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

Victoria stood frozen for a moment, her breath caught somewhere between fury and disbelief. Her face burned—not from embarrassment, but from the sheer audacity of it all.

That bastard.

Damien had just dismantled her in front of everyone. Again.

He didn't just win the argument—he erased it. Made her look small.

And the worst part?

It wasn't just the words.

It was the way he said them. Calm. Cold. With that infuriating tone like none of it mattered.

Like she didn't matter.

He hadn't raised his voice once. Hadn't flinched. Hadn't even tried to make it into a scene.

He just spoke. And it worked.

'Why… can't I win against him?'

She sat at her desk now, posture perfect, chin tilted upward, eyes locked on the front of the classroom like she was focused—

But she wasn't.

Her mind was still burning from his words.

Attention whore.

Pray to something higher.

Try giving your life some meaning.

Each line circled back through her head like splinters.

She clenched her jaw.

It was so annoying. The way he looked at her. The way he spoke to her like he was above her, like she was just some child throwing a tantrum.

And the worst part was—

The class didn't laugh at him.

They laughed with him.

Even the ones who used to look to her first now glanced his way.

It was like his voice had a gravity to it. Like people couldn't not listen.

Her nails dug into the underside of her desk.

Then—

A gentle touch.

Victoria blinked, startled out of her spiral as a hand brushed lightly against her arm.

She turned her head—

Lillian.

Lillian offered a soft smile, the kind that masked sharpness beneath layers of grace. Her hand rested lightly on Victoria's arm for a moment longer before she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why are you so adamant about picking on him?" she asked gently. "You usually don't waste this much energy on people like that."

Victoria's eyes stayed forward, but her jaw tensed at the question.

"I can't stand him," she hissed, her voice low and tight. "Back then, he was pathetic. Always trailing after people, bloated, whining, existing like he didn't even deserve to be in the room."

Her fingernails dug harder against her palm.

"And now? Now he acts like none of that ever happened. He talks down to people. He insulted Celia—and not just once."

Lillian's expression shifted subtly. Calm, but assessing.

"I get it," she murmured. "He crossed a line. And he's… different. But is it really worth the attention? You know what people are like. The more you react, the more power you give him."

Victoria's gaze flicked to the side, meeting Lillian's eyes for a brief second.

"You think I'm making it worse?"

"I think…" Lillian tilted her head slightly, her tone gentle, "he's already good at making people look. You're helping him stay in the spotlight."

Victoria looked away again, her lips pressed tightly together.

She knew Lillian had a point. She always did.

But still—

She smiled.

A quiet, composed, and oddly satisfied smile.

Because there was something deeper now.

****

The final bell rang with a faint chime, and the collective sigh that escaped the classroom was nearly synchronized. Books closed, chairs scraped against polished floors, and murmured conversations began to rise as students prepared to file out.

Damien, still seated, took his time. He wasn't in a rush. The moment of silence after verbal carnage always felt a bit peaceful.

That peace didn't last long.

"Alright," Isabelle's voice rang out, crisp and clear as she stood near the door, arms folded neatly across her chest. "We'll be heading to the field for P.E. now. Everyone, change quickly and assemble within ten minutes."

A few groans rose from the crowd, but no one protested too loudly.

P.E.

For most schools—normal schools—fourth-year students were already exempt from such things. With the National College Exams looming, most institutions repurposed those hours for extra lessons, mock tests, and relentless academic drilling.

But not Vermillion.

Vermillion Private School thrived on discipline, prestige, and an archaic sense of balance. Here, physical education wasn't just about fitness. It was about maintaining mental resilience. The school had a long-standing philosophy that a sharp mind belonged in a strong body. That true leaders—the kind Vermillion produced—should be capable of endurance, poise, and grit.

So even as students prepared for one of the most critical academic milestones of their lives, they were still expected to run, train, and sweat under the sun like it was their first year.

There were also music classes, art electives, speech, and even etiquette labs. Vermillion liked to say it crafted "full-spectrum excellence."

Damien had, of course, slept through nearly all of them.

At least, the old Damien had.

Now?

Damien rolled the words around in his head as he made his way toward the locker room, the murmur of students echoing off the walls around him.

It might not be so bad.

In fact, it was probably the first P.E. class he was attending in… what? Years?

Even before his death and rebirth, when he still bore the name and body of another, his fragile health had kept him off the field. A failing heart, brittle lungs, that weak frame—he'd spent most physical education periods sitting on the sidelines, watching others move freely while a slow decay crept through him from within.

And old Damien?

The one whose name he now wore like a suit tailored from shame and indulgence?

That version had been worse. Capable, maybe, in body—but lazy. Pathetically so. Always finding excuses, always shirking the minimum effort, hiding behind his weight and family name like they were armor. He didn't even try.

Damien exhaled through his nose, pushing open the door to the school gym's locker room.

The air was familiar: clean, cool, carrying the faint scent of worn leather and antiseptic—like all athletic spaces seemed to.

He moved to one of the lockers, spinning the handle before opening his bag.

Inside, neatly folded with the kind of precision only she managed, were his gym clothes. A fresh, fitted set bearing the Vermillion insignia. Tucked beside them: a hand towel, a protein bar, and a cold bottle of water wrapped in a thin cloth to keep it chilled.

Damien paused, brow arching slightly.

"…I didn't even know today had P.E."

But of course—

Elysia knew.

Of course she did.

He smiled faintly to himself, shaking his head as he picked up the clothes.

'You really do think of everything, huh?'

His dear maid, loyal and precise, always one step ahead of him. And it wasn't just her attentiveness—it was her way of silently saying I've got you without ever needing to speak.

As Damien slipped out of his uniform and peeled off the undershirt, the fluorescent light overhead cast a pale sheen across his skin.

The reflection staring back at him from the small metal locker mirror wasn't that of a sculpted athlete—not yet. He wasn't lean enough for abs, and his waist still carried the soft imprint of the man he used to be. At 105 kilograms, there was still fat around his midsection, clinging to the remnants of that bloated, sluggish form.

But underneath it—

There was something new.

The swelling curve of biceps where before there had only been softness. The solid press of deltoids. His chest, once buried under layers of weight, now pushed forward with undeniable definition. It wasn't sharp, but it was there.

Mass.

Strength.

His traps sloped into his neck with quiet authority, his forearms lined with faint cords of tension, and his thighs had started to firm beneath the old weight—no longer struggling to support him, but actively powering every movement.

This wasn't the body of a lazy noble anymore.

This was a body earned in pain.

Built through deadlifts under midnight skies. Through sweat-soaked mornings where his muscles screamed. Through long hours of compound lifts—squats, presses, rows—all done with brutal, obsessive consistency.

No shortcuts.

No magic.

Just effort. Fueled by something deeper than pride.

He wasn't shredded. He wasn't polished. He wasn't a poster-boy.

But he was becoming.

And every inch of his frame reflected that.

Damien exhaled slowly, running a hand down his arm, feeling the way the muscle resisted beneath his palm.

'Not done,' he thought. 'But no longer useless.'

The shirt slid down over his torso with a soft rustle—loose, oversized, just the way he liked it.

Damien wasn't the type to show off.

Not yet.

The black fabric hung past his waist, draping over the growing mass of his shoulders and chest in a way that downplayed rather than accentuated. His sleeves dropped halfway to his elbows, concealing the shape of his arms despite their tightened density beneath.

He preferred it that way.

Let them wonder. Let them underestimate him.

The quiet kind of strength didn't need to be broadcast.

He stepped out of the changing room, tugging at the hem lightly as he walked past the rows of lockers. Behind him, one of the other guys slipped inside to change, while a few others—less modest, or more desperate for validation—were already stripping down out in the open, talking loudly, laughing, posturing.

Damien could've done that too.

He could've peeled his shirt off in the middle of the locker room and let them see what effort looked like.

But not yet.

Not yet.

Instead, he walked forward, calm and quiet, and pushed through the side doors leading into the wide, polished gymnasium.

Immediately, the shift in atmosphere hit him.

Sunlight filtered down through the high windows above, washing the court in soft gold. The gym was active—lively, even—but not chaotic. There was an ease to the movement, a rhythm already forming.

To his right, a group of girls were volleying casually over the net—clean arcs of motion, swift slaps of contact. Among them, he caught a glimpse of Isabelle—hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, her form focused but poised. Madeline was nearby, grinning mid-spin as she called a ball, her laughter rising with the bounce.

Further ahead, a group of boys clustered around a half-court basketball game—sweaty, sharp-footed, sneakers squeaking as they called plays between breathless bursts of movement.

And toward the back, near the corner, two more students stood at the green fold-out table with small paddles in hand—locked in a rapid-fire duel of table tennis.

It was a far cry from the usual tension of their classrooms. Here, even the high-ranking nobles moved with a rare looseness, the pressure of grades and titles softened by sweat and sport.

Damien scanned the room once, quietly taking stock.

No instructors yet.

Just them.

The class.

He stepped further in, rolling his shoulders with quiet ease.

'Let's see what I've really got now.'

After all, this was his first real P.E. class in years….

In either of his lives.