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

Kaine clicked his tongue the moment their eyes met.

Ezra didn't bother hiding his own disdain either. His smirk was more of a sneer now—tight-lipped, half-suppressed, like he'd been waiting to see Damien on a field just for the chance to look down on him properly.

And now?

Now they didn't need to fake anything anymore.

No more pretending to be friends. No more tolerating him out of politeness or pretense. No more circles built on false camaraderie.

Damien's smirk twitched, but it didn't fade.

Let them click their tongues. Let them stare.

He didn't care.

He didn't need them to like him. He didn't even need them to respect him.

He just needed them to see.

"Alright," one of the taller boys from 4-C called out, jogging to the center. "We're running seven-on-seven. Who's taking captain for A?"

Lionel from 4-A raised his hand. "I'll take it."

The other class picked their guy—some tall midfielder Damien didn't know by name. Probably one of Celia's usual orbiters.

The moment the captains were settled, the energy shifted—focused now, tighter, less noise and more movement.

"Let's keep it class versus class," Lionel said, already jogging toward the center circle. "Easier to track, and more fun that way."

The guy from 4-C nodded in agreement. "Yeah, makes it interesting."

So that was that.

A clean match. 4-A versus 4-C.

No mixing. No shuffling names between teams.

A proper class battle—just like it should be.

Damien exhaled quietly and rolled his shoulders once. Good. That was better, actually. Less politics, more proof. Let each side stand for itself.

One of the P.E. assistants blew the whistle from the sideline, signaling them to move.

The boys began filing toward the field—some already jogging to warm up, some stretching as they walked. Studs clicking against turf, voices lowering, the hum of anticipation simmering in the air. The heat of competition hadn't hit full yet, but the stage was being set.

Damien trailed slightly behind Lionel and the others from 4-A, his pace steady. No rush. He took in the field, the spacing, the early rhythm of how 4-C's players were setting up across from them. He wasn't just walking—he was observing. Watching footwork, body language, speed.

Most of them were lean. Quick.

He could already guess who was going to play aggressive and who would hang back. He wasn't a master tactician, but he had instincts. And they were sharpening with every breath.

"Alright, 4-A! Take your positions!" Lionel called out, his voice cutting through the warm spring air.

Damien jogged forward now, settling into the second line—midfield, probably. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. It wasn't about titles.

'Well, let's see.'

****

Victoria stood on the edge of the gym, arms folded loosely as she watched the boys jog toward the lower field. Her lips curved into a faint smile—subtle, satisfied, and far too composed to be innocent.

Her plan had worked.

Of course it did.

She'd baited him, and Damien—arrogant as ever—had taken it. Just as she knew he would. He had to prove something, didn't he? Had to puff out his chest and show everyone just how different he was now. And all it took was a few well-placed words.

'So predictable.'

'Now you'll see what happens when you mess with me,' she thought, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched him warm up with the other boys.

There was a reason she'd pushed him toward the field.

A very specific reason.

After all, she'd already spoken to a few of the more… competitive members of Class 4-C. A quiet word here, a smile there. Nothing direct. Just enough to let them know how funny it was that Damien suddenly thought he belonged on a football pitch.

Some of those boys had been desperate for a reason to put him in his place.

Victoria had simply handed them one.

"Why are you smiling?"

Celia's voice cut through her thoughts—cool, smooth, but laced with curiosity.

Victoria turned slightly, her expression shifting seamlessly back into calm elegance.

"Nothing," she said sweetly. "Just thinking."

Celia studied her for a beat, eyes sharp and unreadable. But she didn't push further.

The truth was, neither of them had any real intention of playing volleyball.

Oh, they could—the academy's best players, both of them. But playing volleyball now meant breaking away from the real show.

The one happening down on the field.

Their popularity wasn't built solely on beauty or grades—it thrived on presence. Visibility.

Control.

If they weren't watching where the attention was shifting, they'd lose it.

And right now?

All eyes were shifting to the football match.

"Come on," Celia said, brushing a lock of sapphire-blue hair behind her ear. "We're watching the field."

Cassandra and Lillian fell in without hesitation.

Victoria adjusted the fit of her gym jacket, smile returning faintly.

Yes. Let's watch.

Because Damien Elford might have taken the bait—

But now?

Now it was time to see what kind of game he was really playing.

And more importantly—

How hard she could make him fall.

The grass crunched softly under their polished shoes as the girls stepped onto the edge of the lower field.

Celia led the way—tall, composed, her sapphire hair catching the light like spun silk. Victoria followed just a pace behind, flanked by Cassandra and Lillian. Each moved with an effortless elegance, a quiet command of space that made it impossible to ignore their arrival.

And as always—

They didn't have to announce themselves.

Because the effect was immediate.

The moment the four girls reached the field's boundary, a shift passed through the players like a ripple through still water.

The boys turned.

Not all at once, not in perfect sync—but subtly, instinctively.

A glance here. A quick adjustment in posture. A glance lingering a little longer than necessary. Some straightened, others smiled—trying not to look like they were trying.

Even the ones who hadn't noticed at first felt the pull. The center of attention had arrived.

Victoria inhaled quietly, letting the moment sink into her bones.

This was the power.

The soft hush in the air. The heads turning. The rhythm of the field changing simply because they had chosen to watch.

Celia's gaze swept over the lineup, her expression cool and unreadable—but she felt it too. The subtle tightening in the players' movements. The way they stood just a little taller. The way even the most confident boys suddenly had something to prove.

Lillian's lips curved faintly. Cassandra reached up to adjust her ponytail with deliberate grace.

They knew exactly what they were doing.

None of them had to say it out loud—

But they were the spectacle now.

And even the game… belonged to them.

Victoria's gaze drifted across the field—until it landed on Damien.

He hadn't looked yet.

Hadn't so much as twitched.

Still stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders, calm and quiet like he couldn't care less about the shift in atmosphere.

But she saw it.

The slight glance from Kaine. The flicker of tension in Ezra's posture.

They had noticed.

And if they had…

Damien had too.

He was just pretending not to.

Victoria smiled faintly, arms folding as she tilted her head.

Let's see how long you can keep ignoring us now.

****

The whistle blew. Players shifted on their feet, stretching limbs and cracking joints, the energy thickening around them like the air before a storm. Voices lowered, focus narrowed.

Then—

"Where do you want to play?" Lionel called out to Damien, glancing over from the huddle.

Damien shrugged lightly, his tone even. "Wherever there's space."

It wasn't said with arrogance. Just indifference. Like he was offering a seat at a table he didn't plan to stay at long.

Lionel nodded and jerked a thumb toward the back. "We'll put you on defense for now."

"Fine by me," Damien replied smoothly.

But inside?

He didn't like it.

Defense wasn't a punishment—not exactly—but it was a polite way to say prove yourself first. A quiet exile at the edge of glory. While the others got to show off, Damien would be left catching mistakes and running cleanup.

Still, he didn't complain.

He jogged toward the back, settling into his position as the teams spread across the field. The sun was steady overhead, warm without being cruel, casting sharp shadows across the turf. The hum of competition hung just above the ground.

As he watched the front line, his gaze drifted—up to the edge of the field, where the girls had now gathered.

Of course.

He could see it in the way some of the boys straightened, the way their movements got just a bit sharper. How passes came faster, louder, more dramatic.

All for a glance. A reaction. A flicker of attention.

Damien almost laughed.

Male instinct. The eternal performance.

He didn't even resent it. Not really. This was part of the dance.

He just thought… the target was rough.

Celia.

Half the boys in 4-C would throw themselves through a flaming hoop if she so much as looked impressed. And yet here she was—cold, aloof, arms crossed as her eyes skimmed the field like a bored queen watching foot soldiers scrap in the mud.

Let them try. He wasn't here for her.

He refocused as the whistle blew again.

The ball was live.

And it came fast.