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

The gym lights dimmed slightly as the late afternoon sun slanted across the high windows, painting everything in hues of fading gold. The final whistle of the day's P.E. session had already blown. The last cool-down lap was finished. Students were trickling back in from the locker rooms, wiping sweat from their brows, adjusting uniforms, dragging their feet with that unmistakable end-of-week fatigue.

But Damien remained seated.

Still, quiet, crutch leaning against the bench. His injured leg extended with casual patience, arms loosely folded across his chest as he watched the last few stragglers shuffle into the assembled lines near the bleachers.

The instructor's voice echoed—monotone, half-hearted, running through closing announcements.

Club schedules. Detention notices. Volunteer reminders for cleanup duty.

And finally—

The weekly closing.

The Friday End-Week Ceremony.

"All students, prepare for final assembly," Coach Harrow called, his voice echoing across the gym. "Form ranks by class. Ceremony begins in five."

The buzz of conversation dulled, fading into the low shuffle of sneakers and murmured transitions. Damien watched the movement around him with distant calm, his hands resting loosely over his lap. The crowd was forming again—like it always did—like it had earlier that day on the pitch, but this time not around a football. Around tradition.

Because this part?

This wasn't just routine.

This was Azaria Dominion law.

The End-Week Ceremony was a compulsory fixture in every recognized academy within the Dominion's education network. A final gathering to reinforce unity, discipline, and national identity. Regardless of bloodline, house rank, or personal ambition—every student, noble or not, stood shoulder to shoulder for this moment.

The instructors filed out first, Coach Harrow among them, joined by a few assistant faculty. They positioned themselves near the entrance to the outdoor terrace, where the sun now hovered low over the western trees, casting long shadows across the stonework.

One by one, the classes emerged—students from 4-A and 4-C stepping into the open quad, followed by representatives from the lower years: third-years in cleanly pressed uniforms, second-years trailing a bit more ragged from their own drills, and finally the first-years, still slightly stiff with the nervousness of new protocol.

Lines formed across the upper lawn, measured and even.

Crutch steady, he stepped from the gym onto the wide stone terrace and felt the soft breeze graze the side of his face. It wasn't cold. It was crisp. Clean. The scent of pine and dry grass, faint from the hills beyond campus.

He moved to his place along the fourth-year line—Class 4-A's section—and stopped just behind Lionel and Aaron. Isabelle was two rows down. Rin stood beside her. Even Kaine and Ezra were present in the 4-C formation—backs straight, faces stiff with the expression of nobles playing perfect citizens.

But Damien didn't look at them.

Not yet.

Not until the moment called for it.

A long pause followed.

And then—like clockwork—

A single bell rang from the old iron tower overlooking the campus.

Bonnnng.

Everyone fell silent.

A new voice rang out—older, commanding. The Vice Principal, standing atop the southern platform.

"Prepare for Anthem."

And the first soft notes of the Azaria Dominion's national anthem rose from the courtyard speakers. Brass and strings—sharp, proud, with that uniquely imperial cadence that sounded like history itself had been scored into music.

Across the terrace, every student straightened.

Hands over hearts. Eyes forward.

****

The final note of the anthem rang out, sharp and resonant, echoing through the quad like the toll of iron bells across an old fortress.

And then—

Silence.

Only for a breath.

Then the Vice Principal's voice returned, clipped and formal.

"Students of Vermillion Academy—dismissed."

The command was clear. Immediate.

And just like that, the spell of stillness broke. Rows unraveled. Uniform shoes scuffed against stone as students began to move, turning toward exits, picking up bags, murmuring to one another again as the structure of ceremony gave way to the mess of youth.

End-of-week energy returned—subdued but restless. Some were laughing, some yawning. The younger years scattered toward the lower dorms or the shuttle stations. A handful of third-years jogged toward the northern gate, trying to catch a departing academy bus.

But here, on the terrace of Vermillion's upper class court?

The real exodus began.

Luxury black sedans and polished academy shuttles lined the front drive beyond the courtyard wall. Drivers in pressed uniforms stood beside their cars, already calling names, opening rear doors, checking schedules.

Names like Argent, Veltrane, Calderon, Langley.

High-line bloodlines. The ones with entire houses behind them.

Damien stood near the edge of the fourth-year line, crutch balanced under one arm, as students peeled off around him. Lionel gave him a passing nod, Aaron offered a "See you Monday," and Rin tossed him a two-finger salute.

And Damien?

He stayed still.

Because the stares were returning.

He could feel them.

Some came from third-years still whispering about the match. A few from the first-years who had only seen rumors in motion. But most?

Most came from Class 4-C.

He turned his head, slow, deliberate, until his eyes landed on them.

A cluster of boys standing near the eastern stair. Uniform jackets slung lazily over shoulders, gym bags in hand. Trying too hard to look casual.

And among them—

The striker.

The one who'd tried to end him.

The boy who had thrown a tackle with no regard for sportsmanship, who had left blood on the turf and expected that to be the last word.

Their eyes met.

Damien's expression didn't change.

Not at first.

He simply looked.

And held the gaze.

"Hmm…"

The hum left Damien's throat like a thought half-spoken—calm, weightless. But the shift in his body was sharp. Intentional. He turned, crutch steady beneath his arm, and began to walk—slow, sure—toward the eastern stair where the 4-C boys stood.

Their voices stuttered as he approached. The ones on the edges stepped back instinctively, pretending to check their bags or talk amongst themselves, but their eyes stayed on him. Watching. Measuring.

And the striker—

The one who should've been victorious—

Didn't move.

He stood still, hands in his pockets, eyes set forward like he was bracing himself for something.

Damien stopped in front of him.

Close enough for silence to feel heavy.

His gaze didn't waver. "What's your name?"

The boy blinked. "...What?"

"Your name," Damien said again, slower this time, voice smooth but cold. "I don't like hurting people I don't know."

There was a pause.

Then— "Marek," the striker said flatly.

Damien let the name roll through his thoughts, then nodded once. "Marek," he repeated, tasting it. "Good."

His gaze sharpened—just a notch—as he looked Marek over. Broad frame. Strong legs. Fast twitch. But tense now. Unsteady.

"You're the one who dove in," Damien said, tone still casual. "Could've broken a bone. That's not defense."

Marek didn't flinch. But there was something bitter in his smile. "Your leg still hurts?"

Damien smiled back—slow, deliberate.

"Not for long."

The confidence in his voice wasn't cocky. It was real.

And then—

He tilted his head, letting the next words fall like stones wrapped in silk.

"Victoria, that whore…" he murmured, voice low but clear. "What did she promise you?"

Marek's expression snapped.

A twitch at the corner of his eye.

A ripple of heat through his face. Not just anger.

Guilt.

The kind that showed itself when the truth hit too close to home.

"Don't take her name into your mouth," Marek said, voice tight, shoulders rising, eyes narrowing with barely masked fury.

Damien stepped closer. Just half a pace. Just enough.

"What if I do?" he asked.

No smile now.

Just ice.

Stillness.

Challenge.

The silence between them stretched.

Marek didn't move.

Couldn't move.

Not because Damien had said something outrageous—but because he hadn't flinched. Because he had stepped in, dropped a match on whatever silent arrangement Marek thought was buried behind pride and pretense… and then dared him to ignite.

But Damien?

He didn't need the fire.

He turned.

No dramatic exit. No flourish or parting threat. Just the soft thock of his crutch tapping against the stone as he stepped away, calm as if the confrontation had been a passing observation.

That was the real insult.

That he didn't care enough to stay.

And as he walked—he felt the shift.

The weight of more eyes.

Subtle. Stalking.

He didn't even have to search to know where they were.

Ezra and Kaine.

Leaning near one of the pillars that lined the edge of the quad, not speaking, not smiling. Just glaring. Cold and coiled. The kind of look that said they were already calculating the next opportunity. Already wondering how far they could push without drawing another whistle.

Damien's eyes flicked to them—just briefly.

And he scoffed.

Just the barest sound of amusement slipping through his breath, like he'd stepped over a crack in the pavement.

Then he kept walking.

No hesitation.

He made his way back toward the gym's side entrance, slipping into the shadowed corridor as the last of the students dispersed to their carriages and waiting drivers.

Inside, the gym was quiet again. The kind of quiet that came at the end of long days and longer weeks. Bags lined the back wall in tidy rows. The scent of chalk and sweat still lingered in the air like echoes of movement just past.

Damien crossed the floor, step by step, until he reached the spot where he'd left his things.