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

Capítulo 339: Resonance Cycle

“Name it…”

Damien let the silence stretch. His mind flicked through a dozen names—grand, cryptic, ceremonial. None of them felt right.

He wasn’t building a temple. He wasn’t founding a sect.

This thing wasn’t meant to be worshipped.

It was meant to work.

He remembered the first time. The hunger in the monster’s aura. The pressure. The way his body responded not with panic, but with symmetry. That moment where the mana around him didn’t explode—but folded.

A circle.

A breath.

A center.

His lips moved.

“Resonance Cycle.”

The system chimed. A soft tone. Almost reverent.

[Input Confirmed.]

[New Cultivation Technique Registered: Resonance Cycle]

[Classification: Undefined]

[Source: User-Originated]

[Ranking: Not Applicable]

[Note: No reference entries or comparative data available. System support limited.]

Of course it was.

No tutorials. No diagrams. No spectral blueprints to guide him through the next steps.

But that didn’t matter.

He’d made it without guidance. He didn’t need a damn training wheel now.

The next screen appeared—this one linked directly under the new technique. A sub-branch.

[Associated Combat Art Detected: ‘Spinal Echo’]

[Registration Pending…]

[Confirmed.]

[Spinal Echo has been linked to Resonance Cycle.]

[Description: Adaptive impulse technique. Reacts based on motion-memory and core tension, converting kinetic potential into rotational feedback. Usable in close-range engagements and redirection-based styles.]

Damien blinked once.

That was… convenient.

He hadn’t even realized the technique had formalized. But it made sense. It was how he fought. Natural. Responsive. The system was just naming what he’d already taught his body to do.

The last few panels flicked into place. Status windows. Tabs. Structuring the structureless.

He closed them with a thought.

And then, finally, he breathed.

His focus shifted inward. The mana hadn’t gone anywhere. It was still there—nestled within his core. Waiting.

But while the connection was real… it wasn’t stable. Not fully.

His body was still catching up. Cells expanding, nerves adapting, pathways rewriting themselves one slow beat at a time. The system could call it ‘complete’ all it wanted—Damien knew better.

Knowing something was possible wasn’t the same as being ready to use it.

So he sat.

No theatrics. No bursts of light. Just Damien—alone, spine straight, palms steady, the hum of his breath sinking deeper into the air around him.

And then—

He felt it.

Not through force. Not through will. But through presence.

The mana here wasn’t just dense—it was designed.

Kael hadn’t been exaggerating.

It wasn’t the kind of mana that roared for attention. It didn’t claw at his senses or try to bend him into focus. It was calm. Refined. Tuned. The same way a well-kept blade didn’t need to scream to be sharp.

Each inhale drew in more than air.

Damien could feel the filtration—the purity in the intake, the way it threaded through his nostrils, sank behind his eyes, traced the lining of his lungs. Not weightless. Not heavy. Present.

His perception was already shifting—edges sharpening, distances compressing. Sounds felt crisper. The thrum of the stabilizer pylons now sounded like coordinated drums, subtle rhythm guiding the deeper cadence of his own internal flow.

He opened his eyes, just slightly.

And saw the faint gold lines in the wall pulse once—gentle, like breath.

In.

Out.

“This place might be better than I expected,” he thought, watching how his vision no longer blurred at the edges when he focused. The mana here didn’t crowd him.

It aligned.

It wanted resonance.

He gave the faintest of nods to himself.

Nice.

He tilted his chin downward, re-centering. Breath reset. Shoulders dropped into relaxed tension. The posture his father drilled into him not as art, but as discipline.

Then, without flair or mantra, he started to breathe again.

Resonance Cycle.

Damien’s breath was steady. His body still.

But inside—everything moved.

He focused inward, the way he had back in the Cradle. No forced command. No spiral diagrams or activation phrases. Just attention. Intent.

And the mana responded.

It didn’t surge or strain. It flowed. Like warm ink across clean glass, smooth and precise.

He guided it slowly through the channels of his body—up his spine, across his shoulders, down his arms. Then looping again, curling toward his core in a spiral that never once fought back. No spikes of resistance. No sudden breaks.

This wasn’t circulation.

This was movement. Natural. Like flexing a limb.

Damien exhaled, eyes still half-lidded.

“Too easy,” he muttered quietly, lips barely moving.

He turned his awareness tighter, narrowing the focus to the exact center of his body—where the Blueprint still pulsed behind his ribs.

There it was.

The core.

And inside—his mana.

But not like the mana around him. Not even close.

It didn’t shimmer with the same soft haze. It didn’t ripple or pulse like the ambient flow humming through the stabilization room.

It was dense.

Formless, yes—but heavy, in a way that wasn’t mass but meaning. As if it had been born not just from energy, but from pressure. From something old and unfinished.

He inhaled again, extending a thread of his perception outward—into the room, into the air.

The mana around him responded instantly.

It welcomed him.

His senses bloomed, and he felt it all. The air was thick with power, every mote suspended like liquid dust. Not passive, but not wild either. It hovered in a perfect waiting state—ready to be shaped.

But when he tried to guide that mana inward—

Something shifted.

It didn’t merge.

Not exactly.

Damien’s eyes flickered beneath their lids. “…Interesting.”

He tried again. This time, more slowly.

He pulled the ambient mana inward, past his skin, along the familiar path he’d just refined. Toward his core.

It entered clean.

But it didn’t fold into his own mana immediately.

It hovered there—like a guest unsure of the house it had just stepped into. It wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t resistance. But the mana inside his core… it was different.

Purer. More compact.

Damien watched it with his mind’s eye.

It was as if the external mana needed refinement—needed to be filtered, shaped down, condensed—before it could be allowed to join the rotation.

As if the Origin mana he possessed didn’t just sit in his core. It set the standard.

“No wonder it feels heavier,” he thought.

His gaze sharpened inward, focusing on the faint divide between the mana he breathed in… and the mana that pulsed within his core.

He’d figured it out.

The mana needed refinement. Needed to be fit for entry. But how?

His brow creased slightly as the question floated to the surface.

“How do I refine it—?”

And then his body answered for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t try.

But the moment the thought left him, the external mana shifted.

There was no snap. No compression array or forced channeling. It simply… bent. Curved. Began to spin at the edges like it was pulled into a basin. It curled in a tight, self-forming spiral—and at its center, something invisible pressed inward.

Not will. Not force.

Instinct.

Damien felt it clearly—his body didn’t just know what to do.

It remembered.

The memory was layered into his breath. Etched behind his ribs. Burned into the very tension of his muscle fibers.

The Cradle.

The moment he had first moved his mana through that oppressive void. The moment the beast had stepped between him and that collapse of Authority, its limbs curling, its body resonating in time with Damien’s own pulse. The way the mana hadn’t flared outward, but had folded inward instead—tighter, deeper, cleaner.

That rhythm—that instinct—was still here.

His body had memorized the pattern.

It wasn’t refinement by technique.

It was behavior.

Damien smiled faintly, eyes still closed, breath syncing with the slow swirl of conversion beginning just under his skin.

So that was it.

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