Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 125: Clutch

He reached the far end of the field, positioning himself on the attacking side now. Forward. Frontline.

The predator's perch.

As the players continued filing into their new roles, the atmosphere changed again—not from within the teams, but from the edges of the field.

It started slow. A few students in the distance. Then more. And more.

The far gates clicked open, and shoes crunched against gravel, laughter carrying faintly. Backpacks were dropped along the bleachers. Bottles exchanged. Conversations sparked, and then shifted to murmurs. Curious stares turned into fixed gazes.

Damien felt it.

He heard it.

"The seniors are still going?"

"Class 4-C and 4-A? Isn't that Riona and Celia's class?"

"Wait—Damien Elford's on the field?"

"Didn't he, like, never show up for this stuff?"

The crowd around the bleachers began to thicken, students drifting in from adjacent wings of the campus, drawn in by the rare promise of a proper class match between two of the most infamous senior homerooms.

But more than that—it was the name.

Damien Elford.

And soon enough, the buzz turned into low, hungry murmurs.

"Is that really him?"

"Wait, no way—that's Damien? That guy?"

"The one who begged Celia not to break off the engagement? That one?"

"Wasn't he, like… huge? He used to take up half a bench."

"He cried at a school dinner once, didn't he?"

"Yeah. And didn't show up for P.E. for, like, a year and a half."

Laughter.

Snide, layered with disbelief. His reputation as a pathetic, wimpy simp still clung like residue. Old dirt. It would take time to scrape off.

But now—

Now their eyes were catching up to the present.

"…Wait, he really lost that much weight?"

"Shit, he looks—kinda different."

"He's not limping anymore."

"And his posture. Look at how he moves—"

"No way that's the same guy."

"He really changed?"

Their doubt was still there, but it was softening, peeling back under the weight of visible truth.

Because they could see him now—cutting a sharp figure at the forward line. Not shredded, no. Not perfect. But powerful. Lean. Focused. The looseness of his oversized shirt only barely concealed the strength underneath it.

Damien heard it all.

The whispers. The disbelief. The pieces of a broken reputation being picked up by strangers and held up to the light.

"He cried at a school dinner once."

"Didn't show up for P.E. for, like, a year and a half."

"He begged Celia—on his knees."

He didn't flinch.

Didn't even blink.

He simply let a slow, deliberate smirk carve its way across his face. Because they weren't wrong.

They were just late.

Late to the story. Late to the shift. Late to realize that the Damien Elford they remembered—the groveling mess, the bloated ghost, the spineless footnote—was dead.

And what stood now?

Wasn't a man trying to escape that shadow.

It was the shadow, weaponized.

He rolled his neck once, then jogged out across the turf, light-footed, his cleats whispering over the grass. His destination: the right wing. A predator's angle. Enough room to accelerate, to cut in, to isolate.

The space where instincts met consequence.

The crowd continued to thicken along the edge, students fanning out like a wave cresting against the sidelines. Murmurs dulled now, replaced by focus—shifting heads, following his movement.

He reached position.

Right wing. Slightly forward, angled, facing Lionel—who stood ready in the center circle with the ball underfoot, one hand raised to his teammates as the ref gave a lazy hand signal to begin.

Damien's gaze flicked to Kaine across the pitch—already locked on him.

'Watch closely.'

Whistle.

Lionel tapped the ball forward, then with one clean push, passed it wide to Damien.

Tap-tap—

Damien caught the ball, planted his left foot, and shifted it forward with his right instep. First touch—not bad. He let it roll into space, picked up speed. His legs moved sharp and springy, drawing in the first defender fast.

A flick of the shoulder, a hip feint.

The defender bit halfway, enough for Damien to slip through on the outside.

But the second defender was on him fast.

He cut inward—too sharply—and the ball bounced awkwardly off his foot. Not a loss, but not smooth either. He recovered with a back pass to Rin, resetting the tempo.

'Tch… not as clean.'

He hadn't played the front in a real match—not with rhythm, not with structure. His timing was off. His spatial awareness too centralized. He was used to watching movement from the back—not leading it.

Rin passed it back.

Damien let it run across his body, touched it forward with the outside of his boot, then tried to break past the line again—but his angle was off, too steep. He found himself boxed toward the sideline.

A 4-C midfielder cut the lane and challenged. Damien reacted—but a second too late.

Tap!

Possession stolen.

The midfielder reversed course, sprinting with the ball toward center.

"Shit," Aaron muttered, already rotating back into position.

Damien chased for half a second, but then slowed. No need to dive back just yet. They had structure.

Instead, he planted, drew a slow breath, and stared after the player who had taken the ball from him.

No frustration.

His body had the edge now.

But his eyes—they still needed to adjust.

'Alright… so this is how it feels to chase the ball with the world watching.'

The ball sprinted down the center, carried by the 4-C midfielder who had stolen it from Damien seconds earlier. His pace wasn't blistering, but it was fast enough—and their defense, already winded, didn't close fast enough.

Aaron fell back to cover, but his angle was off, and their center-back hesitated.

That moment was all it took.

The midfielder slipped a quick pass through the channel, threading it perfectly between legs, and one of their forwards—slim, fast, and entirely too fresh for this late in the match—latched onto it.

He didn't even pause.

One touch to settle. One to shoot.

THUMP.

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The ball sailed low and hard into the bottom-left corner, past the reach of their keeper.

Goal.

The whistle blew, and the scoreboard ticked.

4-C: 4

4-A: 3

"Dammit," Rin growled, raking a hand through his hair.

"They're pushing harder now," Lionel muttered. "Defense is losing breath."

Aaron didn't say anything. He just tightened the laces of his boots and reset his stance, jaw clenched.

The restart was fast. Both sides rotated their lines, trying to adapt. For the next few minutes, the game lost its sharp edges—passes turned cautious, possession traded in the midfield like a tug-of-war without tension. The crowd noise dulled into idle murmurs, only flaring when someone tried to make a run or broke out a flashy touch.

But then—momentum shifted again.

4-C earned a corner.

A harmless deflection, but enough to warrant the setup.

Damien watched from just past the box, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the formation. His own backline moved to respond, forming up against 4-C's tall players.

He knew this rhythm.

The ball was lofted high—whump—an arc that curled a little too far inside.

And still, somehow, it connected.

A 4-C player leapt above Lionel and slammed a header downward.

The net rustled again.

Another goal.

4-C: 5

4-A: 3

Murmurs from the crowd turned into full noise now. Cheers. A few whistles. But mostly—

Momentum.

It belonged to 4-C.

For now.

Damien didn't scowl.

He didn't curse.

He just watched the ball bounce out of the net, the way the defenders moved slower to reset. The fatigue was beginning to show in every corner of their formation.

But for him?

That one lost possession earlier—he could still feel it. Not just the mistake, but the spacing. The movement. The timing.

He adjusted his stance and let his fingers twitch.

Then, under his breath, a low murmur slipped out.

"Heh…"

It was there now.

The feeling.

Not just running. Not just reacting. But reading.

The game restarted. 4-A in possession.

Rin tapped the ball to Damien, who took it cleanly and passed back with a soft return. Lionel cut in behind him and pulled a defender, and Damien turned his body subtly, baiting pressure toward the right before flicking it inside to Nero—a quiet, left-footed midfielder known more for stability than flair.

Nero didn't panic. He tapped it forward again, and Damien was already moving.

He arced wide, accelerated into space, and Nero fed the pass right into his path.

No one marked him tight this time. He had room.

Damien let the ball roll once ahead, then caught it with the side of his boot, slicing diagonally toward the box.

He didn't rush it.

He read the keeper's stance, saw the sliver of space just beyond the near post.

He adjusted his plant foot.

And shot.

A low, driven strike—curved just enough, with weight behind it.

THWACK.

The keeper dove late.

The net rippled.

GOAL.

4-C: 5

4-A: 4

"Hoooh….Not bad…"