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

Madeline narrowed her eyes at Damien as she made her way to her desk—her desk—where he still sat, far too comfortably, like it belonged to him and not the girl who'd been sitting beside Isabelle for the entire year.

"You know," she said slowly, her voice laced with a kind of dry sweetness that didn't match the subtle irritation in her eyes, "you're sitting in my seat."

Damien, of course, didn't move. He turned to look up at her, blinking lazily. "Oh, am I?"

"Yes," Madeline said, arching a brow as she crossed her arms. "And I don't recall offering you royal permission to occupy it. You might've dirtied it, for all I know."

That earned a light scoff from Isabelle, though she masked it with a small cough.

Damien placed a hand over his heart dramatically, a mock look of offense spreading across his face. "Dirtied it? Me?" He leaned back slightly, gesturing to himself. "Madeline Rosseau, please. I am a man of immaculate hygiene. I wouldn't dare contaminate the sacred seat of nobility."

Madeline gave him a flat look. "It's less about hygiene and more about… your general energy."

Damien grinned, unbothered. "Ah, I see. The air of rebellion. You're afraid it might linger."

"I'm afraid of your aura soaking into the fabric. I might sit down and suddenly feel compelled to sleep through class and flirt with authority figures."

Isabelle let out a quiet breath through her nose, the corners of her lips twitching slightly despite herself.

Damien chuckled. "So this is what it feels like," he mused aloud, glancing down at the desk beneath him. "The throne of Rosseau. A high seat. I can feel the privilege seeping into my spine." He placed both palms reverently on the desk's edge. "Surely, I've defiled it beyond redemption."

Madeline shook her head with a sigh. "You absolutely have."

"I'll have to issue a formal apology to the Student Council," Damien continued, fully committing to the bit. "Perhaps even a public cleansing. Bring forth the holy water."

"You're mocking me."

"I mock only the absurdity of thrones," he said with a smirk. "And the idea that someone like you thinks I could taint anything."

She gave him a slow, pointed look. "I know you could."

He laughed—low and genuine—and finally rose from the seat, stretching slightly before giving Madeline a short, dramatic bow. "My lady, I relinquish the royal cushion back to its rightful heiress."

"Damn right you do," she said, brushing off the seat theatrically before settling into it.

Damien turned to Isabelle as he gathered his container. "Class Rep, thanks for lunch. I'll try not to crash your table too often—wouldn't want to ruin your reputation by association."

Isabelle didn't meet his eyes. "You already have."

He grinned. "Then I'm honored."

The door clicked open.

Soft footsteps entered the room—measured, regal, as if the floor itself should feel honored.

Damien didn't need to look.

He felt it.

That cold presence, like frost creeping through the seams of a cracked window.

Celia Everwyn.

And, as expected, her little entourage followed—Victoria Langley, Cassandra Merlot, and Lillian Duvall, trailing behind her like ornamental pieces.

But Celia's gaze was the only one that mattered.

It locked onto Damien with unrelenting precision the moment she stepped inside.

A slow-burning glare. Cold. Disgusted. Almost… calculating.

Damien met it with ease.

"What?" he asked, voice low, disinterested.

She took a step forward, just one, her arms crossing beneath her chest as her lips curled into that familiar look of condescension.

"It's pathetic," she said, voice dipped in contempt. "That you're trying to fill that emptiness with others."

He blinked once.

Then he laughed.

Not loud.

Not bitter.

Just a single breath of disbelief before his eyes narrowed.

"You think highly of yourself," he said. "Do you really believe you occupied any place in me worth calling empty?"

Her expression didn't shift, but her silence was telling.

He turned, expression smoothing over into bored indifference.

"I didn't lose anything, Celia. I got rid of it."

With that, Damien moved to return to his seat.

Or at least—he tried to.

Because—

"That," Victoria's voice cut through, syrupy and sharp, "sounds like a cope."

Damien stopped mid-step.

The class fell silent again, tension coiling back like a drawn bowstring.

Victoria smirked, her arms folded, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of someone who'd waited for the right moment to strike.

"This delusion of yours—thinking you're better, that you've grown….Keep it up. Maybe if you say it enough, you'll manifest it. That's what you people believe in, right?"

Damien paused mid-step, the slight shift in tone enough to flip the direction of the entire room's air.

He turned his head slowly, blue eyes settling on Victoria—no smirk this time, just cold amusement flickering beneath something much sharper.

Then he scoffed.

"Right," he muttered. "Manifestation."

He turned fully now, facing her with the same energy one might reserve for a child playing pretend with too much confidence.

"That's your word, isn't it?" he asked, voice casual, but cutting. "You and your little clique are always talking about it—'if I just believe in my worth, the universe will make it real.' 'Speak it into existence.'"

He made a vague twirling gesture with his fingers, mimicking the dramatic flair of someone casting spells with glitter.

"Manifest your grades, manifest your boyfriend, manifest your daddy's approval."

A few students stifled laughter behind their hands. Even Madeline blinked once, clearly not expecting that level of precision.

Damien's gaze narrowed just slightly, aimed squarely at Victoria.

"You're the one who clings to delusion like it's doctrine," he said. "But the difference is—"

He tapped his temple with two fingers.

"I don't need delusion. I don't have to manifest anything. I just do it."

He stepped once toward her, not menacing, just firm—unshaken.

"And you?" he added, voice dropping a touch lower. "You're just loud. That's all you are. Loud and clinging to someone else's relevance. Clinging to her—" he jerked his chin toward Celia without looking, "—because that's the only way you'll get noticed."

Victoria's smirk faltered for a split second.

Victoria's smirk faltered for a split second.

Just enough.

Damien tilted his head.

"But go ahead. Manifest harder, Langley. Maybe next time, it'll actually work."

Victoria took a step forward, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as if punctuating her irritation. Her emerald eyes flared with a need to reclaim the edge, to remind the room of her presence.

"Manifestation is real," she snapped, coming to stand beside Damien's desk. "It's tied to mana, to higher resonance, to the fundamental laws of willpower. If you'd bothered to study anything beyond your own ego, you'd know that. The flow of mana responds to intent. There are entire eastern schools built around that principle."

Her voice rang out, firm—desperate to wrap itself in authority.

Damien, however, didn't even look up immediately. He finished chewing another bite of his food with irritating calmness, then finally raised his eyes.

Deadpan.

Flat.

Unimpressed.

"So what I'm hearing," he said slowly, "is that if you think hard enough, the universe bends to your will?"

"It's not just thinking," she bit back. "It's aligned intention. Focus. The soul resonating with mana to create outcomes."

Damien stared at her for a beat, then let out a low chuckle.

"You hear yourself, right?"

"I—"

"No, really," he said, leaning back with one arm resting lazily over the chair. "You sound like one of those frauds who sells dreamcatchers on the corner and tells people the stars are angry at them for skipping yoga."

A few snorts of laughter broke out around the room. Someone even choked on their water. Victoria flushed, but Damien continued without missing a beat.

"This is the problem," he said, his voice quieting—deadly calm now, serious. "You want to believe your will alone shapes reality. You want magic to be this whimsical extension of emotion. But believing something doesn't make it true."

He set down his fork and stared her in the eyes.

"You think your 'higher resonance' is what brings results?" he asked. "Let me tell you what brings results—effort. Repetition. Correction. Failing, then failing better. And then doing it all again."

His voice was steady. Grounded.

Real.

"I don't manifest," Damien said. "I act. That's the difference. You pray to something higher, hoping it'll make you worthwhile."

He leaned forward, just slightly.

"I make myself worthwhile."

Damien's eyes didn't waver.

"You should try it yourself," he said, his tone calm—almost too calm. "Instead of being an attention whore whose only satisfaction comes from other people's validation…"

A pin-drop silence fell over the class.

"…try giving your own life some meaning."

Victoria's face flushed, but it wasn't embarrassment anymore—it was rage.

Damien leaned back, unfazed, returning to his lunch like he hadn't just shattered the paper-thin ego she walked around with like a second skin.

"Maybe then," he continued, lifting his fork, "you'll understand."

"You—!" Her voice cracked with fury, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Did you just call me a whore?!"

Damien looked up again, blinked once—and shrugged.

"Yeah," he said casually. "I'm unfiltered. You knew that the moment you walked up here."

He pointed his fork at her, nonchalant.

"If you're offended by it… then deal with it. That's your problem, not mine."