut deeper than just flesh.

They hadn’t even registered what had changed.

To them, no time had passed.

To Damien?

A lifetime had.

He inhaled once more, and something in him snapped into place.

Not broken.

Ready.

The air around him shimmered faintly—just a ripple, like heat rising from stone.

His thoughts sharpened. No, accelerated. What had once been instinct was now layered calculation. Every movement, every particle shift, every vibration of mana in the space around them was readable.

The way the beast planted its hind leg.

The slight twitch in the figure’s wrist.

The breath between their blows.

Damien understood them. Not just watched.

He anticipated.

He saw the next five moves before they made them.

His heart didn’t race—it set tempo.

And in that moment—

He moved.

Mana flowed with him, through him, ahead of him. It didn’t follow his footsteps—it led them.

He didn’t walk. He threaded.

Step. Flick of his hand. The air beside him split.

Another step. A rotation of his spine. The heat at his back coiled forward.

He wasn’t using spells. He wasn’t drawing techniques.

He was applying instinct in real time, like choreography written into his nervous system.

And the battlefield responded.

His foot kissed the stone, and the water beneath it hummed. His fingertips brushed the air, and wind shivered to meet him. Every element recognized his intent before he gave it shape.

And in that dance, he watched.

The beast swung wide.

The figure ducked low, poised to drive its claws into the beast’s exposed ribs.

Damien twisted—just a breath off their axis—and moved.

Mana swirled from his spine, caught the pressure in the air, and redirected it.

Not violently.

Elegantly.

The strike missed.

The figure staggered.

The beast snapped back with a roar, seizing the opportunity.

Damien landed lightly, almost unconsciously, eyes still locked on the combatants.

He didn’t grin.

He didn’t speak.

He listened—to his body, his mana, the world.

The fight raged—brutal, feral, elemental.

And yet, to Damien, it felt like choreography.

Each movement of the beast’s claw, each sidestep of the shadowed intruder—readable. The air trembled with weight and velocity. Flames danced in the wake of impact. Stones cracked beneath footfalls, sending pulses through the battlefield’s weave.

And Damien moved through it all.

Not with strategy. Not with a memorized form.

With instinct.

His mana wove alongside him, a silent partner anticipating every intention. Each step shifted pressure through his body, and the mana adapted before he thought to command it.

No—this was more than movement.

It was style.

A rhythm not taught, but born.

He twisted again, brushing his palm through the ambient flow—and the fire near the battlefield bloomed toward him, not hostile, not wild, but eager. A lash of heat snapped forward, curling like a ribbon around his arm before peeling off into the air behind him.

He stepped left—water surged to fill his motion, balancing the heat with cool density, grounding him.

He turned his wrist—wind snapped from his fingers in an arc, catching the backwash of the shadow’s motion.

He ducked—the stone at his heel rose, catching his weight just as he pivoted forward.

He wasn’t summoning the elements.

He was weaving them.

Not in isolation. In tandem. In sequence. In language.

It was art through momentum—precise, fluid, unfinished.

And as his body danced between the blows of the two giants, as he let himself feel more than direct, Damien realized: this was the beginning of something.

A combat style not based on dominance of one element.

But on synthesis.

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