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

Isabelle sat upright, her pen gliding in practiced strokes across the page, the soft sound of ink barely audible beneath the murmur of the lecture. Her gaze flicked between the board and her notes, eyes sharp, posture perfect—she was always like this. Focused. Efficient. Controlled.

But today… her concentration wavered.

Because at the backest, Damien Elford had once again lowered his head onto his desk, arms folded like a makeshift pillow, eyes closed like he hadn't a care in the world.

He's sleeping again.

Her pen stilled for half a second, brows drawing ever so slightly together. Her eyes narrowed.

This was the boy who had made a bet with her. Who had spoken so boldly, so confidently, swearing he would rise to the top twenty-five in the next round of exams. He had made that wager not just with pride—but with intent. She had seen it in his eyes.

So why… was he acting like this?

Arrogant.

There was no other word for it. To make a challenge like that and then proceed to nap in class as if the world owed him something?

Her fingers tapped once against the desk, subtle and quiet, but loaded with tension.

Just then—

Ms. Everstead's voice sliced through the quiet rhythm of the lecture. Calm. Clear. Unexpected.

"Can someone explain the difference between elemental resonance and mana refraction in multi-type spell structures?"

The room stilled. Most of the class knew better than to jump at open questions—not because they didn't know the answer, but because Ms. Everstead rarely called on students unless necessary. She was not the kind of teacher who hunted participation for the sake of it.

Isabelle adjusted her posture slightly, ready to respond if needed, when—

A hand rose.

She blinked.

Moren?

He sat just in front of Damien, his dark hair slightly disheveled, shoulders squared as if trying too hard to look composed. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked briefly—subtly—over his shoulder.

The target was clear.

Ms. Everstead tilted her head slightly. "Yes, Moren?"

There was a brief pause.

And then—

"I think Damien Elford can answer that," Moren said, voice calm but laced with unmistakable mockery. "He's clearly been paying attention."

A few students snickered. Some exchanged glances.

Isabelle's gaze snapped toward Moren, the corners of her lips tightening.

So that was his game.

She had overheard their confrontation days ago. The way Moren's voice had dripped with venom, all but confirming the fracture between the former friends. She hadn't stepped in then—it wasn't her place—but now?

Now it was in the middle of class. And Moren was clearly trying to bait Damien into embarrassment.

Her eyes shifted to Damien.

Still sleeping.

Still calm.

She couldn't tell if he was actually asleep or just pretending to be, but the timing was… infuriating.

And yet… a small part of her wondered.

Was he going to react?

Was he going to lift his head? Snap something back? Refuse?

Damien stirred.

It was slow, deliberate. His fingers shifted first—pulling slightly away from the edge of the desk—followed by a soft exhale as he lifted his head. His eyes opened with a lazy blink, like he'd simply been watching a dream fade behind his eyelids.

He straightened, not hurriedly, not in shame—but with a casual elegance that bordered on theatrical. He rolled his neck once, lips curling into a faint smirk as he locked his gaze on Moren's back.

"I knew you'd do something like this," he muttered, voice just loud enough to carry. "A simp's gotta follow the footsteps of his queen, right?"

The class stilled.

Some of the smarter students looked between Moren and Victoria—connecting the dots.

Victoria stiffened in her seat, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. She didn't turn around, but the tension in her shoulders was sharp, unmistakable.

Isabelle blinked.

She remembered—Chemistry Class. Victoria had done the exact same thing. Tried to humiliate Damien while he was sleeping, only for it to backfire in spectacular fashion.

And now Moren was attempting the same performance.

Damien's eyes drifted toward the board, then upward toward the lectern, where Ms. Everstead watched him with that trademark cool detachment. Her hands were folded, her glasses resting low on her nose.

"So," she said smoothly, "you weren't sleeping?"

"I was just resting my eyes," Damien replied, stretching his arms over his head and letting out a small yawn. "The content's not that bad. I just already visualized the slide in my head."

A beat passed.

Ms. Everstead, for a moment, simply studied him.

Then she gestured slightly toward the board. "In that case, please kindly answer."

All eyes shifted to Damien.

He stared at the board.

Then slowly inhaled through his nose, brow furrowing like a man about to deliver something profound.

Isabelle sat straighter.

Even Moren turned slightly in his seat, clearly hoping to see a disaster unfold.

Damien raised a hand.

"Ahem… Teacher," he said, voice calm, eyes unwavering.

"Yes?" Ms. Everstead prompted.

"I may not know the answer for this one."

Silence.

Pure, ringing silence.

Someone coughed at the back.

And then—Madeline snorted.

Ms. Everstead didn't even blink. "Then perhaps you should refrain from 'resting your eyes' during instructional periods."

Damien nodded solemnly. "That's fair."

She gestured to Isabelle without missing a beat. "Moreau?"

Isabelle blinked, already halfway ready. She stood, cleared her throat, and launched into the explanation with calm precision—

"Polynomials of higher order," Isabelle began, her tone crisp and practiced, "are categorized by the highest degree of the variable present. A second-degree polynomial is a quadratic, third-degree is a cubic, and so on."

She stood with ease, hands folded behind her back as she continued. "When solving problems involving these, particularly in calculus and algebraic structures, we focus not just on the roots, but the behavior of the function—its curvature, its turning points. For instance, a fourth-degree polynomial may have up to three turning points and four real or complex roots depending on its discriminant."

She gestured to the board as she spoke, pointing out the plotted graph already drawn there—its humps and dips representing each change in the function's slope.

"Factoring them," she added, "requires either rational root testing, completing the square when possible, or using synthetic division when higher-degree equations don't simplify cleanly."

A few heads nodded. Others scrambled to write everything down, the scratch of pens filling the silence as she concluded, "And, as always, the Fundamental Theorem of Algebra guarantees that a polynomial of degree n will have exactly n roots—real or complex."

Ms. Everstead gave a curt nod. "Well articulated, Moreau. You may sit."

Isabelle returned to her seat, adjusting her blazer and pulling her notebook close again. She kept her gaze forward, letting herself sink back into the lesson with mechanical precision.

But then—

She felt it.

That quiet, unspoken weight pressing against her composure.

She didn't need to look to know.

Still, against her better judgment, her eyes flicked sideways—

—and met Damien's.

He was leaning on one arm again, gaze steady. Calm. Not mocking, not taunting.

Just watching.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. 'What?' she mouthed silently.

His lips curved. Then moved.

Not bad.

Her eyes narrowed further. She could already hear the faint hum of Madeline's grin from two seats over even though nothing had been said.

Without responding, Isabelle turned her head sharply back to the front.

Madeline leaned slightly across the small divide between their desks, voice hushed but unmistakably smug. "Why the face, Belle? Annoyed at Elford again?"

Isabelle didn't look at her. Her eyes stayed trained on the board, even as her fingers paused mid-note.

"Yes," she muttered flatly.

Madeline made a sound low in her throat. Half amusement, half disbelief. "Heh… You look more like you're concerned about him."

Isabelle turned her head a fraction, just enough to side-eye her friend. "I am not."

"Mm-hm," Madeline hummed, clearly unconvinced. "You say that, but it's weird how you're always watching him these days. Counting his naps. Quoting his insults. Memorizing the number of times he breathes in class—"

"Madeline," Isabelle said, her voice dry and flat as stone.

Madeline grinned. "All I'm saying is, for someone who allegedly doesn't care, you're really good at tracking his every move."

"I track everyone's behavior in this class," Isabelle snapped. "It's part of my job."

Madeline nodded slowly, the kind of nod that only made things worse. "Of course. It's the Class Rep duty to observe his jawline while he's resting his eyes."

"….."