Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 204: Honest?

The final whistle blew with a sharp tweet, followed by a ripple of cheers and claps from the sidelines. 4-C’s side of the net erupted into high-fives and quick embraces, their libero diving into a celebratory knee-slide as their final point tallied.

4-A, meanwhile, huddled on their side of the court, flushed and breathless—but not defeated.

They’d lost.

But it had been close.

The kind of game where no one stormed off. No bitterness. Just fatigue laced with reluctant smiles and flushed cheeks. A match that actually felt like a game, not a proxy war.

Damien tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the court one last time.

Iris clapped Isabelle’s back lightly as they walked off together, both of them drenched in sweat, ponytails damp and clinging to their necks.

Celia was already stretching near the bench, cool as ever, while Victoria barked something about "next time" to no one in particular, already spinning strategy in her head.

It felt different.

The energy. The mood.

And Damien noticed.

’That was… fun,’ he thought. ’Actual fun. Close, aggressive, competitive—but no one tried to kill each other.’

His eyes drifted back toward the now-emptying boys’ court. The earlier heat, the bruised pride, the yelling—

That hadn’t been fun.

That had been something else.

’Somehow,’ he mused, ’I feel like it’s because of me.’

He didn’t flinch from the thought. He just let it settle.

’The football match wasn’t about the game. It was about ego. About proving something.’

He remembered the tension, the near-blows, the blood in his mouth that hadn’t even been there.

And yeah.

He’d had a hand in that.

’But… so what?’

His smirk ghosted back for a second.

If they wanted clean games, they shouldn’t have tried to take shots at him.

Just then, movement caught his eye.

Isabelle.

She grabbed a white towel from her bag at the bench and wiped the sweat from her neck, her motions efficient—habitual, not self-conscious. She tugged her ponytail loose with one sharp motion and shook her hair out, dark strands clinging to her temples.

Then—she looked up.

Her eyes swept casually across the gym, scanning faces, half-distracted from the post-match cool-down.

And then—

She saw him.

A flicker.

So fast, so subtle.

Just the faintest widening of her eyes. The briefest pause in her movement.

Anyone else would’ve missed it.

But Damien didn’t.

His improved sight—sharpened from training with Elysia, boosted further by the trait his system had granted—picked up the microexpression.

Maybe it was not a full notice, but he somehow sensed it nevertheless.

’Heh…’

Recognition.

Surprise.

’Ah. So you didn’t expect me to be here,’ he thought, lips twitching slightly.

She turned back to the bench, toweling off her arms now like nothing had happened.

Damien remained by the railing, unmoving, a statue carved from leisure and intent.

His arms rested casually against the cool metal, but his gaze?

Fixed.

Not aggressive. Not invasive.

Just... there.

On her.

Isabelle, who had resumed her cool-down routine—retying her hair, sipping from a water bottle, chatting idly with Iris like nothing had happened.

But Damien knew better.

He watched the way her eyes didn’t flicker back toward him. The way she kept her chin angled just slightly away. The way her posture tightened—not obviously, not to anyone else, but to someone like him?

It was obvious.

She was aware.

And she was trying not to be.

He exhaled once through his nose, lips curving faintly.

’Let’s play a little game.’

His gaze narrowed with lazy precision.

’How long till you can’t ignore my gaze, Isabelle?’

He tilted his head ever so slightly, the picture of casual observation—but beneath the surface, the timer had already started.

’Two minutes at most,’ he decided.

And right then—

DING.

A translucent window bloomed at the edge of his vision.

—----------------------------------

[Side Bet: Will Blink]

Objective: Will it go as you expect?

Time Limit for Isabelle Moreau to come: 2 minutes or less

Reward: +15 SP

Failure Penalty: 15 SP

—----------------------------------

Damien didn’t move.

Didn’t even shift weight.

He simply watched.

Seconds ticked by, unnoticed by anyone else in the gym.

Isabelle spoke with her teammates. She laughed once—small, polite. She adjusted the hem of her jersey, slung her towel around her shoulders, and bent to grab her bag.

Still, no glance.

Still, he waited.

1 minute 23 seconds.

She stood upright.

And paused.

Her hand hesitated just a moment too long on the strap of her duffel.

Then—almost as if it betrayed her—her head turned.

Just slightly.

Her eyes found his.

Not directly. Not long.

Just enough.

Enough for her to know he hadn’t stopped.

Enough for him to know she’d noticed.

Again.

And that was all it took.

Because a few seconds later, she started walking.

Each step measured, straight toward him—leaving her team behind in the post-game chatter as she made her way across the gym.

At 1 minute 50 seconds, the system chimed again.

[Side Bet Complete. +15 SP Awarded]

Damien’s lips curled.

’Told you.’

Isabelle approached with the same calm precision she wore everywhere—shoulders back, gaze steady, towel draped over her shoulders like a banner of restraint.

She stopped just beside him, close enough to speak quietly without being overheard.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, tone level. Not sharp, but not exactly friendly either.

Damien didn’t turn his head. He kept his eyes forward on the now-empty court, as if the match were still playing out in his mind.

"Watching your match," he replied smoothly.

"…I can see that," she said, a faint wrinkle forming between her brows. "But why? Weren’t you guys playing football?"

"It ended earlier."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Damien’s lips twitched. "This and that."

"This and that?" she repeated, skeptical. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one I feel like giving," he said, finally glancing her way.

Then, before she could press further, his gaze swept over her—measured, appreciative, slow.

"You played well," he said. "Sharp timing. Clean reflexes. Didn’t expect you to be so good at it."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "It’s part of the requirement."

"Still," he said, lowering his gaze just slightly.

Her jersey clung in the faintest way—sweat from the match still cooling across her frame. The curve of her shoulder visible beneath the fabric, her collar damp, strands of black hair curling at the edge of her jaw.

"You really are the model student," he said, voice dipping low. "Top of the class. Sports-capable. Carrying the team and the grade curve."

His gaze dropped—not crass, not overt.

Just enough.

"Quite fit," he murmured, just under his breath.

Isabelle’s eyes narrowed—not with shock, but warning.

Still, her cheeks colored just faintly.

Isabelle’s brow twitched sharply, the faint blush still warming her cheeks as she squared her stance.

"…Where are you looking," she said flatly, though her tone wasn’t as sharp as it could’ve been.

Damien tilted his head, completely unapologetic. "At your body, of course. Can’t you see?"

She blinked. Once. Slowly. Speechless.

He met her silence with a lazy smile, arms still folded, posture infuriatingly relaxed.

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence. "Is it wrong to admire the view? I’m just appreciating what’s in front of me."

She stared at him, trying to piece together a reply that wouldn’t come off as either a slap or a stutter.

"So," she said at last, steadying her voice, "would you be comfortable if I were to do the same?"

Damien’s brows lifted slightly. "Same?"

And then Isabelle—calmly, deliberately—let her gaze drop.

Down his chest.

Lower still.

She didn’t say a word.

But the heat behind her eyes said plenty.

Damien’s grin sharpened.

"Ah," he said, the word low and smooth as velvet, "you meant this."