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

Damien stepped into the classroom, the faint creak of the door punctuating his arrival. The hum of early chatter filled the space—students settling in, pages rustling, chairs scraping slightly as people shifted and organized themselves before the bell.

He moved with that same quiet ease, heading to his seat near the window.

But his mind?

It wasn't here.

It was still with her.

With that moment.

That perfect flicker—just a second—where her face froze in the wake of his whisper. That instant of vulnerability, raw and unguarded, before she stitched herself back together with noble pride and poison-tipped charm.

Damien sat down slowly, letting his fingers drum lightly against the desk's edge.

And then he smiled.

A soft, private smile. One that never reached his eyes.

'Now, little Victoria… you must be thinking to yourself a lot right now, aren't you?'

He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting out the window, but his thoughts still coiled tightly around her expression.

Because this was how the human mind worked.

The moment tension enters, the brain hates it. It scrambles to resolve it. To explain it. To bury it in something that will allow the body to function without falling apart.

Self-justification.

That was step one.

She would tell herself he was bluffing. That he didn't know anything. That it was just Damien running his mouth again, playing one of his arrogant little games.

And that belief would feel good. Comforting. Safe.

But…

There would be that one creeping doubt.

The whisper she couldn't shut out.

What if he wasn't lying?

What if he saw them?

What if he knows?

And the more she tries to bury it, the more her mind will return to it. Like a sore tooth she can't stop tonguing. Like an itch just beneath the skin.

She'll start watching him closer.

Studying his behavior.

And eventually—sooner or later—she'll come to him.

Not because she wants to.

But because she'll need to.

Because the only way to kill that whisper… is to face it.

Damien's smile widened just slightly.

A slow, methodical rhythm tapped beneath Damien's fingers as he leaned back in his chair, the light from the window catching the edge of his smile. The ideas had already started to take shape—threads looping in his mind.

He had been thinking about it since that game. Marek's tackle hadn't just been reckless—it had been intentional. A weak man's retaliation for public embarrassment. And Victoria? She was a brat with a noble name, pride sharper than wit, and a habit of swinging first with her tongue.

But…

Maybe this would be fun.

Maybe they were both just the right combination of fragile and loud to break in interesting ways.

He didn't need to crush them.

He needed them to unravel.

Just then, the classroom door eased open. The murmur of conversation didn't stop, but it thinned—just slightly—as she stepped in.

Victoria Langley.

Blonde hair, pristine uniform, sharp posture. She entered like she always did: like the world should make way, as if anything less would be an insult.

But this time, she threw a glance.

Just one.

Quick. Measured.

At him.

Damien met her gaze.

And smiled.

Not a sneer. Not a threat. Just something simple—and unreadable.

Victoria's gaze held for a second longer than she probably intended before she looked away, moving toward her seat without another word. But Damien had seen enough. The hesitation. The doubt. It was there, just as he expected.

'Yeah… this could be entertaining.'

But there was something else that gnawed at the back of his thoughts. A question that lingered despite all the clarity.

Was Victoria one of the heroines?

The thought had danced around the edges for a while now. But nothing confirmed it. Not her interactions. Not the game knowledge. And certainly not her involvement in the mainline narrative.

Damien opened the interface in his mind, mentally prompting the system.

"System. Confirm the fate alignment of Victoria Langley. Heroine status? Child of Plane?"

There was a flicker.

Then the response came.

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[SYSTEM NOTICE] Access Denied. Current system authority insufficient to reveal fate-bound titles. 'Heroine', 'Child of Plane', and other destiny-linked classifications require Host Level 3 and System Evolution Stage 2. Please increase System Authority to access alignment-based data.

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Damien clicked his tongue softly.

'So I'm flying blind with this one, huh.'

Or rather, not blind—just without certainty. Because in this world, fate was a layered, knotted thing. And the system didn't just need access.

He needed authority.

And right now, he hadn't earned enough of it.

He shut the interface with a blink and exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking once more to the back of Victoria's head as she settled into her seat.

'Well, whatever.'

Damien let the thought slip as he rested his elbow against the desk, fingers idly supporting his chin. The system could keep its secrets. He had other things to focus on—more immediate matters that didn't require divine insight or awakened clairvoyance.

The classroom slowly began to fill around him.

First came the quiet buzz of low conversation. Bags dropping beside chairs. The shuffle of uniforms, the hum of mana sensors briefly pinging as students passed through the room's barrier field.

Celia entered next.

Damien's eyes flicked toward the door out of habit, and there she was—poised, polished, and perfectly composed. Her walk was the same as always: slow, deliberate, graceful. The queen stepping into her court.

But there was a subtle difference.

Her expression had regained its usual calm. Her mask—flawless as ever. She wasn't cracking anymore. If anything, she looked like someone who had spent the weekend rebuilding herself brick by brick, ready to resume her role as if nothing had happened.

And she didn't spare Damien a glance.

Not even a flicker.

Good.

That made things simpler.

Their connection—whatever it had been—was fractured now. Cracked from too many directions. Could it be mended? Maybe. But Damien no longer had the desire to test that theory. And desire was the only thing that made bonds like that matter.

If fate wanted to intervene, it could try.

But he wasn't reaching.

Not anymore.

Then—

A breeze of something lighter followed.

Iris Blackwood.

With her signature green hair tied into a half-tail, her red eyes gleamed with a glint that never quite gave away what she was thinking. She moved through the threshold with a quiet confidence, hips swaying just enough to draw eyes—but not enough to court them.

She saw Damien the moment she stepped in.

And without breaking stride, she winked.

He raised a brow, but didn't react further. Just a small twitch of a smirk.

There was something… else about her. Always had been. Iris didn't just act like she was above the petty court of high school drama. She moved like she already knew how the rest of the game played out.

Blackwood blood ran deep, and in terms of raw family power, she was one of the few who could speak to him as an equal.

Not an admirer.

Not a follower.

But a peer.

Whatever her motives, Damien knew one thing: she wasn't playing anyone else's game. Not Celia's. Not Victoria's. Maybe not even his.

And finally—

The air shifted again.

He didn't need to look to know who had just arrived.

Isabelle Moreau.

He heard her heels tap against the floor with perfect rhythm. Heard the rustle of crisp paper and the slight clack as she tucked her clipboard under one arm. Glasses perched neatly on the bridge of her nose. Brown eyes already scanning the room like she was taking attendance from memory.

There was something refreshing about her.

No layers. No mask. Just structure. Discipline. The kind of girl who ran things not because she wanted to be seen—but because someone had to.

She passed Damien's desk, and for a brief second, their eyes met.

Then she gave a short nod.

And moved on.

The bell rang.

A soft chime, signaling the start of the lesson.

The instructor stepped in moments later, robes fluttering lightly behind him, and the classroom began to settle—books open, mana-synced quills prepped for notes, the whisper of focus descending across the room like fog.

Damien let out a quiet breath.