Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 97: Class, but with Damien

The moment Damien settled into his seat, the boy in front of him turned back sharply, his wide eyes locking onto him as if he had just seen a ghost.

"Is it really you, Damien?"

Damien exhaled through his nose, amused by the disbelief in his voice.

Moren Vaughn.

One of the few people who had willingly associated with him before. Not exactly a friend, but a familiar face. Someone who had drifted in and out of his orbit, usually alongside a bottle of expensive liquor or the dim lights of some underground club.

The young master of the Vaughn family—a name that carried significant wealth, though not enough to compete with the true powerhouses of nobility.

And just like the old Damien, Moren was a prime example of wasted potential.

Lazy. Apathetic. Living purely for distractions. Always chasing temporary pleasures while putting in the bare minimum effort anywhere else.

Just like the previous Damien.

It was almost funny, really.

Damien smirked, tilting his head slightly as he met Moren's gaze.

"Why? Do I look like someone else?"

Moren blinked rapidly, still struggling to process what was right in front of him. "No, but—damn, man. What the hell happened to you?"

Damien stretched his arms slightly before resting them behind his head, his posture completely at ease.

"Nothing much."

Moren scoffed. "Yeah, right. You look like a different person." His eyes flickered up and down, taking in the difference—the sharper jawline, the absence of the usual slouch, the sheer presence Damien now carried.

The disbelief in his gaze wasn't just about the weight loss.

It was about the shift in everything.

Damien exhaled slowly, his smirk fading into something colder as he studied Moren.

'Guys like him… I really can't stand them.'

The people who had surrounded Damien in the past—every single one of them—were like this. Bored young masters, floating through life with no purpose beyond chasing the next temporary thrill. Partying, drinking, wasting their days in a haze of meaningless pleasures.

And to be fair, Damien had once been the same.

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Was there anything inherently wrong with indulging in pleasure? No. Enjoying yourself, seeking entertainment, embracing the things that made life feel good—that wasn't the issue.

The issue was the overwhelming amount of it.

The way they drowned in excess.

The way they let their entire existence revolve around it.

Moren Vaughn was no exception.

And what made it worse?

This guy—this idiot—was just like the old Damien in the worst possible way.

A simp.

A pathetic, spineless little fool who threw himself at the feet of a woman who barely acknowledged his existence.

Victoria or whatever the fuck her name was.

One of the girls hanging around Celia. A noble's daughter with just enough beauty and social standing to make men like Moren orbit her like desperate moths around a flame.

She didn't love him. Hell, she probably didn't even like him.

But that didn't matter to Moren.

He followed her around, did favors for her, let himself be dragged along like some eager little lapdog—just like Damien had once done for Celia.

And that was why Damien hated him.

Not because Moren was particularly terrible. Not because he was special in his stupidity.

But because looking at him was like looking at the worst parts of who Damien used to be.

His fingers tapped lightly against the desk, his smirk returning—but now, it was sharper. Meaner.

"I don't get it," Moren muttered, still staring at him. "How the hell did you change so much? I mean, one day you're just—" He gestured vaguely. "You know. You."

Damien tilted his head, pretending to think. "Ah. A fat, slouching loser, right?"

Moren coughed awkwardly, looking away. "Well… I mean, I wouldn't say it like that, but—"

"But you thought it," Damien cut in smoothly, his voice laced with amusement.

Moren had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his head. "Tch. You're being weird, man."

Damien just chuckled.

Weird, huh?

If only Moren knew just how much weirder things were going to get.

Moren frowned, still clearly unsettled by the change before him. His fingers drummed against the desk as he stared at Damien, trying to piece things together.

"Seriously, though… how?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if discussing some grand mystery. "You're messing with me, right? Dieting? Surgery? Did you sell your soul or something?"

Damien chuckled, tilting his head slightly as if considering the question. Then, meeting Moren's gaze directly, he spoke in a slow, deliberate tone.

"I broke my muscles and trained eighteen hours a day."

Silence.

For a moment, Moren just stared at him, blinking. Then—

"Pffft—Hah!" A sharp laugh burst from his throat. "Oh, fuck off, man." He clutched his stomach, shaking his head. "Eighteen hours? You? You?! Hah, good one."

Damien didn't laugh.

Didn't smirk. Didn't react.

He just watched.

And slowly, the amusement in Moren's expression began to falter.

For a split second, something in Damien's gaze—calm, steady, unwavering—made Moren hesitate. Made him think.

'Wait… is he serious?'

The thought came unbidden, just a flicker of doubt creeping in before he immediately dismissed it.

No way.

There was absolutely no way the Damien he had known—his Damien—would do something like that.

Hell, the old Damien could barely tolerate walking for too long without groaning in irritation. The idea of him training for even two hours, let alone eighteen? Impossible.

And yet…

Something about the way he said it. The weight behind those words. The way he held himself, completely at ease, but with an edge—like a blade that had just been sharpened.

Moren clicked his tongue, shaking off the thought.

"Yeah, yeah, alright," he scoffed, waving a hand. "Keep your secrets, then."

Damien smirked. "I intend to."

Just then, the classroom door swung open.

The idle murmurs died down instantly as the students straightened in their seats, their attention snapping toward the woman who stepped inside.

Their mathematics teacher.

Damien's gaze flicked toward her, his mind automatically sorting through whatever remnants of memory the old Damien had left behind.

Nothing.

Not even a fragment of recollection regarding her lessons.

'As expected… That idiot never listened to her at all.'

It wasn't surprising.

The previous Damien had never cared about academics, let alone mathematics—a subject that required effort, focus, and the ability to apply logic.

A waste of time, he had probably thought.

And yet, this woman—this teacher—was not just another forgettable educator.

She was well-known throughout the academy.

A sharp, methodical instructor with a reputation for nurturing excellence. Students who studied under her left with top marks, a deeper understanding of mathematics, and, more importantly, a sharpened mind.

She only taught third- and fourth-year students, taking on those who had already proven themselves—or those who had the potential to be exceptional.

Damien studied her now, taking in her presence with new eyes.

Tall, composed, carrying an air of authority that was neither overbearing nor forced. The kind of teacher who didn't demand respect but earned it.

Her dark, neatly tied hair swayed slightly as she set down her materials, her sharp eyes sweeping across the class with a quiet intensity.

Then, they landed on him.

And for just a second, Damien saw the briefest flicker of surprise in them.

Ah.

So even she had noticed the change.

The teacher's sharp gaze swept across the room, her presence alone commanding attention. With practiced ease, she set down her materials and adjusted her glasses before finally addressing the class.

"Good morning, everyone," she began, her tone crisp and unwavering. "I trust you've all reviewed last week's material, as we'll be moving forward today. However—"

Her eyes landed on Damien.

"It seems we have a returning student."

A ripple of quiet murmurs spread through the classroom, but Damien remained completely at ease, his expression unreadable.

The teacher—Ms. Everstead—tilted her head slightly, scrutinizing him.

"Damien Elford," she said, not with reproach, but with the same analytical tone she used for equations on the board. "I see you've finally decided to grace us with your presence after an entire week of absence."

Damien smirked, resting his chin against his hand. "What can I say? I like to make an entrance."

A few chuckles scattered throughout the class, but Ms. Everstead remained unimpressed.

"Be that as it may," she continued, her tone unwavering, "you've missed a significant amount of content. While I do not usually repeat lessons outside of class time, I am willing to make an exception."

She folded her arms, meeting his gaze.

"If you wish, you may come during lunch break. I will give you a brief overview of what was covered last week."

Damien raised a brow.

'An exception, huh? Seems like she at least values the idea of students catching up.'

Before he could respond, a voice cut through the room, dripping with disdain.

"Pfft… Ms. Everstead, don't you know?"

Every head turned toward the speaker.

Victoria.

Seated near the front, her arms were crossed, a smirk playing at her lips as she leaned slightly in her chair, her sharp eyes locked onto Damien with something close to amusement.

"Does Damien even have the capability to understand it?" she said, her voice sickly sweet, yet laced with venom.

A few students chuckled, some just watching to see how this would unfold.

Ah.

So she was holding a grudge.

Not surprising.

Damien's smirk widened slightly.

'Oh, Victoria… Still bitter about that, are you?'

The last time they had interacted, he had torn her pride to shreds with just a few well-placed words. Apparently, that wound hadn't healed.

How pathetic.