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

The moment Isabelle stepped back into the classroom, the quiet murmurs that had been floating through the air immediately died down.

It wasn't because she made a scene.

She didn't need to.

Her mere presence was enough.

With the same practiced grace, she walked to her desk, setting her books down with quiet precision. The students, already familiar with the routine, straightened in their seats, their idle chatter fading into nothing.

A few exchanged quick glances, their curiosity clear—especially after seeing Damien follow in behind her at his usual unhurried pace. But no one dared to openly ask what had happened.

The only sound left in the room was the crisp shuffle of notebooks being opened.

Physics class was about to begin.

Isabelle sat down, exhaling softly as she reached for her pen.

Then—

"Alright," Madeline's voice cut in, hushed but amused, "what exactly happened with Elford?"

Isabelle didn't turn her head.

Instead, she simply gave Madeline a pointed look.

Madeline, completely unbothered, rested her chin on her palm and smirked. "Come on, Belle," she murmured. "You drag him out of class, come back looking all serious, and then he walks in right after, looking… well, way too pleased with himself for my liking."

Isabelle clicked her pen once.

"If you're so curious," she said flatly, "just ask him yourself."

Madeline wrinkled her nose. "No thanks. Talking to him is exhausting."

Isabelle huffed, shaking her head slightly.

Then, after a pause, she murmured, "I made a bet with him."

Madeline blinked.

Her smirk widened. "Oh? Do tell."

Isabelle sighed. "If he places in the top twenty-five on the next exams, I'll be his study partner."

Madeline stared at her for a second.

Then—

She laughed.

Isabelle shot her a glare. "What's so funny?"

"You," Madeline grinned, her voice still quiet enough to avoid drawing attention. "Belle, you know he's not going to make it, right?"

"That's what I thought," Isabelle admitted.

"But now?"

Her fingers tightened slightly around her pen as she thought back to the way Damien had accepted the bet so easily.

No hesitation. No pushback.

Just confidence.

Madeline let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. "Belle, you do realize there's no way he can make it, right?"

Isabelle didn't answer immediately, but Madeline continued anyway.

"There are 125 students in our year," she said, her tone light, almost teasing. "And Damien? He's always in the last five."

Isabelle clicked her pen once, her gaze flickering briefly toward Damien.

It was true.

Vermillion Private School was exclusive, but even among the privileged, there was still a hierarchy. The top students—the ones who were guaranteed a future of influence and success—hovered in the top twenty. Then there were the mid-ranked students, those who weren't outstanding but weren't failures either.

And then, at the very bottom—

The last five.

The ones who had barely scraped by every year. The ones the school had allowed to remain enrolled not because of their academic performance, but because their family names carried just enough weight to excuse their failures.

Damien Elford had always been in that group.

A fixture of the lowest ranks.

Never once had he broken past the triple digits.

Not because he couldn't, but because he never cared to try.

Isabelle tapped her fingers against her notebook, deep in thought.

"Come on," Madeline pressed, still smirking. "The guy's ranked 120th. He's been in the bottom five for years. What makes you think that's gonna change now?"

Isabelle exhaled quietly.

"I don't," she admitted.

Madeline blinked, surprised. "Then why the bet?"

"Because," Isabelle murmured, gripping her pen just a little tighter, "he accepted it too easily."

Madeline tilted her head. "Meaning?"

Meaning—

There hadn't been hesitation.

No doubts, no complaints. He hadn't even flinched at the conditions she set, despite how unfair they were.

He had just—

Smirked.

Like he already knew something she didn't.

Like this wasn't a challenge to him at all.

And that was the part that unsettled her the most.

Just like that, the classroom doors opened, and the air shifted.

Celia Everwyn entered first, her every movement composed, measured—like a queen returning to her court.

Her sapphire-blue hair cascaded down in perfect waves, her emerald-green eyes sharp and unreadable as she strode inside, effortlessly commanding attention without a single word. Behind her, as always, Victoria Langley, Cassandra Merlot, and Lillian Duvall followed, their presence creating an almost suffocating air of elitism.

Isabelle didn't miss the way the room reacted.

The subtle straightening of postures. The whispers dying down into hushed murmurs. Even the students who didn't particularly like Celia still acknowledged her presence.

But Celia?

She was focused elsewhere.

Her emerald gaze flickered—first toward Damien.

Then toward Victoria.

For a fraction of a second, her expression barely changed.

But Isabelle caught it.

That moment of something—something sharp, something calculated—before her usual mask of cold indifference settled into place.

Victoria, who was walking beside her, was far less composed.

Her green eyes flickered toward Damien as well, but unlike Celia's brief, controlled glance, hers was filled with thinly veiled irritation. Her lips pressed together, her steps carrying just a little more weight, as if she were still fuming over their earlier exchange.

But Damien?

Damien was unbothered.

His head rested against his folded arms on his desk, his breathing slow, his eyes shut as if he hadn't even noticed their arrival.

Sleeping.

As if nothing and no one in this room mattered.

As if Celia Everwyn—who had once been his entire world—was nothing more than another passing presence in the classroom.

The realization made something flicker in Celia's eyes.

Something dangerous.

But just as quickly as it came, it vanished.

With a soft exhale, she moved toward her seat, saying nothing.

Victoria, however, let out an annoyed scoff under her breath as she passed Damien's desk, her fingers twitching slightly, as if she wanted to shake him awake just to snap at him.

But she didn't.

Instead, she took her seat beside Celia, crossing her legs and huffing in frustration.

The air remained thick with unspoken tension.

And yet—

Damien continued sleeping, undisturbed.

Almost as if he knew exactly how much it irritated them.

******

The soft chime of the lunch bell echoed through the room, signaling the break.

Damien's eyes cracked open.

The first thing he noticed? Hunger.

A dull, persistent ache in his stomach—a reminder that, with how much he was training, he needed to keep a careful watch on his calorie intake. Even if he had been sleeping through class, his body was constantly burning energy.

With a slow stretch, he sat up, exhaling through his nose as he casually ran a hand through his dark hair.

Across from him, Moren turned, watching him with mild curiosity.

"You're awake," Moren muttered.

Damien smirked. "Observant as ever, Moren."

Moren rolled his eyes before leaning back in his seat. "You heading to the cafeteria?"

"No," Damien said simply, reaching down toward his bag. "I brought my own meal."

Moren raised an eyebrow. "Really? You brought your own meal?"

Damien didn't bother answering. He simply pulled out a neatly packed meal container and set it on the desk.

Moren stared at it for a moment. Then, with a shrug, he muttered, "…I see."

Before the conversation could continue, the door to the classroom opened, and two figures stepped inside.

One of them was a tall, broad-shouldered boy with short silver-gray hair and sharp, dark brown eyes—Kaine Everhart.

The other was leaner, with reddish-brown hair and a more relaxed posture—Ezra Lockwood.

Both were well-known figures among the upper-year students, particularly in the social circles of the academy. Unlike Moren, they weren't complete slackers, but neither were they the types to take academics too seriously.

As they stepped inside, Kaine's gaze immediately locked onto Damien.

And the moment he got a good look at him—

His eyes widened.

"You really did lose weight?" Kaine blurted, disbelief clear in his voice.

Ezra, who had been mid-conversation with him, blinked in confusion before following his line of sight.

His brows shot up. "Wait, what—"

Kaine took another step closer, still staring at Damien as if seeing a completely different person.

"How?" Kaine asked, his voice still laced with shock. "I mean, seriously. How the hell did this happen?"

Damien's sharp blue eyes flickered between Kaine and Ezra, his smirk fading into something unreadable.

He didn't particularly like these kinds of guys.

People who floated through life, indulging in excess, surrounding themselves with status yet contributing nothing of value.

But even bastards like them had their uses.

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as he met Kaine's gaze head-on.

"I trained eighteen hours a day nonstop," he said smoothly.

A beat of silence.

Then—

"…Nah, you're tripping," Kaine scoffed, shaking his head.

Damien merely shrugged. "Think whatever you want."

Kaine let out a low chuckle before pulling up a chair, flipping it around as he straddled it casually. Ezra followed suit, along with Moren, and just like that, they naturally formed a loose circle around Damien's desk.

The atmosphere shifted slightly—still casual, but charged with unspoken curiosity.

Kaine leaned forward, resting his chin on his arms.

"Man, that day at the Silver Hound club," he muttered, a smirk playing at his lips. "Did you break the engagement because of that?"

The moment the words left his mouth, the air grew heavier.

Ezra, who had been lazily watching the exchange, suddenly went quiet. Moren, who had been poking at his meal absentmindedly, stilled.

None of them said anything.

But all three of them were thinking the same thing.

They were curious.

The way Damien had changed—so suddenly, so drastically—it wasn't just about his appearance.

It was the way he carried himself.

The way he acted as if the things that used to matter to him no longer existed.

And most of all—

The fact that, after years of groveling at Celia Everwyn's feet, he had walked away.

They wanted to know why.

Why had Damien suddenly changed his mind?

Why had he thrown everything away?

And Damien?

He just smirked.

Because he knew they wouldn't like the answer.