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

As he adjusted the band on his wrist with idle fingers, the P.E. instructor turned back to face the group.

"Alright," he called out. "We're splitting for this session. Boys, you've got the lower field. Football, track drills, your choice. Girls, you'll rotate through volleyball and light circuit training—unless you all agree otherwise."

A few of the girls lit up at that.

"Also—" the instructor turned slightly, gesturing toward the opposite end of the gym. "Class 4-C's running the same session. If you want to coordinate with them for a friendly match or challenge, I'll leave that to the reps. You've got twenty minutes to get organized."

He gave a short nod and turned to speak with another assistant coach by the benches.

The moment his back was turned, noise returned to the gym.

Students started talking, stretching, kicking stray balls, some immediately trying to convince Isabelle and Celia to set up a class match. The natural pecking order began to assert itself—those with confidence moving forward, those without lingering in the background, waiting to be told what to do.

Damien remained leaning against the wall for a second longer, arms crossed, his gaze drifting across the chaos with quiet amusement.

'A match, huh?'

He hadn't played football in a long time. Not before his death. And certainly not as the previous Damien. That one wouldn't have lasted five minutes on a pitch.

But now?

Now, it sounded… fun.

Fun?

Yeah. It sounded fun.

Not just because of the sport. Not because of nostalgia or some noble sense of competition. But because Kaine and Ezra were in Class 4-C.

And if the two of them were part of the opposing team…

Then they'd get front-row seats.

To what he'd become.

Damien was still leaning on the wall while he listened the conversations were scattered, half-formed—some already tossing out positions, others talking about trying to get a basketball game going instead.

It was the same dance.

Boys moved fast to establish rhythm—who's in, who's out, who's leading, who's watching. It was a silent, primal process, more instinct than structure. And yet, in a class of thirteen, it always came down to availability.

Even in Vermillion—where nobles and young elites gathered under gilded banners—sports still stripped everything down to simplicity: who could run, who could kick, who could win.

But 13 guys?

It was barely enough for a football match. Barely. And that was with everyone.

Just as Damien was nearing the edge of the gathering—where boys were starting to divide themselves into squads, jostling with light competitiveness—he heard the sound of deliberate footsteps behind him.

Light. Sharp. Familiar.

He didn't need to look.

"You just gonna stand there the whole time?"

Damien didn't even need to turn around.

That voice—cutting, needling—was unmistakable.

Victoria Langley.

He sighed inwardly, lips twitching in faint amusement. Right on time.

Victoria stepped up beside him, arms folded neatly across her chest, her perfectly pressed gym jacket hugging her figure like she knew exactly how much attention it would draw.

"You've been talking so much about change lately," she said, her tone light but barbed. "But here you are. Leaning. Lurking. Watching others take the field."

She tilted her head, her expression all sweet venom.

"Isn't this the part where you prove to the world that you're different now? Or are we still just pretending?"

Damien didn't answer at first.

He pushed off the wall slowly, unhurried, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve like her words were no heavier than lint.

"You really don't know when to stop, do you?" he said calmly. "It's almost impressive. The fixation."

Victoria scoffed. "Fixation? You're the one trying to act mysterious and brooding all the time."

He looked at her finally. Just looked.

"Not mysterious," he said, voice even. "Just busy. With things that matter."

Her smile thinned.

"Right. Like staring at a football game like a ghost counts as 'things that matter.'"

There it was.

The bait.

He let a slow, small smile stretch across his face.

"Relax," he said, brushing past her, voice smooth and casual, "I was about to join them."

Victoria's laughter was soft, incredulous. "Yes, yes. Surely you were. Just standing here like a moody statue was all part of your grand plan, right?"

Damien didn't even glance back. He just gave a slight shrug, hands in his pockets as he stepped off the wall and made his way toward the group of boys gathering near the sideline.

Let her laugh.

It made no difference now.

The boys glanced up as he approached, and the reaction was immediate.

Rin blinked. One of the taller boys, Lionel, paused mid-stretch. Another student—Aaron, maybe—narrowed his eyes slightly, caught between surprise and suspicion.

"…You playing?" Lionel asked, brow arched.

Damien nodded, casual as ever. "That's the idea."

Rin exchanged a look with Aaron. "Since when do you even show up for this, let alone play?"

Damien grinned. "Since a certain someone couldn't keep her mouth shut."

A few of the guys chuckled at that, glancing toward Victoria still standing back with a hand on her hip.

"Got provoked, huh?" Lionel said, amused.

"How can I not?" Damien said, rolling his shoulders. "She basically dared me."

Then, quieter, with a smirk: "So, is there a spot for me or not?"

The boys hesitated for a beat—out of habit, out of the long shadow cast by the old Damien—but the silence didn't last.

Aaron finally shrugged, spinning the ball on one finger as he glanced at the group. "If you want, one of us can sit out."

"No need," Damien replied, lifting a hand casually. "If I play like shit, I won't force myself into the lineup next time. Fair?"

The group exchanged brief glances. Unspoken thoughts moved between them, but none reached the surface.

Rin clicked his tongue and gave a crooked grin. "Tch. Chill enough for me."

Lionel nodded. "We've played with worse. And hey—if she's the one who got you moving, maybe we should thank her."

Damien chuckled under his breath. "Please don't."

With that, the tension began to ease, and the cluster of boys adjusted their formation to work Damien in.

But as he joined the circle and started warming up, he could feel them.

The stares.

Not all were welcoming.

Leon stood near the edge of the field, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His glare was sharp and unblinking, like Damien's very presence was a violation. A trespass.

Moren, unsurprisingly, carried the same venom as before. His glare wasn't as fierce—but it was bitter. Weak. But bitter nonetheless.

Then—another.

Damien's eyes narrowed.

There was a third gaze.

Someone else. Not one of the usual loudmouths or followers. A boy standing near the back, slightly removed from the circle, pretending to adjust his cleats but glancing at Damien every few seconds.

'…Who is that guy?'

Damien's eyes stayed on the boy by the edge of the circle.

He recognized the uniform—Class 4-A, same as him. The guy wasn't from 4-C, and he sure as hell wasn't a transfer. Same year, same class. Same everything.

But…

No name came to mind.

No memory. No conversation. Not even one of those background faces you half-remember from shared detentions or forgotten group projects.

So why the hell was this guy staring at him like that?

Damien raised an eyebrow, voice calm but cutting.

"Got a problem?"

The boy flinched, looking up quickly. "...No."

Damien's gaze lingered a moment longer before he gave a short nod. "Good."

He turned back to the team after changing his shoes. Apparently, his dear maid did also put football shoes here.

And then it was just a warm-up stretch, a few quick jogs, the energy building now as they started heading toward the lower field where the 4-C squad was already waiting.

The moment they crossed onto the turf, Damien felt it.

More eyes.

More stares.

Not subtle ones, either.

It wasn't that predator's stare—the kind he got from Leon, or from instructors with too much pride. No, this was something else.

Softer. But colder.

Petty.

Jealous.

His eyes flicked over the formation of 4-C's boys, scanning casually. And then it clicked.

'Ah. You guys are her simps, aren't you?'

They didn't need to say it out loud.

The glares said it for them.

The way their eyes flicked between Damien and Celia—who stood with her arms crossed just a few meters away, not even bothering to hide her distaste—was more than enough.

Yeah.

It was all written on their faces.

They didn't hate him because they knew him.

They hated him because of her.

Because Celia Everwyn, despite everything, still held court like a queen—and they were her knights in borrowed armor. Wanting her. Worshipping her. And resenting the one person she couldn't seem to ignore.

Damien exhaled slowly through his nose.

'How many of you think glaring makes you relevant?'

But his gaze shifted past them—and landed on two familiar figures.

Kaine and Ezra.

Kaine, fit as ever, with his sleeves rolled up.

"Tch."