Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 30: Start with a small change

I exhaled sharply, gripping the armrest of my chair as I slowly pushed myself up. The moment I shifted my weight, a deep, burning strain rippled through my muscles. My legs trembled, my body sluggish, resisting every movement as if I were wading through mud.

What the fuck...?

I grit my teeth as I forced myself upright, my balance wavering. My limbs felt foreign—weak, bloated, slow. My body wasn't moving the way I wanted it to, the way it should.

This wasn't me.

Before all this, before my body had been reduced to this wreck of flesh, I was active. I lived for the adrenaline rush of sports, the thrill of pushing myself past limits. My body had always been strong, disciplined, sharp.

But now?

I felt like a goddamn sack of shit.

"Tch... this fat fucker..." I muttered, my voice laced with disgust.

My gaze flickered to the mirror across the room.

And what I saw made my stomach churn.

The reflection staring back at me wasn't mine. It was his.

A bloated, pathetic figure stood there—his shoulders hunched, his posture lazy, a permanent exhaustion written into every line of his body. His face was swollen with excess fat, skin pale and sickly, with dark circles under his lifeless, sunken eyes. His hair? Greasy, unkempt. His clothes? Wrinkled, barely fitting over his bulk.

Even though the fabric covered most of it, I could still feel it—the dirtiness, the filth, the fucking ugliness of this body.

I clenched my jaw, my hands balling into fists as I forced my mind to sift through the memories of Damien Elford.

And what I saw made me want to vomit.

This fucker was a lazy, worthless slob.

He didn't care about hygiene. He didn't bother to clean himself properly. He let sweat and filth accumulate on his body, masking it with cheap perfume and synthetic essences instead of taking a goddamn shower. He ate garbage, barely moved unless he had to, and wasted his time on meaningless distractions.

A fucking pig, wallowing in his own filth.

"You fucker..." I spat under my breath, my grip tightening.

This wasn't just about strength. This wasn't just about power.

If I was going to start somewhere, it had to be this.

I had to fix this body first.

I let out a slow breath, staring at my reflection with a burning determination.

"The school is about to start soon."

I couldn't afford to waste time.

The academy I was set to attend—the pre-academy—would be starting soon. It was a place meant for cadets under eighteen, a preparatory institution where students trained and studied before moving on to the real academy.

And right now, I was in my final year. I was on the verge of graduation.

Which meant I had to act.

Now.

"Tch." I clicked my tongue in irritation.

Even thinking about the previous owner of this body disgusted me.

A pathetic, wimpy cuck.

A fool who wasted his money, his time, his life chasing after things that never mattered.

That version of Damien Elford?

He was fucking dead.

And I was going to make sure this body would never resemble him again.

Ding!

A new notification flashed in my vision, the familiar voice of the system chiming in.

[New Quest: Cleanse the Pig's Skin]

▶ Objective: Take a shower and shave your body hair.

▶ Reward: +10 SP, +50 EXP

I read it once. Then twice.

And then, a slow smirk spread across my lips.

"A question for me, indeed."

The system was already proving itself useful. If I was going to remake myself, I needed to start from the basics. And right now, that meant fixing this body's disgusting state.

I turned away from the mirror, rolling my shoulders, and tried to recall something from Damien's memories.

A body trimmer.

If I was going to shave off this disgusting mess of body hair, I needed the proper tool. And if I remembered correctly...

Foll𝑜w current novels on fɾēewebnσveℓ.com.

My lips curled in amusement as the memory surfaced.

This dumbass actually bought one.

A pretty damn expensive one, too. Some high-end model with multiple attachments, a self-cleaning function, and a ridiculous number of settings. The kind of thing only an idiot would buy and then never fucking use.

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my greasy hair as I walked across the room.

Pathetic.

It wasn't hard to find. The box was still in its original packaging, buried inside a drawer beneath stacks of useless garbage. I pulled it out, staring at the sleek, untouched product that had been rotting away like some forgotten relic.

"Tch."

Annoying.

Wasteful.

This thing could've been put to actual use instead of just sitting here, collecting dust while its owner sat around like a filthy slob.

I shook my head, gripping the box tightly before turning toward the bathroom.

"Way to fucking start a new life," I muttered under my breath.

The past Damien had been a joke.

But that joke was over.

And now, it was time to begin.

*****

Elysia had never been a person who was good at expressing herself.

Raised as a combat-maid by the Elford family, she had been conditioned to act, not to feel. Emotions, attachments, desires—none of it had ever mattered. Not to her. Not to the household she served.

And certainly not to the young master she attended.

Damien Elford.

A man she had watched for years. A man she had seen cower, hesitate, shrink away at the slightest confrontation. A man who carried the Elford name but none of its weight.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Unworthy.

Her mind was an archive of his failures, each memory carved into her with the precision of a blade.

She remembered the stench of alcohol that clung to his breath, thick and suffocating, as he staggered into the mansion well past midnight, his steps uneven, his shirt untucked, his jacket discarded somewhere along the way. His eyes—dazed and unfocused—would sweep over her without recognition, without care. A drunken wreck barely able to stand, yet still arrogant enough to expect her to clean up after him.

"Take my shoes off," he had once slurred, collapsing onto the velvet chaise in the front hall. "And be quick about it."

She had done as ordered, fingers working swiftly, precisely, undoing the laces with the efficiency drilled into her since childhood. And as she worked, he had laughed—a breathy, careless sound—amused by nothing, entertained only by his own existence.

"You're so stiff," he had muttered, head lolling to the side. "Do you ever loosen up, Verdant?"

She had not answered.

She never did.

There was nothing worth saying to a man like him.

The drinking was one thing. The drugs were worse.

She had found them in his room more times than she cared to count—small glass vials tucked away in drawers, crushed powders left carelessly on his desk, little foil packets stuffed between the pages of books he had never read.

And he had never once tried to hide it.

Why would he?

There were no consequences for an Elford.

He indulged because he could. Because no one would stop him. Because the weight of his last name ensured that no amount of self-destruction would ever truly harm him.

And he reveled in that power.

He flaunted it, a boy who had never earned his place, yet demanded the world bow to him regardless.

"Clean this up," he would order, knocking over crystal glasses just to watch them shatter, just to see the maids scramble to fix his mess.

"You're too slow," he would sneer, tossing his clothes at their feet, watching as they bent to pick them up.

"You should be grateful," he had once whispered, voice dark and amused, leaning too close to a trembling maid who had spilled a drop of wine on his sleeve. "I'm in a good mood tonight. Otherwise, I might've had you punished."

Though that pathetic fool never did something like that.

Elysia had never looked away, never flinched, never let the weight of his words move her.

She had watched.

Yet right now looking at the young man, she couldn't help but widen her eyes.

"Young master?"

He had cleaned himself?