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

The shouting swelled, voices overlapping, tension threatening to boil into something more than just a school match. Aaron was stepping forward again, fists clenched, and Rin's eyes were practically on fire.

But Damien, still on one knee, raised a hand calmly.

"Relax," he said, voice low but firm enough to cut through the noise.

Aaron blinked. "But he—"

"I said relax," Damien repeated, finally pushing himself to his feet. He winced slightly as he shifted weight off the bleeding knee, but otherwise moved with measured control. "It's not worth a suspension."

Rin looked at him sideways, still simmering, but he backed off a step. The others hesitated, murmuring their frustration, but began to follow suit. The ref kept gesturing and barking, but the moment had defused—for now.

Damien dusted his palms, then turned just slightly away from the group, just enough for no one to see the curve of the smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

DING.

A soft chime flickered in the corner of his vision, and the interface pulsed into view.

------------

[Side Quest Generated!]

Title: Payback.

Objective: Evade and counter the opponent's foul attempts. Deliver a legal but punishing response.

Reward: +50 SP

Bonus: +1 reputation gain with peers who witnessed the play.

--------------

'Heh…'

His inner smirk sharpened.

So it's like that, huh?

If they wanted to play this dirty?

He didn't mind.

He just wouldn't play dumb.

The referee gave them the go-ahead after a short scolding, and 4-A lined up for another free kick. Rin stood over the ball now, cracking his neck, glancing once at Damien.

Damien stepped forward casually, leaned close, and whispered something low.

Rin's brow arched.

Then he grinned.

The defenders positioned themselves tightly inside the box, eyes flicking to Damien. Kaine was already marking him again, jaw clenched, steps heavy with intent.

Damien stood still. Relaxed. Almost lazy.

Until—

The moment Rin stepped forward—

Damien feinted.

A sudden lean toward the near post. Kaine followed the motion, hips turning.

That was the mistake.

Damien exploded in the opposite direction, cutting out of the box, away from the crowd, into space. Rin curved the pass like a scalpel—perfectly placed into Damien's sprint.

He met it with a soft chest trap, cushioning the ball mid-run.

But Kaine had recovered.

Fast.

He was already closing the distance again, eyes narrowed with the same intent as before. The crowd noise rose again, expecting the same collision, the same foul—

But Damien?

He didn't touch the ball.

Not yet.

He let it roll, just ahead of him.

And twisted his hips just as Kaine lunged.

His body flowed like water—one step aside, the motion sharp, clean, precise. Kaine's foot grazed empty turf, and in the same motion—

CRACK.

Damien's trailing heel clipped the side of Kaine's shin.

A light touch.

Barely visible.

But felt.

Kaine stumbled, half-turning, shouting in protest.

But Damien was already past him.

He caught up to the ball with a burst of speed—explosive, sharp, a sprint honed from weeks of body training and a body half the weight it once was. He didn't even feel the drag on his knee now. His left leg extended, lined up with the ball perfectly.

And he struck.

THWACK.

A left-footed rocket—angled just under the bar, screaming past the keeper's outstretched hands.

GOAL.

The crowd erupted.

6-5.

And this time?

There was no celebration.

Just Damien standing, facing the stands, letting the sound of the cheers wash over him. His chest rose with slow, quiet breaths. No words. No smirk.

Just presence.

Because this wasn't luck.

This was payback.

And he wasn't done yet.

Damien didn't rush back into formation.

He slowed his pace as he jogged past Kaine—who was still recovering from the phantom hit, still trying to find words that didn't come with the taste of embarrassment.

And just as he passed him—

Ptu.

Damien spat on the grass, the glob landing inches from Kaine's cleats.

Not on him.

But close enough to make the point.

He turned his head just enough to meet Kaine's eyes, lips curling into a slow, sharpened smirk.

"How was it?" he said quietly. "Clean enough for you?"

Kaine's jaw tightened. His fists flexed. But he didn't speak.

Because what could he say?

Damien had outplayed him. Outthought him. Outran him.

And everyone saw it.

The game reset again, this time with momentum fully tilted in 4-A's favor. The crowd's noise didn't dip between goals anymore. Every time Damien touched the ball, voices rose in anticipation.

He didn't abuse the attention.

He used it.

His body moved like it had always belonged on this field—light touches with the inside of his foot, sharp turns along the edge of the box, drawing defenders in and slipping past them with tight, calculated movement. Each time he cut in, the defenders hesitated now—not out of fear, but uncertainty.

They didn't know if they could stop him without fouling.

And so—he scored.

Again.

A low pass from Aaron on the right side—Damien let it roll between his legs, caught it on the spin, and slipped it past the keeper's right.

7-5.

4-C tried to answer, pushing forward with desperation. Kaine got one back with a blistering strike from outside the box—his one moment of redemption.

7-6.

The field was fire now.

Every player—4-C and 4-A alike—was burning through the last of their energy, lungs heaving, legs dragging but still moving, clinging to the edge of adrenaline. Passes turned sharper. Calls louder. Tackles harder. The match had shifted from calculated play to a full-blown battle of endurance and will.

8 minutes left.

No more strategies. No more pacing. Just momentum and instinct.

Damien was weaving up the right sideline, cutting between a defender and the line. He didn't have much space—just a few feet of grass, boxed in by the fence and closing bodies.

Then came the press.

Two defenders collapsed on him, arms brushing, legs blocking angles. He pivoted, scanning, holding the ball at his feet with careful touches.

And then—

Devran.

The boy who had glared at him all match stepped in fast, calling for the ball.

"Here!"

Damien passed—not a blind pass, but a sharp one. Fast, grounded, clean.

But as Devran reached for it—

THUD.

His shoulder slammed into Damien's ribs. Hard.

Damien stumbled, catching himself against the fence, balance lost.

"The fuck?!" he hissed, eyes flaring. "What was that?"

Devran didn't even look at him. "You had no lane. Stay wide."

But the ball?

It was already gone—picked off cleanly as Devran mishandled it, too slow on the touch.

4-C surged forward immediately, breaking through the midfield in a flash.

It should've been a disaster.

But then—

Lionel.

Fast as ever, he swept in with a perfect sliding interception. Turf kicked up in his wake, and his foot met the ball clean, redirecting it before it could spark a real counter.

He popped up without pause, scanning—and launched a pass across the pitch.

To Rin.

Rin didn't hesitate. He juked a defender, slipped around another with a quick cut—then spotted Damien near the box.

One flick of the ankle, and the ball was sailing again.

Fast. Sharp.

Damien read the angle—but misjudged the speed. The ball hit his foot with too much force, bounced up. For a second, it almost got away.

He scrambled.

One touch with the outside of his boot. Another to bring it down.

He controlled it—barely.

The goal was in sight now. The keeper adjusting. Damien's left foot shifted, weight leaning forward, eyes narrowing.

He was ready to shoot.

And then—

THUD!

A brutal force crashed into his leg from the side.

Not the ball.

A player.

A sliding tackle, late and low, full of speed and bad intent.

Damien's foot twisted under the impact, his knee folding the wrong way—

"AAARGH—!"

The groan tore from his throat before he could suppress it.

He collapsed.

Hard.

His leg gave out beneath him as his shoulder slammed into the turf. His vision stuttered for half a second, pain radiating from the side of his knee and up through his thigh. The crowd erupted—not in cheer—but in shock.

Gasps.

Cries.

"Ref! What the hell?!"

Rin screamed it this time, full voice.

The whistle blew—late. Too late.

But loud. Sharp.

And Damien lay there, jaw clenched, vision tunneling through the pain. The whole right side of his body throbbed, his leg seizing up with every shallow breath.

That wasn't a foul.

That was a hit job.

And he knew who did it.

Even before he looked up.

--------A/N-----------

Sorry for the late post, I just came from my exam.