Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

Chapter 270: Troublesome situation

“The semester is not a sprint. But excellence, wherever it rises, demands acknowledgment. I expect you all to continue.”

Galen’s gaze swept once more across the room, lingering just long enough to ensure every pair of eyes had returned to focus. The congratulatory atmosphere had shifted again—subdued, polished, back into discipline.

He gave a faint nod, then continued.

“With that said, I have a few announcements regarding the upcoming schedule.”

His tone shifted into something administrative, yet still firm—like the grip of a sword held just below the hilt.

“As you are all aware, the Sports Festival begins next week. Events will be held over a four-day period. Morning heats. Afternoon matches. Closing ceremonies at dusk.”

Another pause. Small flickers of excitement passed through the room—subtle, but there.

“I understand the importance you all place on these competitions,” Galen said, and there was the faintest edge of amusement at the corner of his voice—almost like he remembered being that age, once. “And the Academy does not intend to stifle that spirit.”

There was a slight lifting of tension at that. A few students leaned in, curious.

“Therefore, as per tradition, class-hosted celebration hours are permitted at the end of each day. Outdoor setups and indoor lounges will be provided. Music, refreshments, and class-led exhibitions will be approved through faculty review.”

A soft murmur of interest ran through the room—half surprise, half anticipation.

“But let me be clear—”

Galen’s voice cut back through the rising energy like a cold gust of wind.

“This is not a holiday.”

The stillness returned instantly.

“The Sports Festival is a Vermillion legacy. A tradition. And tradition here exists because your predecessors upheld excellence in both competition and coursework. Not one or the other.”

He let that land. No anger in his tone. Just expectation.

“I expect the same from all of you.”

He straightened, hands resting calmly behind his back.

“This is simply a reminder,” he said, the edge of his tone softening once again. “No warnings. No lectures. I trust that you all understand what is required.”

Then, finally, he took one step back and inclined his head toward the instructor beside him.

“I won’t take any more of your lecture time.”

And just like that, with no further ceremony, Galen Kross turned and strode out of the room—his presence withdrawing like the tide, leaving behind only order, focus, and a faint trace of something colder.

Responsibility.

*****

The lecture resumed with the soft clack of the instructor’s stylus against the smartboard, diagrams unfolding in clean arcs of enchanted light across the surface. Complex formulas shimmered into place, each anchored to notations that pulsed faintly with embedded audio cues and references. A rhythm most students knew to follow without question.

Damien leaned back in his seat, arms loosely folded, eyes tracking the equations as they unfolded.

No haze in his head.

No gnawing fatigue from midnight weight drills or Elysia’s mental bruising critiques.

Just clarity.

‘So this is what it feels like,’ he thought, tapping one finger against the edge of his desk. ‘To walk into a class and actually absorb it live.’

He’d caught up. Covered all the backlog. Every dusty module, every pre-lecture concept skipped in the name of sleeping through first period or “borrowing” someone else’s notes. The system had pushed his efficiency past the point of traditional grind—and now?

He could listen.

And grasp.

The moment a term was introduced, his mind was already slotting it into frameworks, lining it up with the background theory he’d reviewed. No scrambling to keep pace, no half-understood cramming for context later. It clicked, clean and exact.

‘It’s disgusting how much time this saves.’

Because in a school like Vermillion, that was the real cheat code—not raw intelligence, but bandwidth. The ability to understand in the moment meant you didn’t need to re-learn it at night. Didn’t need to panic-study before exams. You left the lecture done.

And if you were already done?

Then your nights were free for growth. For strategy. For pushing limits where others were still staring at their homework in confusion.

The instructor’s voice carried steady through the room, stepping through the formulaic manipulation of barrier-field constructs and impact dissipation theory. Students scribbled. A few whispered quick clarifications to each other.

Damien?

He was already mapping the internal logic—seeing the pattern behind the numbers.

‘No wonder Isabelle keeps first place,’ he thought, glancing once at the girl at the front of the class. ‘If this is her normal mode… no wasted motion. Just input and result.’

But that wasn’t a reason to fall behind.

Not anymore.

Not when he had this clarity, this space in his head that had never existed before the grind, before the system. Before Elysia.

He took a quiet breath and shifted in his seat, focus narrowing, attention sharpened to a fine edge.

Because now?

He wasn’t catching up.

He was pacing the front.

*****

The chime rang soft and clear overhead, signaling the start of the afternoon break.

Isabelle closed her notebook with practiced efficiency, slipping it neatly into her satchel before pulling out her bento box—modest, clean, quietly practical. Her desk, as always, was a small island in a sea of shifting noise. Conversations rose around her in currents—plans for gym warmups, muttered theories about system updates, quiet giggles over someone’s new shoes.

None of it touched her.

Not usually.

She unfolded her napkin, unlatched the box lid with a soft click, and prepared to eat alone. Her seat by the window was always her space. The light fell cleanly across the desk. The noise was at her back. And the cafeteria? A waste of time, a distraction at best. She didn’t indulge.

Not when time could be measured in victories.

She reached for her chopsticks—

“Isabelle!”

The voice startled her, more for its direction than its volume.

Madeleine.

She turned just as Madeleine leaned in, her light brown curls bouncing slightly with the movement, a familiar wide grin across her face.

“What are you doing?” Madeleine asked brightly.

Isabelle blinked. “…Eating lunch.”

“Wrong answer,” said another voice, and suddenly two more girls appeared at her sides—Chessa and Miri, both part of the student committee’s academic arm, both carrying trays from the cafeteria.

“What,” Isabelle said slowly, “is going on?”

“You thought we were going to let you eat alone today?” Madeleine asked, incredulous. “After what we just heard?”

Chessa leaned in, eyes wide with dramatic flair. “First. In the nation.”

“Top of the country!” Miri added, beaming.

Isabelle’s face remained composed, but her chopsticks stilled mid-air. “It was just the academic performance rankings,” she said softly.

“Just?” Madeleine’s eyes widened like she’d been personally insulted. “You say that like they give those out with the vending machine tokens!”

Chessa reached over and gently shut Isabelle’s bento box with mock gravity. “Sorry. This is a celebratory crime scene now. Food by yourself is strictly prohibited.”

“You’re coming with us,” Miri declared, already looping her arm around Isabelle’s.

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Madeleine said firmly, grabbing Isabelle’s satchel before she could even move to resist. “You’ve been first in Vermillion for two years straight. But this? This is new. This is insane. The national graders don’t even know how to curve someone like you.”

“And we’re proud of you,” Miri said, more quietly. “You didn’t just win for yourself. You lifted our class. The school.”

“We had to do something,” Chessa added. “Even if it’s just lunch.”

Isabelle stared at the three of them. For a moment, she truly considered refusing—falling back on routine, logic, time-efficiency arguments. The kind of deflection that had worked for years.

And she was left in a really troublesome situation….

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