Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 321: See and remember

Chapter 321: See and remember

The ’thing’ looked at him.

Not with eyes. Not exactly.

But Damien felt the gaze. Like a hand pressed gently against the inside of his chest. Testing. Measuring.

Not judging.

Witnessing.

His muscles twitched again—but not in panic. His body didn’t tremble out of weakness now. Just awareness.

Because the hollow wasn’t empty anymore.

It had been noticed.

The being’s presence pressed inward. Not violent. Not overwhelming. Just total. Like it belonged here. Like he didn’t.

And still—it did not speak.

Not with words.

The ’thing’ looked at him.

Not with eyes. Not exactly.

But Damien felt the pressure of its attention deepen—settle over him like a shadow made from memory. Heavy, absolute. As if it had always been watching and had only now decided to let him know.

And then—

He felt it.

Not a sound. Not a movement.

A curl.

The edges of something that resembled a mouth tugged upward. Slowly. Patiently. A grin, like oil slicking across still water.

He sensed the inside of it—that mouth.

Rows of teeth.

Too sharp. Too long.

Too many.

The kind of grin carved for prey, not conversation. No joy. No sympathy. Just delight. Primal, dark, and hungry.

Its hollow gaze tilted with its head—off-angle, unnatural. A child playing at mimicry. A beast playing at humanity.

And then—lightly, almost sweetly—

“Giggle…”

It giggled.

A warped, melodic ripple of sound that didn’t echo so much as twist around his ribs.

Mocking.

Damien’s eye twitched.

His jaw clenched.

This thing—this impossible specter—was mocking him?

But before the thought could solidify—

CLAP.

It snapped its fingers—bone against bone, not skin.

And the world shifted.

The ground vanished.

The sky shattered like glass sucked into a whirlpool. Colors inverted, gravity spun. Damien’s vision tore sideways—and the thing moved.

Danced.

It danced across the fragments of space, skipping through the cracks like a child running across broken tiles.

Here.

Then there.

Too close. Then gone.

It circled Damien with weightless steps, never touching the ground, because there was no ground anymore. Just floating shards of what had been—the cliff, the sky, even pieces of Damien’s own reflection.

And it laughed.

Not cruel. Not kind.

Just amused.

Like Damien was a pet performing tricks it hadn’t asked for. Like everything he’d done—all the suffering, the fury, the breakthrough—was just part of a game it already knew the ending to.

“Pretty little corpse,” it sang, voice rippling across dimensions. “Still thinks he’s alive.”

Damien’s throat scraped as he forced the word out.

“…What?”

The thing stopped.

Mid-leap, mid-spin, mid-giggle—it froze, balancing weightless in the non-space above a reflection of Damien’s eyes, cracked and jagged like a broken mirror.

It turned.

Its head pivoted unnaturally, no spine, no bones. Just smooth, slow motion until its grin faced him again.

“…What?” it repeated.

Damien blinked.

“What are you saying?”

The thing mirrored him again—voice pitch-perfect, cadence twisted like a puppet mimicking lines it didn’t understand.

“W-ha-t… a-re y-ou… se-ing?”

It giggled.

“Kikikikiki…”

Then it jumped.

Not at Damien. Just… around. Bouncing from shard to shard of the broken realm, limbs bending wrong, silhouette smearing slightly with each skip. Its grin widened. It waved at him—jittery, exaggerated—then darted again.

Mocking?

Maybe.

But beckoning, too.

Damien scowled.

Then—without knowing why—he followed.

Not because he trusted it. Not because he had a choice.

But because something in his gut said this wasn’t chaos.

This was invitation.

The world warped again.

Not snapped. Just… folded.

The shards stopped falling and began rearranging, like a puzzle forced together by invisible hands. Space curved, twisted, smoothed—and then—

He landed.

Knees touching grass.

But not grass. Not exactly.

It looked like a forest.

But the trees weren’t consistent. Some stretched too high. Others bloomed with petals that shimmered like stars. One nearby trunk was shaped like a spiral staircase. Another dripped sap that moved upward.

And among them?

Things.

Not beasts. Not men.

Creatures.

Some massive, lumbering shapes that flickered between forms with every blink. Some too small to be seen, but their laughter buzzed in Damien’s ear like static. Wings. Claws. Antlers. Faces split in halves, or too many eyes—everywhere he looked, contradiction.

It was a forest—but not a forest.

It was a gathering.

A menagerie of the impossible.

And at its center, that thing—his thing—spun once, arms wide.

Then it looked back at him.

“W-i….l-come?”

Damien stood.

Slowly. Warily. Eyes scanning the impossible.

The beings—if that’s what they were—moved through the forest like dream fragments given form. One had a humanoid shape, but its flesh was scaled like polished obsidian and it didn’t walk—it hovered, each motion trailing echoes of itself like bad reflections. Another towered like a dinosaur made of bone and black moss, mouth split sideways and full of needle-fangs that clicked to some forgotten rhythm.

Further down, a writhing insectoid with six arms and eyes like polished moons climbed an upside-down tree, vanishing into its own reflection. Beside it, an alien-looking silhouette twitched, as if constantly being re-rendered by an unstable hand. Its head pulsed with violet light, thoughts leaking like mist into the air.

They didn’t look at him.

They didn’t even seem aware of him.

Like he was a ghost.

Like he didn’t belong.

And maybe he didn’t.

Damien’s jaw tightened. He turned slowly, noting more of the forest—if it could be called that. Vines of living metal. Leaves that whispered like voices. The sound of distant bells with no source. The air itself felt thick with memory, like this place wasn’t growing but remembering how to grow.

Then he saw it.

Beyond the creatures.

Beyond the forest.

A waterfall.

But not of water.

Of light.

Cascading from nowhere, spilling across a cliff that hung in mid-air. Shimmering in impossible hues—silver, green, gold, the color of breath held too long. It didn’t crash or roar. It sang. A hum so deep it resonated in Damien’s bones.

That…

That felt like the start of something.

Or the end.

A beginning-place.

A birthplace.

A wound in the world that birthed worlds.

And still—only the thing acknowledged him.

It giggled again, hopping on air, arms flailing like a jester too pleased with its own joke.

“Kikikikikiki… Pretty little corpse… Still thinks he’s alive…”

It landed on nothing beside him. Face too close. Smile wide and full of glass-cut teeth.

Damien didn’t flinch.

But he did speak.

“…Why am I here?”

The thing tilted its head again.

It didn’t answer.

Just grinned wider, like the question itself was a punchline it wasn’t done savoring.

Then it pointed.

At the waterfall.

And whispered:

“…See…..and Remember….”

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