Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 124: Ability (2)

'Heh… you guys are cooked.'

The thought slid through Damien's mind like the grin that followed it—slow, razor-edged, inevitable.

He flexed his fingers once more. His breath was steady now, no longer strained. The hum in his limbs wasn't fatigue. It was readiness. His eyes scanned the field, and then they dropped—

To the ball.

It rolled across the grass, nudged lightly between two players exchanging a casual back pass. Nothing urgent. Nothing threatening.

But Damien was already moving.

He didn't charge. He didn't sprint. He closed in like a ghost—silent, efficient, a shadow dressed in cleats. And the moment the ball was within reach, he stepped in with surgical precision.

The touch was clean. No fumble. No scramble.

Tap.

Outside of the foot. Just enough to redirect it into open space.

Thp-thp.

Two quick steps and he caught it again, dribbling tight with the inner arc of his left boot, letting the ball hug the curve of his run. Another defender stepped toward him, closing the angle—but Damien had already shifted his weight before the boy even committed.

Swish—thmp.

A low body feint, barely a bend in the shoulder, and he was through.

It wasn't magic.

It wasn't showboating.

It was control.

Every step was a decision that didn't need to be made—because his body made it for him. He didn't have to think about adjusting his weight, or when to cut, or how hard to tap. It was just there. Automatic. Aligned.

Like his muscles were reading his thoughts before he had them.

His foot skimmed the top of the ball for a brief dragback, then he spun into a pivot, maintaining possession even as another 4-C player lunged for a tackle.

The boy missed completely.

Damien didn't stop.

He passed once—clean and sharp, a diagonal cut to Aaron—then broke into space. The return pass was sloppy, bouncing once, twice, too far ahead. But Damien angled his approach and caught it with the top of his boot, cushioning the impact like he'd been doing it for years.

Tap. Roll. Cut back. Push.

Each movement was crisp.

No stutter. No recovery lag.

Just flow.

From the sideline, even Lionel blinked, murmuring, "What the hell…?"

Victoria, arms still crossed, finally dropped her smirk—not out of satisfaction, but something colder. Calculating.

And Celia?

She didn't look away this time.

Her eyes were locked on him.

The moment stretched just long enough for Damien to glance her way and hold her gaze.

One heartbeat.

Then—

BRRRRRRNNNNGG!

The shrill ring of the school's break bell echoed over the field, clear and mechanical, slicing through the simmering tension like a reset switch. A moment later, the familiar chime that followed—cheerful, sterile, unbothered—floated across the grounds, a bright jingle designed to mark transitions between periods. It was at odds with the heat still lingering in the air, the pulse of adrenaline in the boys' veins, the unspoken rivalries still flickering beneath the surface.

Just like that, the first half was over.

Coaches gave a few casual claps. No whistles, no barking orders. This wasn't a championship—it was just class P.E. Still, everyone on that field knew the match had become something else entirely. No one wanted to lose. Not now.

The boys on both teams slowed their steps, heading toward their respective sides of the turf. Cleats scraped against the grass, shuffling lightly. Shirts clung with sweat now, breaths came harder, though no one would admit it.

Damien jogged calmly back, barely winded.

The others? Less so.

"Huuh… huuhh… You're not bad…" came a voice beside him. Lionel, panting, arms hanging loose at his sides.

Another boy—Aaron this time—dropped onto one knee for a moment, shaking his head with a light scoff. "Man… I keep forgetting how wide this field is."

"Yeah, it's not just length," Rin muttered, bending forward with hands on his hips. "It's the goddamn shifting pace. Half these guys sprint like it's their final exam."

Damien didn't speak right away. He rolled his neck, then glanced over his shoulder. Class 4-C was gathered across the field, doing the same—reaching for water bottles, peeling off sweat-damp shirts, stretching legs. A few were still throwing glances his way, their eyes narrowed in equal parts caution and resentment.

The field had been slightly expanded for the dual-class session, a middle ground between official and casual. Longer runs. More space to cover. And for students with average bodies—no enhancements, no gifts, no game-like systems—it wore on them fast.

Not crippling exhaustion. But enough to test them.

And in that quiet corner of fatigue, judgment began to stir.

It wasn't just about who could score.

It was about who could keep going.

Damien tilted his head up, eyes briefly catching the sunlight bleeding through scattered clouds above. His chest rose and fell slowly, calmly.

He was partially tired, though not as much as the others.

'I still have some energy left.'

'I still have some energy left,' Damien thought, glancing at the others sprawled or hunched over near him. His breathing was steady, muscles warm but not shaking. He hadn't pushed to his limit—not yet.

That was the advantage of playing backline. While everyone else charged forward, sprinted for space, collapsed into recovery jogs and repeated the cycle until their lungs burned, Damien had played with precision. Efficient movement. No wasted steps. He had defended. Let the others crash against the tempo while he watched, calculated, adapted.

Now?

Now he was just getting started.

He rolled his shoulders again, replaying moments in his head—how he caught the rhythm in that second quarter of the game, the way his footwork had begun to align with his instincts. The ease with which the ball moved under his control. It hadn't been luck. It had been growth. Fast, exponential growth.

From behind him came the voices.

"When the hell did you get this good at football?" Rin asked, straightening up and tossing a half-empty bottle to the side.

Aaron squinted at Damien, suspicion lining his expression but not malice. "Yeah, no offense, man, but weren't you like... allergic to P.E. last term?"

Damien gave a one-shouldered shrug and let a slow smirk rise. "Just now."

Rin narrowed his eyes. "...Bastard. You're cocky."

Damien tilted his head, his voice smooth. "Jealous?"

Rin clicked his tongue and looked away. "Nah..."

Chuckles rolled through the group—low, tired ones—but genuine. Even Aaron cracked a smile.

Damien leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. "Since most of you look like you're halfway to a coma, how about we switch it up? Put me on the front line. I'll be the runner this half."

That got a few raised brows. A couple skeptical looks.

But not rejection.

Rin rubbed the back of his neck. "You sure? Mid and forward rotations are a bitch if you're not warmed into it."

"I'm warm," Damien replied. "Trust me. You'll get more from me up front than behind."

The group exchanged glances—some uncertain, some intrigued.

Aaron looked at Lionel, silently passing the decision to their de facto captain.

But before Lionel could answer—

A voice cut in, sharp and cold.

"No."

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All heads turned.

It was the boy who had been glaring earlier, the one hanging near the edge of the circle all match. Lean, dark-haired, posture tight like a wire—Devran Vale.

He stepped forward now, arms crossed, eyes locked on Damien.

"You're doing fine in the back. Don't try to overplay it. You're not the only one here who can move."

Damien didn't even bother looking at him at first. He rolled his jaw once, casually, then glanced at Lionel instead.

"What do you think?"

Lionel looked between them—Damien's cool confidence, Devran's simmering irritation. A beat passed. Another.

Finally, he sighed and said, "Yeah, fine by me. You're not tired, and you've got momentum. Go for it."

Damien gave a small nod.

Devran's jaw tensed, but he didn't say anything else. He stepped back, but the weight of his glare didn't.

Not that it mattered.

The whistle blew again—short, sharp, procedural.

Sides were changing.

Players began shifting across the turf, light-footed and languid, the way boys moved when their bodies were tired but their blood still ran hot. The first half's tension still lingered in the air, not yet resolved, not yet released.

Damien walked with his usual deliberate pace, boots soft against the grass. The shift in the match's energy hadn't escaped him. It was quiet, but spreading. Like the pull of gravity had changed direction. And now?

Now all eyes were shifting.

Halfway across the field, he passed by the opposing group—and sure enough, Kaine was there, towel slung over his shoulder, sweat running down his neck, muscles still coiled like a spring not quite released. Ezra was beside him, less tense, but eyes sharp with restrained mockery.

Damien didn't break stride.

Didn't slow.

Just gave a tilt of his head and let the smirk spread.

"I'm coming for you."

Kaine's jaw flexed. He didn't grin. Didn't laugh. Just exhaled, hard through his nose, and muttered under his breath.

"…Heh. Arrogant prick."

Ezra also glared at him. "We will see about that."

Damien kept walking, the brief exchange crackling like static behind him.

They didn't need more words.

The line had already been drawn.