Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 122: Football (2)

The ball came fast.

It was clear immediately—4-C had momentum. Quick passes, sharp footwork, aggressive openings. One of their forwards—tall, lean, clearly played outside the academy—was already cutting down the flank with the kind of speed that turned casual games into highlight reels.

Damien moved to intercept.

And immediately realized something.

He was rusty.

Not in the body—his reflexes, his reach, his speed, they were fine. But the feel for the game—the rhythm, the angles, the balance of controlling space and reaction time? It wasn't there.

He moved wrong. Reached too early. Misjudged the bounce.

The forward slipped past.

The first goal wasn't his fault entirely, but he hadn't stopped it either.

There were no taunts. No jeers.

But he felt it.

The look from Rin. The hesitation from Aaron.

And Victoria, standing near Celia, her lips twitching like she was already preparing a smug little comment.

Damien exhaled slowly through his nose.

'Not great.'

But he didn't panic. Didn't try to do too much.

He watched.

And then he adjusted.

Two more plays passed.

Then four.

Then, on the sixth?

He anticipated the pass.

Footwork tightened. Timing sharpened. He cut off the lane and stole the ball cleanly—quick pivot, quick clear, nothing flashy. Just execution.

The boys on his team glanced over. Lionel gave a short nod.

Rin clicked his tongue, then smirked faintly.

Damien planted his heel and pivoted.

The field tilted beneath his senses—players weaving in and out like parts of a living machine, each movement deliberate, subconscious. The turf scraped under his cleats as he adjusted his stance, knees bent, weight forward.

Ahead, one of the 4-C midfielders swept the ball wide—a crisp pass, ankle-locked, outer foot flick to lead the attacker.

The forward caught it on the run, toes pointed down, left leg slicing out to control it mid-sprint. Damien was already closing in.

His steps were sharp now—heel-to-toe, low, balanced. Left foot angled inward, right foot slightly back to cover both the cut and the drive.

The forward tried a shoulder fake—dropped low, dipped right.

Damien mirrored the shift.

But didn't bite.

'Not this time.'

The forward paused, probing for an opening. He dribbled close—tight control, each tap of the ball light, nearly silent. It was textbook finesse.

Damien waited. Let the tension build. The ball drifted a fraction too far forward—

He lunged.

A clean tackle. Ball swept out, no contact.

The 4-C boy stumbled.

Damien stood over the loose ball for a second, then kicked it back toward Lionel with a quick inside-foot flick.

Nothing fancy.

But it felt good.

Like catching a rhythm.

'Alright. Let's dance.'

But as the next few minutes unfolded, Damien noticed something.

The pattern.

The ball kept coming down his side. Again and again.

Their forwards weren't avoiding him.

They were targeting him.

Another 4-C striker—a wiry kid with gelled-back hair and flashy boots—came sprinting down the flank. He didn't slow. He came right at Damien.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Fast, rapid-fire touches. Ankles loose, steps fluttering over the ball.

Damien braced low.

The kid feinted left, then executed a lightning-fast stepover—his right foot sweeping over the ball like a hook, followed instantly by a left-foot tap inward.

Damien matched him, tracking step for step.

But the moment he committed?

The forward clipped the inside of the ball with his heel—

—And slid it between Damien's legs.

Nutmeg.

A brutal one.

Damien spun, pivoting hard on his heel, but the striker was already gone—racing down the sideline, laughter in his wake.

Another boy from 4-C joined in, picked up the pass, and with one touch blasted it into the top corner.

The net snapped with clean finality.

Goal.

The mocking cheers came right after.

"Oi, Elford, legs too wide open, man!"

"Damn, bro, he made you his training dummy!"

"You sure you're not still watching from the wall?"

Even Rin winced.

Lionel muttered, "Shit…"

Aaron didn't say anything, but the smirk at the corner of his mouth said plenty.

Damien stood still.

Not stunned.

Not frozen.

Just… processing.

He turned slowly—and saw them.

The girls.

Victoria. Her arms crossed, her gym jacket still pristine.

And her smirk?

That was the loudest thing on the field.

She didn't speak.

She didn't have to.

Celia stood beside her, unreadable, but the two girls behind them—Cassandra and Lillian—were whispering, watching. Amused.

Victoria tilted her head. Raised one eyebrow.

Like clockwork.

'Heh…'

Damien's fingers curled slightly.

'This was your plan, huh?'

He didn't need confirmation. He saw it. The way the enemy forwards were smiling too much. The extra flair in their footwork. The decision to go through him, again and again.

They weren't just playing.

They were trying to humiliate him.

And suddenly, something burned in his chest.

Something hot. And old. And familiar.

He hadn't felt it in years—not since his real body still worked, not since his mind had something worth fighting for.

That fire.

That sharp, cold clarity.

His gaze narrowed.

And then—

DING!

A translucent screen flickered into view in the corner of his vision, unreadable to anyone else.

-----------

[Quest Alert!]

Title: Prove You're Not a Joke

Objective: End the half without letting another goal through your side.

Bonus: Steal the ball from the enemy forward who nutmegged you. Humiliate him back.

Rewards:

+100 SP

+100 EXP

+10 Reputation

Passive Skill: ???

Failure Penalty:

-10 SP

-Temporary Trait Debuff [Rattled]

---------------

Damien's jaw set.

'So even you're getting in on this, huh?' he thought toward the system, half-smirking.

Good.

Let them laugh.

He welcomed it now.

Because if they were going to test him?

'Come at me again, pretty boy.

Let's see if your ego can survive a real counter.'

*****

The next play began with a sharp whistle and a light thud of the ball dropping back into motion. The rhythm of cleats against turf picked up once more—tak tak tak—that rapid cadence of movement that fed the game's pulse.

Damien adjusted his stance without hesitation, his body low and ready, his gaze tracking not the player but the ball itself. That was the difference now. He wasn't reacting to motion. He was reading intention.

The 4-C midfielders tried to cut across the center again, but Lionel intercepted this time, lunging in with a solid block and redirecting the pass to Rin, who was already sprinting up the flank. The counterattack was fast and decisive.

Aaron sprinted into space, receiving a lofted pass with the inside of his foot—tshk—before drilling it low and fast into the corner of the goal.

Cheers erupted from the 4-A sideline. One-to-one.

Damien didn't smile. Not yet. The match was still moving, and he knew how momentum could shift in seconds.

The enemy forward—the flashy one with gelled hair who had humiliated him—was already calling for the ball again. It didn't matter how many passes were going on elsewhere. Damien could feel his focus. He wasn't playing the match anymore—he was playing Damien. Testing him. Measuring the limits of his calm.

He didn't have to wait long.

The forward received the ball near the edge of the midfield line, and once again, he pushed it wide. Two quick touches with his left foot, his ankle rolling loose to disguise the direction, followed by a lightning-quick scissor-step to bait a reaction.

Damien didn't flinch. He let his weight shift subtly, his right foot anchoring while his left rotated just enough to mirror.

This time, he watched the ball. Not the legs. Not the eyes. The ball.

The moment the striker leaned into another nutmeg attempt—planting his right foot beside the ball, ready to flick it under—Damien acted.

He stepped in hard, right foot striking through the trajectory, not at the ball's position but where it was about to be.

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He caught it.

A clean strip.

The striker stumbled forward, momentum betrayed. Damien didn't stop to celebrate. He swept the ball sideways with his instep, turned smoothly on the pivot, and burst down the sideline—his movement sharper now, clean arcs of motion supported by the strength he'd rebuilt over months.

"Back!" he called, already scanning the field. Aaron was too deep, Rin was marked. But Lionel—

Damien cut the ball with the outer edge of his boot and sent it arcing down the field with a long diagonal pass—thump—a driven cross that skipped once on the turf before landing perfectly in Lionel's path.

Lionel didn't waste it. He slammed the shot low and hard past the stunned 4-C keeper.

Another goal.

Two-one. 4-A was in the lead now.

"You like it?"

And Damien wasn't the one to waste such things.