Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 123: Ability
Damien jogged back toward his side of the pitch, heart pumping, muscles lit with adrenaline—but it was a clean burn. The kind that didn't drain you, but sharpened you. He glanced to the side where the flashy striker—the one who'd tried to humiliate him earlier—was breathing hard, trying to act like the last exchange hadn't rattled him. But the clenched jaw and twitching eye told the truth.
"You like it?" Damien said as he passed him, his voice calm, almost casual. But the smirk playing on his lips was anything but innocent.
The striker didn't respond right away, but his glare spoke for him.
Damien tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "Just saying… if you're playing like that to impress Celia or Victoria, you'll need to do better." He flicked his gaze toward the sideline—where the girls still stood like royalty surveying the scene. "Those whores have people like you circling them all day. You want to get noticed?" He shrugged. "You need to be special."
The guy stopped walking.
Dead in his tracks.
His face twisted, fists clenched. "What did you say?"
Bingo.
Damien's smirk widened slightly. "So I was right. You are one of their simps." He tapped his temple once, as if noting something down. "Well, maybe not a simp. A fan, at least. Not quite pathetic, but certainly common."
The boy stepped toward him, only for a teammate to grab his arm and pull him back. The ref gave a warning glance.
"Keep your cool," someone muttered. But the striker's eyes never left Damien, burning now.
Damien turned away without another word, already setting his cleats into position as the whistle blew again to resume.
The tension shifted.
Now it was personal.
He could feel the striker on him like a tether. The guy didn't care about the match anymore—he wanted revenge.
Damien welcomed it.
He tracked the forward with obsessive focus, shadowing every step. When the ball wasn't in play, he mirrored him. When it was, he blocked him from clean receives, nudged him in tight turns, baited him with subtle taps, body-checks just soft enough to avoid fouls. A private war brewed in the middle of the public game.
But in chasing the humiliation—Damien slipped.
Too focused.
Too narrow.
He pushed forward one time too many, trying to intercept a lazy touch that wasn't there, and just like that, they were exposed.
A 4-C midfielder cut through the gap he left behind, and with two clean passes, they were on goal.
Kaine.
Kaine, of course.
He received the final ball like he had rehearsed it a thousand times. Chest trap, quick drop, and a left-footed strike that curved clean past the keeper.
FWWUMP.
The net bulged.
3-2.
The field turned quiet for a beat—until the ripple of cheers from Class 4-C broke through.
Damien spun around, frustrated, and was immediately met by Aaron's glare.
"What the hell are you doing?" Aaron snapped. "You're playing him, not the match. Wake the fuck up!"
Damien opened his mouth, but Aaron had already turned, storming back toward midfield.
And then—
Kaine walked past him. Not a jog. Not a sprint.
A walk.
Slow. Smirking.
And as he passed, he leaned just enough for Damien to hear it.
"See?" Kaine said, low and dripping with mockery. "You're not an alpha, you fucker."
Damien's eyes narrowed, heat rising to his temples. His knuckles flexed, twitching with the effort not to respond right then.
But the ball was already rolling again.
And 4-C was pressing.
Another mistake.
This time not entirely his—but close enough. He drifted too far up, again caught watching the flashy striker, anticipating a chance to corner him. And in doing so, he missed the trailing runner. A one-two pass slipped through the right wing, and the winger slammed a low shot under the keeper's arms.
Goal.
3-3.
Just like that.
And the murmurs started—4-A's sidelines getting restless. Doubt creeping in.
Damien stood at midfield, breathing hard, the blood roaring behind his ears.
Damien stayed there for a beat too long—midfield, boots heavy against the turf, lungs dragging in air like a machine chewing gravel. Every nerve in his body pulsed with raw static. The roar in his ears wasn't just exertion anymore—it was anger. Not the hot, wild kind. This was something colder. Focused. Sharp-edged.
But then—
A breath.
One full inhale through his nose.
Exhale.
Again.
He shut everything out. Kaine's smirk. Aaron's frustration. The shifting unease from the sidelines. The mocking laughter still echoing from a few Class 4-C players. All of it—gone.
And when Damien opened his eyes again?
That fire hadn't burned out.
It had crystallized.
His lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk.
'Alright… enough games.'
The match resumed.
And this time, he didn't chase. He didn't react. He moved—like a shadow cast before its source. Every step he took had purpose, like his body had stopped waiting for thought and simply knew.
He read the play before it formed.
4-C pushed forward, passing through the center to create space wide. But the flashy striker hesitated just a second too long—just enough to scan for Damien.
Mistake.
Damien was already closing in.
He didn't sprint. He flowed—his steps gliding over turf, knees soft, posture coiled like a spring. The striker took the bait, tried to tap the ball past him, but Damien cut across the path like a blade, foot hooking the ball with surgical precision. THK! The striker overran it by instinct—and Damien spun.
Full turn.
The kind of pivot you only pulled off if you knew exactly where your feet were.
And then—he did it.
With a flick of his heel, he passed the ball backwards through the striker's legs.
A reverse nutmeg.
A humiliation.
The crowd on the sidelines howled. Boys from both teams gasped and shouted, some bursting into cackling laughter. Even Lionel, who had been chewing on tension for minutes now, let out a bark of surprise.
"Yo—!"
The striker spun, red in the face, but Damien didn't even look back.
He was already gone.
Driving the ball forward, cutting past one midfielder, then another, using quick body feints—not flashy, but clean. Controlled. He wasn't dancing around defenders—he was moving through them. His body answered every thought without delay, like every tendon and fiber had tuned itself to one signal: Win.
The play ended with a shot on goal—blocked, but barely. A near miss.
The momentum was back.
And then—DING!
A cool chime, subtle and clear, echoed through Damien's mind as the interface flickered back to life in his vision.
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[Quest Complete!]
Title: Prove You're Not a Joke
✔ Objective: End the half without conceding again – Complete
✔ Bonus: Humiliate the forward who nutmegged you – Complete
The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.
Rewards:
+100 SP
+100 EXP
+10 Reputation (Class 4-A)
Passive Skill Unlocked: Neural Synchronicity
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The moment the ball slipped just wide of the post, skimming the net's outer side, Damien didn't curse or punch the turf. He exhaled.
Not from disappointment.
But from clarity.
His body was humming—not just with adrenaline, but with connection. Every inch of him felt precise. Responsive. As if the chaos of the match had melted into something clean, fluid. As if he wasn't thinking his movements anymore.
He was the movement.
And then—
DING!
Another screen flashed across his vision.
-----------
[Level Up!]
+2 Attribute Points
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The interface hovered for a heartbeat before sliding aside, making room for what mattered more.
The real reward.
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[Passive Skill Unlocked: Neural Synchronicity – Passive]
Grade: G (Evolving)
Description:
The mind and body are no longer separate processes—they operate as one.
This passive enhances the synchronization between your nervous system and physical execution. Muscle memory, reflexes, and physical feedback loops become more efficient. You gain:
1- Sharper physical control
2- Quicker reaction time
3- Reduced mental fatigue during physical strain
4- Improved kinesthetic awareness
Additional Effect:
Training your body now accelerates learning.
Physical skills such as martial arts, agility-based movement, or athletic techniques will be acquired faster and with greater precision.
As your body improves, so will the ease with which you master related disciplines.
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Damien's eyes flicked back to the field, though the interface still glowed faintly in his periphery. His hands clenched and released once, his knuckles flexing in rhythm. The response time felt instant. Almost intuitive.
'So this is what it's like…'
Not just power. Not raw strength or speed.
'Heh….you guys are cooked.'
