Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 202: Boiling

Marek was boiling.

Not just angry—furious. The kind of fury that didn't bark. It burned. Tight, quiet, coiled like a wire behind his ribs. Every breath scraped his lungs. Every heartbeat echoed with Damien Elford's voice.

"Lilbro."

The word still rang in his ears like a slap.

He stood there, frozen on the field long after Damien walked off, surrounded by the muttering of classmates and the judgment thick in the air. Rin's shoulder check. Aaron's glare. Lionel's disgust. All of it built around him, like he was the one out of place.

But he hadn't started this.

Right?

He clenched his fists tighter, nails biting into skin, jaw grinding until it ached.

Damien fucking Elford.

He used to be nothing. Victoria used to talk about him like he was some cautionary tale wrapped in awkward sweat and desperate glances. A big loser with puppy eyes for Celia, begging for affection like it was a ration.

Marek had laughed at that image. Mocked it. He and Victoria would trade jokes about how Elford couldn't take a hint, how Celia toyed with him just enough to keep him orbiting, pathetic and predictable.

And now?

That same guy had just danced through him like he wasn't even there.

Humiliated him—again—in front of half the school. With nothing but footwork and presence.

No powers. No cheats. Just blood and sweat and some twisted new arrogance that made him unbearable to watch and impossible to ignore.

And worst of all?

He wasn't even trying to provoke a fight.

He was dismissing one.

That was the part that lit a fire under Marek's skin. Damien didn't bark back. Didn't posture. Didn't smirk like a petty villain in a bad comic.

He just stood there. Calm. Solid. Like he knew exactly how much space he owned—and how little Marek had left.

It was infuriating.

Because deep down?

Marek knew that he was the one who looked weak now.

Not Damien.

And Victoria—

Fuck.

Victoria.

She hadn't said much about Damien lately. Not to Marek. Not out loud. But that didn't mean nothing was happening. He'd seen the shift. The way she sometimes stared too long after her messages. The way her jaw would tighten when she thought no one was watching. The way she changed the subject every time Damien's name came up.

And now?

Now Marek knew why.

Because this version of Damien? This new Damien?

He was the kind of guy women did start thinking about.

No more fat jokes. No more simping. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

Just sharp eyes, clean cuts, and that terrifying calm like he'd already won something no one else could see.

Marek inhaled sharply, chest tight with something he couldn't name—rage, yes, but something worse underneath. Shame, maybe. Fear.

No. No, not fear.

Not of Damien.

'That can't be possible.'

Marek straightened, muscles tight under his skin, the tendons in his neck pulled taut like wires straining to snap. That kind of guy—that Damien—wasn't supposed to exist. Not really. Not in the world Marek understood.

He was a loser. Had been. And people like that didn't change. Not truly. They didn't just shrug off years of being nothing and suddenly become… that.

That wasn't real.

It had to be fake. A phase. A front.

And sooner or later, it would crack.

He repeated that to himself like a warding chant. Over and over. He's still the same guy. Still the simp. Still the loser in a nicer shirt.

The sound of cleats against grass broke the storm of his thoughts. Heavy steps. Casual, but close.

"Marek," Ezra's voice called from behind him, tone low and cutting. "You good?"

He didn't turn right away. Not until Kaine's chuckle followed it—short, sharp, and cruel.

"Man got rinsed and left speechless," Kaine muttered, his smirk practically audible. "That Elford prick, huh?"

Marek finally turned. The two of them were there—Ezra with that signature blankness under his bangs, arms folded; Kaine loose at the shoulders, grinning like he hadn't just lost the game too. There were a few others from 4-C drifting closer too. No full huddle, just that natural gravity of shared resentment.

Marek's jaw tightened. "Didn't expect you two to say anything."

Ezra shrugged. "Doesn't mean we're blind."

"He's been acting like some reincarnated god lately," Kaine sneered. "Shows up like he's the main character in a sports manga. One good game and he's walking like he owns the league."

Marek didn't say anything.

Because yeah.

That was exactly how it felt.

Like Damien had stepped out of one world and into another—and somehow dragged the spotlight with him.

Ezra's gaze narrowed. "You saw the look on his face, right? All that 'calm and composed' bullshit? Like he wasn't even breaking a sweat."

"Fake as hell," Kaine spat. "That whole 'I'm above this' crap?"

"He wants to be seen like that. Wants us to react."

"Pretend to be too cool to care."

Marek's hands were still clenched. But a new heat burned in his chest now—not the raw fury from before, but something uglier.

Vindication.

If even Ezra and Kaine—who'd used to fight beside Damien, back before that falling out—if even they were saying this?

Then it was a front.

Then Marek wasn't losing.

He was just watching an act.

"He's trying to flip the script," Kaine continued, pacing a little. "You've seen it, right? One week he's a background joke, next week he's out here giving speeches, pulling tricks, acting like he's above drama. Like he's already won some game the rest of us haven't even started playing."

Ezra scoffed. "It's a bluff. That's all it is. He wants people thinking he's untouchable. All smoke."

Marek exhaled slowly, shoulders easing just a little.

"Then maybe," he said, voice low, "it's time we start treating him like he's bluffing."

*****

Damien walked off the field, the heat of the moment still simmering under his skin like coals buried just beneath the surface. His boots thudded softly against the track as he made his way toward the gym building, the buzz of conversation following behind like a low storm.

"Fucking 4-C," Rin muttered behind him. "Those bastards always pull this garbage."

"They act like it's a damn street brawl every time they start losing," Aaron snapped, kicking at the dirt. "And Marek? That guy's barely got a frontal lobe left."

"Should've dropped him, Damien," one of the others said. "Straight up. Guy deserved to eat turf for that elbow."

The words hung in the air like bait.

Damien didn't turn.

Didn't respond right away.

He let the locker room doors swing open before stepping inside, letting the cool air and distant echo of bouncing volleyballs wash over him.

'I almost lost my control.'

The thought flickered through his mind—not in shame, but as a fact. A clean, clinical acknowledgment of how close he'd come.

He was going to hit him.

Right across the jaw. No hesitation. No hesitation at all.

One breath slower and his fist would've landed square on Marek's face.

And what then?

Everyone had their Awakening Restriction Bracelets active. No enhancements. No boosted reflexes. No passive defense traits.

Just flesh to flesh.

Normal against normal.

And Damien?

He wasn't normal anymore.

His training with Elysia, the grind the system had pushed him through, the weight loss, the strain, the rebuilt nerves—

He could've broken something.

He would've.

Jaw. Nose. Maybe more.

And that wasn't something he could walk off with a shrug.

'Not now.'

His eyes narrowed slightly, half-focused on the echo of footfalls and gym lighting.

Because something had felt… off.

He'd sensed it earlier—right before Marek's lunge. Not just the tension, not just the eyes from the sidelines.

Something else.

A shift in the air.

A presence.

The kind that made the back of his neck itch even when no one was behind him.

And he wasn't the type to dismiss that lightly.

DING.

The familiar chime flicked softly through his head.

A ripple in the corner of his vision pulsed, system text sliding into place like ink in water.

—----------------------------------

[Hidden Condition Met]

[Host acted like a scoundrel, but chose restraint at the critical moment.]

Reward: +35 SP

—----------------------------------

A slow exhale slipped from Damien's nose as he stepped toward the locker row, hands still tucked loosely into his pockets.

His lips twitched. Not quite a smirk. But close.

'Better a scoundrel than a fool.'