Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 200: Classic (2)

Damien stepped onto the grass with a quiet rhythm in his steps, the breeze tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt. The sun was gentler than usual—warm but not oppressive—and the field stretched out before him like a challenge dressed in green.

This time, no one flinched.

No stares. No whispered side-comments.

Not because they weren't aware of him.

Because they'd adjusted.

Damien Elford wasn't the unpredictable wildcard anymore. He wasn't the fat, sweaty mystery standing awkwardly at the edge of the team lines. He'd played once. Then twice. Then not at all last week—and somehow, that had solidified him more than his presence could have.

He was just there now.

Expected. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

That suited him fine.

The bracelet on his wrist was already secured, the small silver notch of the Awakening Seal snug against his pulse. No system skills. No boosts. No "cheat." Just muscle, instinct, and blood.

He rolled his neck once, then jogged across the half-line where the two teams had begun to split.

2-A on one side. 2-C on the other.

Same as before.

A few of the boys from 2-A nodded at him as he passed—Lionel with a brief hand wave, Aaron tossing him a wink. No big deal. Just routine.

And that, too, was satisfying.

Normalcy had a certain power when it was earned.

Damien reached the huddle as Rin tossed a loose ball between his hands. "Back from hibernation, huh?" Rin said without looking, voice dry.

Damien smirked. "You miss me?"

Rin made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a grunt. "I missed having someone else to blame when Kaine scores."

That earned a short laugh from Aaron. Damien just flexed his fingers once and looked across the field.

There they were.

Ezra. Kaine.

Different sides of the same scar.

Ezra stood near the midfield arc, his expression unreadable under the shadow of his bangs, jaw set and arms folded. He didn't react to Damien's gaze—didn't sneer, didn't taunt. Just watched.

Kaine, on the other hand, was smirking already.

Same self-assured grin. Same heavy-footed stride like the field belonged to him. He bounced a ball off his knee without looking, casually showing off, as if daring someone to call it impressive.

Damien met Kaine's gaze for a second—just long enough for recognition to spark.

The smirk faltered.

'Good,' Damien thought. 'Remember me.'

Last time, he'd caught them off guard. This time, they wouldn't be surprised. They'd aim directly at him. That was the difference now.

And he welcomed it.

The system's passive pulses throbbed quietly in his muscles—not powers, but presence. The kind of subtle changes that came from weeks of training, adaptation, and biological war.

His joints didn't click anymore.

His strides didn't lag.

His shirt didn't cling.

He fit now—into this world, into this rhythm, into this shape that had once been just fantasy.

"Alright!" Lionel's voice rang out. "Seven-on-seven. Class vs class. Same positions. We good?"

Murmured affirmations rolled through the groups, followed by a whistle toss that landed square in Rin's hand.

Damien stretched his leg behind him once, loosening the hamstring, then turned to face the far side of the field again.

Ezra was still watching.

Kaine, too.

And then—

Marek.

Damien's gaze caught the third thread in the weave of tension across the field. Just behind Kaine, further off toward the left wing, stood the last piece of familiar rot.

The one who had clipped his knee last match.

The one who'd walked away like it was nothing.

The one who was, allegedly, Victoria's boyfriend.

Marek hadn't changed much. Same lean build wrapped in cheap confidence. Same jaw set a little too tight. Same twitch in his fingers like he couldn't decide whether to flex or swing.

But now he wasn't smirking.

He was glowering.

Damien met his stare and let the silence linger.

'Heh…'

A breath of amusement, not loud enough to leave his lips. Just an acknowledgment.

Marek remembered.

And that was enough to make Damien's pulse stir—not out of anger. Not even vengeance.

Just anticipation.

Because this time?

He wasn't dragging half a useless body across the pitch.

This time, he'd show him.

****

The whistle blew.

The ball snapped into motion.

Damien moved.

It was clean. Efficient. His first stride didn't hesitate—it cut through the field like muscle memory sharpened into instinct. No warming up. No calibration. Just movement.

He didn't sprint blindly—he hunted.

2-C opened with a controlled play, shifting the ball from center out to Kaine, who dropped it back to their mid. The formation was standard, nothing clever. Just keeping pace, testing the tempo.

Damien didn't press yet.

He observed.

Tracked.

And the moment their midfielder turned to scan for a pass—

He lunged.

Thp-thp.

Two quick steps. One from the side, the other around. Damien slid into the angle like a blade between armor plates. The boy's foot was mid-swing—and suddenly—

Gone.

The ball was already past him.

A flick. Outside foot. Touched into empty space.

Damien didn't look back.

He owned the forward line now.

Aaron barked behind him, "We got overlap!"

Rin yelled, "Use the left if they press!"

Left boot. Tap. Right step. Cut inward.

A defender rushed up—too hard, too late.

Damien dipped a shoulder, let the boy lunge—

And slipped past.

Effortless.

Like oil through fingers.

'Faster than last time,' he thought distantly, almost surprised at himself. His lungs weren't even stretching yet. No burn. No lactic whisper. His body was just moving, a machine trimmed of rust.

Another touch, sharp and close—and then—

There.

Marek.

Coming in from the right side, face tight, steps heavy.

Too heavy.

Too emotional.

Damien smiled.

Not smirked—smiled.

Because he wasn't going to avoid him this time.

He was going through him.

Marek set his weight. Readied the collision.

And Damien?

He changed nothing.

Just carried the ball forward, shoulders square.

Then, at the last moment—

Pivoted.

He didn't dodge. He redirected.

Slid the ball sideways with the inside of his boot, just a fraction of a beat before Marek closed the gap. Let the other boy commit.

And commit he did.

Marek stepped in—

And met air.

Damien rolled his shoulder just enough to graze past him, letting Marek's forearm scrape his side.

Not a foul.

Not enough.

But close.

Too close.

Enough to remind.

Damien didn't look back, but he knew the other boy stumbled from overcommitment.

He could feel it.

'You wanted to foul me again?' he thought. 'Too slow, pretty boy.'

He pushed forward, threading past one last midfielder—then passed.

Quick. Clean. Low across the pitch.

Right to Aaron, who met it with a strike—

THWACK.

The ball sailed.

Top corner.

Goal.

Shouts erupted from the sideline—Aaron yelling, Rin laughing, someone howling "No way!"—but Damien didn't raise his arms.

Didn't jog to celebrate.

He just turned slowly.

Eyes scanning until they found him.

Marek.

Still there. Still breathing hard. Still glaring.

Damien tilted his head.

Then tapped his own temple, once.

The message was clear.

Think faster.

And that was just the beginning.