Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 203: Watch

The gym doors opened with a metallic creak as Damien and the rest of the boys from 2-A stepped inside, sweat still clinging to their shirts and irritation from the match burning under their skin.

The group filtered in with scattered mutters and heavy exhales. Some peeled off toward the water coolers. Others headed for the benches. Damien stayed near the wall, arms crossed, silent.

And then—

they saw it.

The sound hit first. Sneakers squealing. A sharp bounce. The unmistakable rhythm of a basketball snapped against hardwood.

Heads turned as a few of the guys paused mid-step.

"…Huh. Didn’t know anyone booked court time today."

"Wait—is that…"

Damien’s gaze slid to the right side of the gym, where the full court had been split for smaller matches. The far half held a 3v3 game in motion, fast-paced and fluid.

Two teams.

Three from 4-A.

Three from 4-C.

And right in the middle of it—cutting past a screen, rising for a high arc shot—

Leon.

The ball sailed clean. Swish.

The net fluttered with surgical precision.

And Leon landed light on his feet, already backpedaling to defend, his blond hair flicking across his forehead with every step.

Every movement was tight. Controlled. Athletic in the way that didn’t scream effort—it just was. Like his body had been built for this rhythm.

A few of the younger students standing near the wall clapped without thinking. The ball had barely touched the ground again before Leon was pivoting into motion, intercepting a sloppy pass and flicking it to one of his teammates in a single smooth push.

"That guy doesn’t stop," Aaron muttered from beside Damien, already cracking open a bottle of water.

The squeak of shoes, the slap of palms against the court, the low thump of the ball echoing through the gym—it all continued with a practiced rhythm. But Damien didn’t watch the ball.

He watched Leon.

Leon Ardent—one of the top-ranked in class 2-A, same as him. Tall. Lean. A natural athlete with just enough charm to make him dangerous socially, and just enough restraint to keep most people liking him.

Most.

But not the football crowd.

And certainly not Damien.

"That guy thinks he’s in a movie," Rin muttered under his breath, arms crossed. "Always playing the hero card."

"Yeah," Aaron added, chuckling, "only problem is the rest of us didn’t sign up to be side characters."

The tension between Leon and the rest of the team had been building for weeks. Not outright hostility—Leon didn’t talk trash. He didn’t showboat. He didn’t act like a dick.

But he had that look.

That quiet, noble bullshit.

Like he was always one dramatic moment away from giving some righteous speech about duty or honor or whatever buzzword was currently dying in the dirt outside.

Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He remembered the entrance ceremony.

The sharp crackle of mana when Leon lost control. That flare of killing intent in the middle of their classroom that had nearly locked up every unawakened student in a ten-meter radius. It wasn’t just reckless—it was dangerous.

The school had punished him for it.

Hard.

Because once you awakened, letting that kind of pressure out—especially in a civilian zone—wasn’t just frowned upon. It was an offense. A declaration of threat.

He was still in class. Still popular with some of the girls. Still had that clean, bright energy that drew people in.

But people remembered.

And Damien?

Damien never forgot.

The match continued, the tempo tightening. Leon darted across the arc, dropped his weight into a tight pivot, then caught a pass with one hand and stepped into a clean three-point form—no hesitation.

Thwip.

Swish.

The ball kissed the net again. No rim. Just clean geometry and muscle memory.

Another few students clapped softly.

"Guy’s smooth," someone near the back whispered.

Damien shook his head once, a slow, dismissive gesture like brushing off a fly. The back of his knuckles rubbed briefly against his temple, as if Leon’s clean footwork and schoolboy charm had given him a migraine.

Then, without a word, he stood.

Aaron, halfway through another swig of water, raised a brow. "Where are you going?"

Damien stretched lazily, hands sliding into his pockets as he turned toward the other side of the gym.

"Gonna watch something more pleasant."

Rin blinked. "...Pleasant?"

Damien didn’t clarify.

He just shifted his gaze toward the adjacent court—where the girls’ volleyball team was mid-match. The bright slap of palms against the ball, the high arcs, the sleek movements—far more appealing in both form and energy.

Aaron followed his line of sight.

"Oh, come on, really?"

Damien glanced over his shoulder with a casual shrug. "What? Might as well feast my eyes. Sorry, but I’m not interested in men."

Rin made a choking sound. "We’re not watching it for them, bastard. We’re watching for the game."

Damien’s lips curled into that half-smile—just enough to suggest he wasn’t buying a word of it.

"Sure," he said.

Just that.

And walked off.

Leaving behind a trail of silence, a few awkward glances, and Rin mouthing something that looked suspiciously like hypocrite as he slumped back onto the bench.

Damien didn’t care.

He stepped up to the railing, arms loosely folded against the cool metal, his gaze settling on the court like it had always belonged there.

The girls’ volleyball match was already deep into its rhythm—fast, clean, and precise in a way that demanded respect, even if he hadn’t come here for the "sport."

His eyes scanned the players, picking them out one by one.

Iris was hard to miss—green hair tied into a tight ponytail that swayed with each rapid pivot, her movements light but sharp, like every motion had been rehearsed in the mirror until perfect. On the opposite end, Celia moved with that same smooth intensity she always had—calculated, composed, her short blue hair slicked back with a thin elastic. Not a strand out of place.

Celia’s gaze never left the ball. No wasted motion. No distraction. frёeωebɳovel.com

Victoria, of course, was close behind—her signature blonde braid catching the overhead light every time she turned her head, trailing like a ribbon of fire behind each spike and block. She was fierce, commanding. And the first to notice him.

Her eyes caught his like a wire snapping taut.

Sharp. Cold.

A glare.

Nothing subtle about it. Just a flat, narrowed gaze that asked what the hell do you think you’re doing here?

Damien met her eyes for half a second, then blinked slowly—expression unreadable. Not mocking. Not flustered.

Just… calm.

And then, like she hadn’t even been worth the acknowledgment, he let his gaze slide past her. Dismissive. Effortless.

’If you don’t want to be looked at, stop playing where I can see you,’ he thought idly.

His eyes found Isabelle next.

And for once, he stayed.

Black hair tied in a tight, efficient ponytail—no flash, no flair, just discipline. Her body moved with an exactness that felt instinctual, honed. She leapt for a save near the backline, one leg tucked, arms up, fingers spread wide—perfect extension.

The ball snapped off her forearms with a clean arc.

And for a second, as she landed and pivoted without hesitation, Damien didn’t move either.

’On top of the scholarship, she does this too?’ he mused.

’Top rank. Class rep. Student enforcer. And this.’

He watched her slide back into position without missing a beat, barking a short call to her teammates, eyes laser-focused on the ball.

’It must require a lot of effort...’

His gaze sharpened just slightly, not with judgment—but curiosity.

’You work that hard because you have to, huh?’

Because she didn’t have a choice. Because falling, even once, wasn’t an option.

Not for someone like her.

’This really makes me want to get you.’