Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 94: Class

Vermillion Private School – Class 4-A

The crisp autumn morning sunlight streamed through the grand windows of Class 4-A, illuminating the pristine desks arranged in perfect rows. The atmosphere inside the classroom had almost returned to its usual state—partially, at least.

The start of the final year meant one thing for everyone: National College Exams.

The tension was already settling in. Students were busy organizing their materials, some flipping through thick textbooks, others comparing notes, discussing strategies for the upcoming months.

Yet, despite the renewed focus, whispers still lingered in the air.

Whispers about Damien Elford.

"Man, it’s been a whole week, huh?" One of the boys leaned back in his chair, chuckling. "Guess Leon really did a number on him. That bastard hasn’t shown his face since."

"Tch. Figures. You saw how slow he was, right? Must’ve taken the punch like a fucking rock." Another boy snorted. "Probably still lying in bed, crying like a little bitch."

Laughter rippled through the group, a mix of amusement and indifference.

But there was one person who wasn’t laughing.

Leon Ardent sat at his desk, his jaw tight, fingers lightly tapping against the wooden surface. His golden-brown eyes were unreadable, his face locked in a mask of quiet contemplation.

Because unlike these idiots, he knew the truth.

It wasn’t Damien Elford who had lost.

It was him.

A dull ache still lingered in his ribs, a reminder of the beating he had received. His arms, his sides—bruised beneath his uniform, remnants of his father’s fury.

"You arrogant fool."

"Do you even understand what you’ve done?"

"The Elford family is not someone you can just throw fists at, you absolute idiot!"

Magnus Ardent had not been calm. His father had returned home that night like a hurricane, the fury rolling off him in waves, and the moment Leon had stepped into his presence—the discipline began.

It wasn’t the first time his father had struck him, but this had been different.

This time, his father had lost everything.

Demoted. Exiled.

And it had been Leon’s fault.

He could still feel the moment his father’s fist had slammed into his side, the wind knocked out of his lungs before he could even process it. The sheer rage in his father’s golden eyes, the raw contempt in his voice as he spat the words:

"You have ruined us."

The truth was bitter. Suffocating.

Leon had thought he was acting out of justice. Defending Celia. Standing up to Damien, thinking that his fist would settle things.

But in reality—

It had only proven how fucking stupid he was.

He had stepped into a game he didn’t even understand.

And now, his father was paying the price for his arrogance.

"Elford could erase our family with a single call."

His father had warned him, and Leon had thought it was just an exaggeration.

But then—he saw it happen.

Magnus Ardent. General of the Azaria Dominion Army.

Now? A discarded piece. A warning to others.

All because of one punch.

Leon’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening against the edge of his desk.

He had underestimated Damien Elford.

No—he had underestimated what was behind him.

Leon clenched his fists under the desk, his mind racing.

He refused to believe it.

That Damien Elford—that pathetic, bloated fool who had spent years throwing money at his problems—had somehow orchestrated the destruction of the Ardent family’s standing?

No.

It had to be his father. It had to be Victor Elford.

That was the only thing that made sense. Damien wasn’t some genius schemer. He was a failure. A spoiled, worthless sack of meat who had only ever been relevant because of his bloodline.

Leon had knocked him down, humiliated him, put him in his place.

But somehow, in the end, he was the one left broken.

Damn it.

The thought made his stomach churn with frustration. His pride screamed at him to deny it, to shove it down into the depths of his mind where it couldn’t gnaw at him like a disease.

Damien Elford is nothing.

Then why—

Why did it feel like he had already lost?

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The sound of heels clicking against the marble floors snapped him from his thoughts.

The air in the classroom shifted as the doors opened.

Celia Everwyn stepped inside, her presence immediately drawing all attention to her.

She was as poised as ever, her sapphire-blue hair cascading down in waves, her emerald-green eyes cold and unreadable. Every movement she made was measured, controlled—like a queen entering her court.

Behind her, Victoria Langley, Cassandra Merlot, and Lillian Duvall followed, their usual haughty confidence surrounding them like a barrier.

The students in the room instinctively straightened, their conversations dimming to hushed whispers.

But Leon—

Leon only watched Celia.

Because he knew.

He knew she wasn’t as composed as she seemed.

The way her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the strap of her bag. The barely perceptible tension in her shoulders.

She was seething.

And Leon knew exactly why.

She had suffered the same humiliation.

Maybe even worse.

Because while his punishment had come from his father—hers had come from the entire school.

Damien had thrown her away like trash in front of everyone.

And for someone like Celia Everwyn—someone who had spent her entire life being the one to discard others—

That was unforgivable.

Victoria Langley gracefully crossed her legs as she scrolled through her sleek, custom-made tablet, her emerald-green eyes skimming over the latest luxury fashion releases. "Father says the next gala will be held at the Montclair estate this year."

Cassandra Merlot let out an unimpressed sigh as she twirled a strand of her golden hair between her fingers. "Ugh, again? Last year’s was so predictable. If I have to sit through another hour of fake business pleasantries, I swear I’ll lose my mind."

Lillian Duvall smirked, lightly tapping her perfectly manicured nails against the desk. "At least the Montclairs know how to throw a decent party. Unlike the Hargrove family—remember that disaster of a masquerade? The champagne wasn’t even vintage!"

The girls laughed softly, their usual air of effortless superiority settling over them.

Celia, however, was only half-listening.

She sat with her back perfectly straight, her fingers lightly resting against her chin, but her mind was elsewhere. No matter how much she tried to focus on their idle chatter, the whispers from last week still clawed at her thoughts.

The humiliation.

The stares.

The quiet mockery that had followed her after that day.

She had sworn to herself—she would make Damien Elford pay.

But that would come later. For now, she had to maintain her composure.

Then—

The door opened again.

Without turning her head, Celia already knew who it was.

The air in the room shifted, just slightly. A presence that was both familiar and irritating.

Iris Blackwood.

She entered without a word, her long, emerald-green hair cascading behind her like silk, her sharp crimson eyes flickering across the room—lingering on Celia for only a fraction of a second.

Just a glance.

Barely anything at all.

And yet, Celia felt it.

A silent acknowledgment. A warning. A challenge.

Then, just as quickly, Iris continued walking, heading straight to her desk as if the exchange had never happened.

To an outsider, Celia and Iris looked like close friends. After all, they were both at the top of the social hierarchy at Vermillion. They attended the same elite gatherings, were often seen together at exclusive events, and their families held significant influence in the Azaria Dominion.

But in reality?

They were not friends.

They were rivals.

Not in the direct, childish way most people competed. There were no open confrontations, no petty insults. No—what existed between them was something more refined. A constant, silent war of influence and control.

Celia knew that Iris was watching her. Waiting. Measuring.

And Celia would not give her the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

So she exhaled softly and returned her attention to the conversation with the girls, as if nothing had happened.

Then—

The door opened once more.

This time, the shift in the room was different.

Not the hushed admiration that accompanied Celia or Iris. Not the casual interest reserved for their fellow high-ranking elites.

This was something else entirely.

A presence that didn’t command attention through wealth or lineage, but through sheer merit.

Isabelle Moreau.

The Class Representative of 4-A.