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

Damien paused at the threshold of the infirmary, his crutch planted firmly against the ground, the afternoon light casting a pale gold outline around his figure. He didn't look back—his voice came over his shoulder, smooth and cool, like an afterthought.

"Oh, and my grades for today's quizzes…"

Another pause.

"Let's not inform Father about them."

The words were light. Teasing, almost.

But Galen felt the weight in them.

Not the threat of power this time—but the quiet acknowledgment of failure.

Damien knew.

Knew exactly how he'd performed.

And he was asking—not demanding, not ordering—for discretion.

Galen's lips thinned. He stepped toward his desk, fingers brushing against the folder where the graded sheets had been collected just an hour earlier. The results had already been auto-compiled. Each score printed cleanly, precisely. There were students who had excelled—Celia, Isabelle, a few others in the upper percentile.

Damien Elford, on the other hand…

Galen had seen the numbers.

Language and Comprehension – 3/5

Math – 2/5

Social Science – 1/5

Science – 0/5

A cumulative score of 6 out of 20.

Abysmal.

Barely passing in one category, failing in every other. And it wasn't because he didn't know how to think. No—his writing was neat, clean. His arguments in comprehension were well-structured, even insightful in moments. But the knowledge base wasn't there. The facts, the dates, the formulas—he'd been swinging with instinct and wit, not preparation.

The kid had shown up a week late to school and jumped into a storm of fights and politics before ever cracking a book open.

'He's not stupid,' Galen thought. 'He's just not ready yet.'

The instructor let out a quiet breath, fingers tapping once against the desk.

"No one will be notified," he said simply. "I'll mark it as a deferred evaluation, pending injury review."

Damien didn't reply.

But the tilt of his head—just the slightest incline, a respectful nod that never fully formed—was acknowledgment enough.

And then he stepped out into the hall, his figure disappearing around the corner.

Galen stood in silence for a long moment, his fingers still resting on the quiz folder.

Three events in two weeks. Two official investigations. One torn ligament. And now, academic underperformance.

He wondered, how Damien would change.

****

Isabelle's footsteps echoed through the empty corridor, each one sharp and clipped, bouncing off the tiled floor and stone walls of the academy like the ticking of a metronome barely holding back a melody.

Her jaw was tight.

Too tight.

And she hated that she noticed.

She should have stayed in the infirmary. Or, if not that, at least maintained her composure. She had no reason to walk out like that. No reason to feel this strange, simmering heat at the base of her neck, this restless clenching in her chest that refused to settle even as she put more distance between herself and him.

Damien Elford.

That ridiculous, arrogant, reckless, stubborn fool of a boy.

Her pace quickened slightly.

What had gotten into her back there? That tone, that reaction—why had she allowed herself to engage with his teasing at all? And worse, why did it get under her skin?

Isabelle exhaled sharply, trying to release the frustration in a single breath.

It didn't work.

She rounded a corner, catching sight of a few students returning to class early. She didn't speak to them, only offered the barest nod of acknowledgment before continuing forward. Her mind, however, remained stubbornly knotted—trailing back to the moment in the infirmary, to the feel of his weight briefly leaning against her shoulder, the quiet rasp of his voice when he admitted, just once, that it hurt.

He had tried to hide it—of course he had. But she had seen the way his knee had buckled. The flush of red against pale skin. The tight set of his jaw every time he shifted.

She hated recklessness. She especially hated people who threw their bodies into danger with the casual belief that pain was just part of the process. She'd grown up watching people do that—burn themselves out trying to chase dreams they hadn't planned for, because they thought willpower could replace preparation. But this… this wasn't quite that, was it?

No. Damien had prepared. That was the problem.

He'd trained for it. Fought for it. Suffered for it.

And now he was throwing himself into the game like he had nothing to lose, even as his body screamed otherwise.

She stopped just outside the classroom, her hand resting on the frame. Her knuckles were pale.

What is this feeling?

Anger? Frustration? Embarrassment?

Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. All she knew was that she didn't like it.

But as the murmur of returning students filtered through the door, her thoughts shifted again—backward this time. To earlier that day.

To P.E.

The girls' Volleyball team had gone through their usual drills first—Isabelle, as captain, had kept their focus sharp. Serve precision. Rotational timing. Quick spikes on the left wing. They had run through all of it cleanly, efficiently. It was nothing new. They were expected to win. She was expected to lead.

And she had. As always.

But then the break had come.

They had stepped outside, taking advantage of the brief window to cool off in the shaded bleachers outside the gym. The weather had been unusually crisp, the sun filtered through high clouds, and from their perch, they'd heard it before they saw it—the rising crowd noise, the surge of voices.

Curious, a few of the girls had leaned forward to see what was happening near the football field.

And Isabelle had followed.

That was when she saw the crowd.

Nearly half the class had gathered along the fences—cheering, shouting, reacting in real time to whatever spectacle was unfolding on the grass below. And there, right in the center of it, was him.

Damien Elford.

She hadn't meant to stare.

She had only meant to observe for a moment, to take in the flow of the match. She knew he had joined the football match this time—an impulsive decision, she had assumed. Just another distraction. But watching him… that assumption had withered quickly.

He really changed.

Not in theory. Not just in appearance.

Watching him on that field—how he moved, how he read the game, how he carried himself even while bleeding—Isabelle felt it. That subtle shift in atmosphere around him. The weight of presence that didn't belong to the old Damien Elford, the one who dragged his feet through the halls and barely scraped passing marks.

This Damien wasn't just pretending anymore.

He was becoming.

And worse—it suited him.

She didn't want to admit that. Not even to herself. But when he moved across the field, weaving through defenders with sharp footwork and clearer eyes than she'd ever seen on him… he wasn't just a changed student.

He looked like a different man.

And when he cut through the defense again, when the crowd roared and she caught the profile of his face—focused, tense, unapologetically confident—there had been a brief, treacherous flutter in her chest.

Her eyes widened slightly.

…He looked kind of cool.

What am I saying?!

She turned her head sharply, cheeks prickling. Her arms folded tight across her chest as if to squeeze the thought out of existence.

No. No, absolutely not. Don't be stupid. You're just surprised. That's all. Caught off guard. He's still the same irresponsible, arrogant, chaotic—

The crowd roared again.

She grit her teeth.

—chaotic idiot. Who's apparently good at football now. That doesn't mean anything.

And yet…

The image stayed in her mind.

The way he moved with purpose. The way he didn't hesitate. The raw momentum behind his play.

She stood abruptly and turned away from the fence, trying to put distance between her and the strange, rising curiosity building in her chest.

By the time she returned to the gym, the final whistle had already echoed faintly from the fields behind her. P.E. was wrapping up. The teacher stood near the equipment rack, clipboard in hand, already calling out names and giving dismissal instructions.

Inside, some of the girls had begun changing back into their uniforms, chatting absently. The air was thick with post-exertion heat and the scent of sweat and floor wax.

Isabelle hadn't even made it halfway into the room when she heard:

"Belle!"

Madeline's voice.

Of course.

Isabelle barely turned before her seatmate was at her side, hair slightly damp from exertion, eyes alight with that usual devilish curiosity.

"Is he okay?" Madeline asked, breathless but direct. "I saw you walk him off the field. You looked like a goddamn knight."

Isabelle blinked. "He's… fine. Sprained knee, probably."

Madeline raised an eyebrow. "And you just happened to be there when he collapsed? How convenient."

Isabelle sighed, already too tired for the implication. "I was watching the match."

"You were watching," Madeline repeated, like it was a confession. "Oh my god, you like—"

"No," Isabelle cut her off swiftly. "I was observing. For injury. For disciplinary reasons."

Madeline grinned. "Sure, Captain Rosseau. Purely professional."

Before Isabelle could formulate a reply that wasn't laced with withering disdain, two boys entered the gym doors—out of breath, still in cleats and grass-streaked jerseys.

Aaron and Lionel.

"Rep!" Aaron called out immediately, jogging toward her with Lionel in tow. "Is Damien alright? What did the nurse say?"

"He's stable," she answered, straightening. "No serious dislocation. Likely just a sprain. They're scanning it to be sure."

Lionel exhaled, visibly relieved. "Good. Because that tackle was bullshit. The ref took way too long to call it."

Aaron shook his head, muttering something under his breath. "Fucking 4-C. Always dirty when they're losing."

"He still scored though," Lionel added, grinning faintly. "That last shot? Ridiculous. I don't even know how he got it under control after that weird bounce."

Isabelle nodded once, her tone neutral. "He played well."

Aaron blinked. "Well? He carried the second half. I've never seen him move like that."

"Yeah," Lionel added with a smirk. "If that's him on a bad leg, I kind of want to see what he's like at full health."

Madeline elbowed Isabelle gently. "Well, some of us already know how he moves up close."

Isabelle looked like she wanted to disappear into the hardwood floor.

But her voice came out steady: "He's reckless. He needs to stop pushing beyond his limit."

"Maybe," Lionel said, rubbing the back of his neck, "but whatever he's doing… it's working."

They stood there for a few moments longer, the group half-circling around her—each of them still buzzing from the match, from the crowd, from the rush of watching someone change right in front of them.

And Isabelle?

She folded her arms again, eyes narrowing slightly—not at anyone in particular, but at the silent echo of Damien's smirk, still burned into her memory.