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

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 either of his lives.

Leon Ardent.

Damien's gaze sharpened a fraction.

The golden-brown-haired knight-in-training walked in alone, his expression stern, focused, like he was trying to pretend nothing had happened.

The disciplinary committee hadn't acted yet, clearly. Either they were still assembling—or more likely, they were hesitating. Leon's name still had weight. Still carried reputation.

Damien had to admit—

The guy looked the part.

His build was tight. Shoulders broad, arms corded with lean muscle that didn't just come from bloodline. That was effort. Discipline. His strides were sure, his posture unmistakably military.

Damien watched him quietly, eyes tracking every subtle motion.

'Yeah… You work hard. No doubt about that.'

But that chivalry…

That idealistic fire Leon clung to like a badge?

It was the kind of thing that cracked under pressure. The kind of thing that failed when reality pressed too close, too cruel. Muscles could carry a man far, but not if his heart was still tied to illusions of what should be instead of what is.

Well… maybe it could carry you far—

If you were one of those Children of Fate.

The golden ones. The chosen. The ones whose plot armor bent the world around them rather than the other way around.

But Leon Ardent?

'Well, we will see about that.'

Leon's eyes locked onto Damien's the moment he entered the gym floor, his gaze cold—sharp like a drawn blade. But it stopped there.

No outburst. No challenge. No recklessness this time.

He simply stared… and kept walking.

That restraint?

That was expected. Normal, even.

He'd learned something from earlier. If not humility, then at least the reality of consequence. There was a time and place for pride, and this wasn't it. Whatever burning grudge simmered behind those steady footsteps, Leon chose—for now—not to let it bleed.

Damien simply watched him go.

'Good. That's how it should be.'

Then the rest came in, filtering through the doors in groups—laughing, nudging, adjusting the collars of their gym uniforms. It was easy to tell who kept up with their bodies. There was a certain ease in their movement. A quiet sharpness in their limbs. Vermillion didn't breed soft heirs. Not often.

Tall builds. Toned arms. Some built like they actually trained, others simply the product of good bloodlines and passable effort.

And honestly?

It was how it was supposed to be.

These were the young lions of society, after all. Sons of dukes, barons, and moneyed bloodlines. You didn't show up at Vermillion weak—not physically, not socially.

Then the tone shifted.

The girls stepped onto the gym floor from the opposite wing—one by one, in pairs, in practiced grace.

Eyes followed.

Naturally.

Damien didn't even have to look to know what came next.

A few guys near him chuckled under their breath, murmuring low—familiar phrases, half-whispers.

"Damn, Class Rep's really got that shape…"

"She tightens that jacket on purpose, I swear."

"Smart and stacked… dangerous combo."

Damien exhaled softly through his nose.

'Guy talk. Background noise.'

Isabelle walked with her usual precision, clipboard in hand, already sorting the student list. Her form-fitting track jacket hugged her figure—disciplined, but it didn't hide anything. Slender waist. Well-maintained curves. Everything exactly as he remembered.

And yes, the admiration was there.

But it was different when they walked in.

Celia.

Victoria.

Cassandra. Lillian.

The air shifted again.

Damien didn't need to turn his head to know. He could feel the tension from the other students—straightened backs, sidelong stares, low murmurs that went quieter, more reverent.

Admiration.

The change in atmosphere wasn't just audible—it was visible.

Every step Celia took was measured, controlled, her long legs on full display beneath the school's form-fitted gym shorts. Her jacket was unzipped just enough to hint at the curves beneath, while still remaining firmly within the school's code. Barely.

Victoria was more blatant. Her shorts were a size too tight. Her top tied into a small knot near her waist, showing a sliver of skin. Lillian and Cassandra, dressed just as sharply, matched the performance with their own flair. Their bodies weren't just groomed—they were showcased. The kind of display that whispered: look, but don't touch.

Damien, for his part, didn't comment. Wasn't going to.

He didn't give a shit about what they wore.

Let them wear what they wanted. Let them perform for whoever still cared enough to be impressed.

He wasn't part of that audience anymore.

He leaned against the wall casually, arms folded, as the doors to the gym opened once again—this time, to welcome their instructor.

A tall man in his late thirties stepped through, lean and weathered in the way that only professional athletes or ex-soldiers seemed to age. He wore a light sports tracksuit, his long black hair tied back loosely, and a whistle hung around his neck like an afterthought.

"Alright, everyone," he greeted, voice carrying easily across the echoing gym. "I know you're all busy. Fourth-years, exams coming up, mock tests breathing down your neck. I won't take too much of your time."

A wave of relieved murmurs swept through the students.

The instructor gave a half-smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "But you know the rules here. Vermillion believes a sharp mind needs a sharp body. If you think muscle isn't part of strategy, then you haven't been in a real fight yet."

He stepped forward and placed a sleek black case on the bench.

Click.

The case opened with a soft metallic hiss, revealing a series of narrow, silver-braced wristbands—each one inscribed with faint runes. Thin, elegant, but heavy with presence.

Mana suppression bracelets.

"This is standard for all physical drills," he explained. "You already know why. Some of you are awakened. Some aren't. It creates an unfair balance."

There were quiet glances exchanged between students. No protests. They all knew the unspoken rule: no awakened advantages in general P.E.

"Until you graduate and move on to an awakened academy or sector training," the instructor continued, "your focus here is uniform growth. These bands will temporarily suppress active mana. No boosts, no enhancements. Just raw effort."

He began handing them out, one by one.

And indeed, as expected—many students in this fourth-year class were already awakened. It was Vermillion, after all. Sons and daughters of noble bloodlines. The kind of people whose mana awakened early due to bloodline traits, expensive elixirs, or curated training.

Celia? Awakened.

Victoria? Of course.

Leon, Cassandra, Lillian? All awakened.

Even some quieter, less assuming students had already crossed the threshold.

It didn't mean they were combat ready.

It meant they had the potential.

But the theory, the spells, the actual training?

That came after Vermillion.

In the Awakened Academies.

For now… they were still high schoolers. On paper, at least.

As Damien took his own bracelet, slipping it over his wrist, he didn't feel anything.

[External interference confirmed. Since host is not Awakened, the device is inactive.]

Damien's lips curled into a smirk.

'Right.'

For someone like him—non-Awakened—the device may as well have been a bracelet-shaped placebo. It didn't restrict what wasn't there. No mana meant no suppression.

And yet, somehow, that made it better.

There was a strange kind of pride in knowing that everything he was building came from the ground up. No bloodline cheats. No elemental affinity awakenings. No system handing him flashy spells.

Just effort. Sweat. Steel under pressure.