Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 96: Oya, talking about me?

"Oya, oya... Talking about me?"

Every head turned toward the door, where a figure stood casually leaning against the frame.

Damien Elford.

The atmosphere shifted.

Not with the usual disdain or dismissive amusement—but with something else. Something tense. Something closer to shock.

Because the Damien Elford standing there was not the one they remembered.

The lazy, slouching, overweight boy who dragged himself through the halls like a ghost was gone.

This Damien was leaner. Sharper. His once bloated frame had shed a significant amount of weight, revealing a physique that, while not quite athletic, was undeniably different—almost fit. His uniform, which once strained against his form, now rested on him with an effortless ease.

But that wasn't what sent a chill through the room.

It was his presence.

There was no hesitation in the way he carried himself. No nervous energy, no self-deprecating smirk. His posture was relaxed, yet controlled—his shoulders squared, his hands tucked lazily into his pockets, as if he had all the time in the world.

And then there were his eyes.

His eyes gleamed with an emotion that none of them could quite place. Confidence. Raw, unshaken pride. But beneath that—something else. Something sharp, something that crawled under their skin and sent unease whispering through the room.

He looked down on them.

Every single one of them.

Damien's gaze drifted slowly, deliberately, scanning the classroom like a predator taking in a pack of prey. Not just with amusement, but with something closer to quiet satisfaction, as if their stunned faces, their widened eyes, their hesitations were nothing short of entertainment.

A slow, quiet chuckle escaped his lips.

"Heh… Not a bad reaction."

His voice, once laced with the lazy indifference of someone who cared for nothing, now held a weight—an undercurrent of authority, of absolute control.

But then—

"Yes. We were talking about you."

Isabelle Moreau's voice cut through the silence, crisp, precise, carrying no trace of the shock that had gripped the others.

Unbothered.

Unmoved.

Her brown eyes met his with the same intensity as before, unflinching beneath the pressure of his stare. While the rest of the class still reeled, struggling to process the change before them, she was already past it.

Damien tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk curling his lips.

'Interesting.'

His gaze flicked over her, absorbing the details with an almost analytical precision. Tall, poised, exuding an effortless elegance despite the simple uniform.

And her reputation? That was even more fascinating.

Isabelle Moreau.

Class representative. First-ranked student in the academy.

A scholarship student, no less.

A girl with no noble blood, no family name of worth, yet still standing at the peak of the academic hierarchy. Driven. Relentless. The type who clawed her way to the top through sheer ability alone.

Damien's eyes narrowed slightly as he recalled the details.

A serious, goal-driven beauty.

'People like her… those are the ones who should be praised.'

Damien's gaze lingered on Isabelle for a moment longer, his smirk fading into something more contemplative.

It wasn't admiration, not quite. But there was something to be said about a person who clawed their way to the top through sheer ability alone. No family name, no inherited status, no cushioned existence lined with wealth and safety nets. Just raw, undeniable competence.

That was something worth respecting.

Yet, as his eyes flickered around the room, he noticed the quiet tension that clung to the air—not just from his presence, but from her own.

The way certain students subtly averted their gazes. The way a few lips pressed into thin, disapproving lines. The way whispers had died the moment she spoke, yet dissatisfaction still simmered beneath the surface.

'Ah… of course.'

To them, Isabelle Moreau was an anomaly. A disruption.

For the children of noble families—those who had spent their entire lives cushioned by inherited wealth and blind respect—the concept of taking orders from someone like her was unbearable.

A scholarship student. A nobody.

She had no bloodline to fall back on, no influential parents pulling strings behind the scenes. She was here because she was better than them, and that fact alone was enough to make her an eyesore.

They wouldn't dare raise their voices against her—not when the school itself backed her, not when even the principal seemed to favor her existence.

But the resentment was still there.

Damien could see it. In the stiffness of their shoulders. In the fleeting, bitter glances thrown her way.

'How predictable.'

He let out a quiet chuckle, his smirk returning as he shifted his attention back to Isabelle.

"Well," he drawled, tilting his head slightly. "Go on, then. What exactly were you saying about me?"

Her expression remained impassive, but he didn't miss the way her fingers tapped once against the desk—quick, calculated, a subtle mark of thought.

Then, without hesitation, she answered.

"You were absent," she stated simply. "The school made it clear that today's meeting was mandatory for every student in Class 4-A."

Damien hummed, amused.

"And?"

"And if you hadn't shown up, it would have reflected poorly on our class," she continued, her tone sharp. "Which is unacceptable."

This chapt𝙚r is updated by freeωebnovēl.c૦m.

Ah.

There it was.

Not concern. Not curiosity. Just pure, unwavering practicality.

She didn't care where he had been, nor did she have any interest in the reasons behind his absence. What mattered to her was efficiency. Order. Maintaining the academic standing of her class without unnecessary complications.

Damien couldn't help but grin.

'She really is something else.'

Unlike the other students, who spent their days wrapped in the illusion of superiority, grasping for validation through old money and empty status, Isabelle Moreau operated on something much more tangible.

Results.

It was almost refreshing.

But, at the same time…

His eyes flickered once more to the silent, watching figures around the room. The students who resented her. The ones who wouldn't dare say a word but still wished for her downfall in the privacy of their own minds.

'How exhausting it must be, having to deal with worms like that.'

He exhaled softly, shaking his head before stepping further into the room.

"Relax," he said, his voice low, almost lazy. "I, Damien Elford, am now here.

Damien took another slow step forward, the corners of his lips tugging into a smirk as his sharp gaze swept across the room.

"But," he continued, his tone smooth, deliberate, "whether I actually attend this little meeting of yours… well, that's still up for debate."

Murmurs rippled through the classroom. Some eyes widened, others darted toward Isabelle, waiting for her reaction.

She did not keep them waiting.

"You will attend," she stated, her voice like a blade, crisp and unyielding.

Damien raised a brow, clearly entertained. "Oh? And if I don't?"

Isabelle's fingers curled slightly against the desk, but her expression remained as controlled as ever. "Then the school will inform your parents."

For the first time, the smirk on Damien's face flickered, if only for a second.

Ah, now that was an amusing move.

Clever. Predictable. Annoying.

He exhaled sharply, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

"My parents?" he repeated, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Now that's a threat that doesn't affect me at all."

The class fell into an uneasy silence.

Everyone knew the unspoken truth.

The Elford family had long since stopped bothering with Damien. As far as they were concerned, he was an embarrassment—an unsightly stain on their name.

His failures were his own, and they had long since washed their hands of him.

So really, what was the threat here?

Would his mother scold him? Would his father finally acknowledge his existence long enough to throw another insult his way?

He almost wanted to see it.

Almost.

Still, Isabelle's confidence in that statement intrigued him.

He stepped closer, his smirk returning in full force as he leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"And what makes you think they'd care?"

Isabelle didn't flinch. Didn't waver.

She simply met his gaze head-on.

"They might not," she admitted without hesitation. "But the school does."

Her voice remained unwavering, sharp with the weight of authority.

"And whether your family cares about your existence or not," she continued, "the Elford name is still attached to this academy. Your behavior reflects on them, whether they acknowledge you or not. If the school reaches out, they will respond—if only to maintain their reputation."

Damien stared at her for a long moment before letting out another soft chuckle.

'Not bad…. Though if she knew the atmosphere in the home, she would say how audacious her words feel like.'

His father? Under normal circumstances, the man might throw out a few sharp words, some cutting remark about his lack of discipline or responsibility. That was the standard. A scolding, a disappointed sigh—nothing more.

But that was before.

Before this.

Before him.

The moment his father laid eyes on him now—on his leaner frame, on the weight that had melted away—things would change.

Even that cold, calculating man wouldn't be able to scold him over something as trivial as missing a school meeting. Not when the evidence of his transformation was right in front of him.

But… there was no need for anyone else to know that.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Tch. I'll think about it."

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way toward his desk, his movements unhurried, completely at ease despite the attention still pressing down on him.

He could feel their eyes on him. The tension lingering in the air. The unspoken questions hanging over the classroom like a thick fog.

But he didn't care.

Sliding into his seat, he leaned back, stretching his legs out slightly as he rested an elbow against the desk, fingers lazily brushing against his temple. His posture was effortless—relaxed yet commanding, as if he were right at home despite everything.