Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 198: Result of the bet

Isabelle turned her eyes down to the exam packet that now sat crisply atop her desk. Her fingers brushed the edge of the page—not with hesitation, but with a familiar calm. This was routine for her. Necessary. Unavoidable.

She flipped the front page open, and there it was.

Rank: 1st.

Percentile: 100%.

Deviation margin: ±0.6%.

Her gaze didn't waver. No breath caught in her throat. No pride bloomed in her chest. Just a simple, silent confirmation of what had to be. Of what could not be allowed to slip.

Because for someone like her, this wasn't ego. It was survival.

The scholarship that allowed her to study in Vermillion Academy—the one that placed her here among the children of noble families and tycoons—had clear terms: Maintain the top position. No exceptions. No appeals.

One step down, and she was out.

So when her name rested alone at the peak of the list again, she didn't smile. She didn't exhale.

She just tucked it away like a ledger balanced, and turned the page.

"Damn, Belle…" Madeline leaned over, her grin somewhere between admiration and exasperation. "First again. You make the rest of us look like decorative plants."

"I told you I had to," Isabelle replied evenly, flipping to the problem analysis page without glancing up. "There's no fallback plan."

"But still," Madeline nudged her arm gently. "Could've at least pretended to be nervous. The rest of us were melting like snowmen in a sauna."

From behind her, a voice chimed in.

"Congrats, Class Rep," one of the girls two rows back said, offering a warm smile. "You were incredible on the math section. There were some brutal curveball questions, and you still got everything right."

"Seriously," another added, flipping through her own packet with a helpless laugh. "I think half the class guessed through section five, and you probably finished it in ten minutes."

Isabelle glanced over her shoulder, expression softening just a little. These girls weren't close friends—certainly not in Madeline's orbit—but they were decent. Respectful. She'd worked with them on group projects, seen their diligence firsthand. The kind of classmates who didn't pretend to be someone else when it mattered.

"Thank you," she said, voice even but not cold. "I hope you both did well too."

"Barely scraped above average," one sighed with a rueful grin. "But I'll survive."

"Let me guess," Madeline said, glancing over. "You got hit hard on the theory application problems?"

Both girls groaned at once.

"Same," Madeline added. "I swear, whoever wrote those questions hates teenagers."

Their laughter was light, and Isabelle allowed herself the quiet space of it—this small corner of mutual struggle that didn't demand her to be anyone's superior. Just another student among students.

Still, even as she shared in the moment, her gaze wandered—

Back to the last desk in the row.

Damien hadn't moved.

Isabelle stood slowly, smoothing down the front of her blazer with quiet precision. Her hand hovered for a second over her desk, then drifted to her side as she stepped out of the row.

Madeline blinked up at her, halfway through a light comment about their old chemistry teacher, before catching the shift in her friend's posture. "Hey—where are you going?"

Isabelle didn't pause. "Checking on someone."

Madeline narrowed her eyes knowingly. "Oh, him?" Her voice dropped, sly and faintly amused. "Why?"

Isabelle didn't answer.

She just walked.

Madeline didn't press. But she watched.

The classroom was still half-buzzing with quiet chatter and the occasional rustle of pages, but as Isabelle crossed the aisle, a few students glanced up. Not because of the motion itself—but because of who it was heading toward.

Damien Elford sat at the back, his figure a lazy silhouette in the golden afternoon slant. One hand braced his cheek, the other still resting beside the unopened packet on his desk. He hadn't so much as twitched since the teacher had handed it to him.

He hadn't even looked.

But his eyes followed her now.

He didn't greet her. He didn't smirk or say something teasing. He just watched, that same unreadable calm etched into his features as if he'd been expecting her.

Isabelle stopped at the edge of his desk.

She didn't speak right away. Just let her gaze drop to the packet still sealed in its crisp white clip, Vermillion's crest gleaming faintly in the top corner.

"You haven't opened it," she said quietly.

Damien looked up at her with a calm that bordered on laziness, his chin still propped on one hand. "Indeed," he said simply, his voice low but clear in the muted hush of the classroom.

Isabelle's eyes flicked back to the untouched exam packet on his desk. "Why?"

"Because," Damien said, lips curling into the faintest smile, "I was waiting for you."

Her brow twitched. "Waiting for me?"

"Yes." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Her lips tightened—just slightly, like she was trying to hold back something between a scoff and a laugh. Of course he'd say that. Of course he'd act like this wasn't a big deal, like the results of a critical exam were just another thing he could use to tease her with.

'Is he that sure that he made it?' she thought, gaze narrowing. 'Or does he just not care what's written in there?'

Either possibility irritated her. Equally.

He didn't have the right to act so composed. So weightless. She had watched half the class grip their sheets like they were gripping ledges, desperate to not fall.

But him?

'He's either overconfident to the point of delusion…'

She hated that she couldn't tell which.

Damien reached for the packet at last, his fingers brushing the top edge with a deliberate slowness. Then he tilted his head toward her.

"Well?" he said softly, eyes meeting hers. "Shall we look at it now?"

There it was again—that calm. That smirk. That quiet suggestion hiding beneath his words like a spark waiting for air.

And though she should've dismissed it. Should've told him to stop being dramatic. Should've just walked away.

Isabelle didn't move.

Didn't speak.

She waited. Watching.

Because part of her needed to see it.

With her own eyes.

Not the ranking. Not the number.

But the way he looked when it was finally revealed.

Damien's fingers slid under the corner of the packet, and with a flick of his wrist, the top page peeled back—casual, almost careless.

But Isabelle's eyes snapped to the rank immediately.

23rd.

Her breath caught.

Her eyebrows lifted before she could stop herself, lips parting just slightly in disbelief. For a moment, she just stared.

'No way…'

It was there, in black ink on cream stock, stamped with the official Vermillion seal and the verifying signature of the academic board:

Rank: 23rd.

Not "barely passing."

Not a fluke lucky guess on a quiz.

He had made it. Into the top twenty-five.

And with it—he had fulfilled the exact condition of the bet.

"What the hell…?" she muttered under her breath, barely aware that she'd spoken aloud.

Damien raised a brow, watching her reaction with quiet satisfaction.

Isabelle's hand shot out and grabbed the packet from his desk before she could think better of it, flipping past the first page and scanning the breakdown with trained precision.

Her fingers paused, tightening slightly on the page.

These weren't lucky guesses.

These were real scores.

He had studied. Really studied.

Not just to pass—but to win.

She turned the page, jaw clenched, heart thudding far louder than it had any right to.

'He actually did it…'

Across from her, Damien leaned his cheek into his palm, watching her with that same infuriating calm.

"Class Rep," he said, his voice a low, amused murmur. "You're holding my report like you're the one who earned it."

Isabelle didn't look up. She was still staring at the numbers. freёweɓnovel.com

Trying to make sense of them.

Trying to make sense of him.