Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 190: Exam (2)

By the time Damien’s car rolled to a halt at the academy gates, the air had already shifted.

The school grounds looked the same—pristine, well-kept, expensive enough to remind you it catered to the children of influence—but the energy was different. Less noise. Fewer cliques loitering around. A general undercurrent of focus that cut through the usual morning haze.

Monthly exams.

Even the fourth-year elites had to kneel to them.

Damien stepped out of the car, adjusting the cuffs of his academy jacket as the doors hissed closed behind him. The driver didn’t say a word—he knew better—and the vehicle slipped away without ceremony.

Vermillion’s entrance garden sprawled out in its usual overdone glory. Neatly trimmed hedges, illusion-glass fountains designed to reflect the academy crest with every ripple, and perfectly symmetrical walkways paved with imported blue-gray stone. A modern shrine to wealth and image.

Today, it was quieter than usual.

No lounging students. No couples whispering under the trees. Just passing uniforms and the occasional rustle of paper.

Damien walked through the garden without slowing, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes sharp.

Even the birds seemed quieter.

Inside the building, the shift was even more obvious. The halls, normally filled with idle chatter and half-assed flirting, were subdued—eerily so. Every turn revealed another pair of students hunched over notes, whispering mnemonics to themselves like prayers.

He passed a few familiar faces. No one dared call out to him.

Smart.

By the time he reached Class 4-A, he already knew what kind of day it was.

The door slid open with a soft click.

Inside, the atmosphere practically buzzed. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

Half the students were talking in low murmurs, mostly review fragments or desperate affirmations of facts they should’ve memorized weeks ago. The other half were dead silent, faces buried in notes, lips moving soundlessly as they rehearsed formulas and key phrases.

He took it all in with a glance.

Then—

"Heh…"

A dry breath of amusement slipped from his lips.

Not a good sign.

Not at all.

Because if this many of them still needed to look, this close to the exam?

They were already screwed.

Damien stepped into the classroom fully, his presence slipping through like a blade through silk. A few students glanced up—some subtly, others with a flicker of recognition or unease.

He said nothing.

Just moved toward his seat, posture casual, eyes never resting too long on any one face.

This is what pressure looks like, he thought, lips twitching faintly. All these future heirs and prodigies reduced to chewing over notes like starving dogs around a bone.

He dropped into his chair, leaned back slightly, and let his gaze drift.

******

The sound of her polished shoes echoed steadily through the corridor, her stride crisp and unfaltering despite the weight of what she carried.

In her arms: two stacked exam folders sealed in crimson wax, the academy’s insignia embossed cleanly across the front. Beneath them, a black velvet-lined box—housing the delicate, gold-rimmed optics required for the calculus portion of the written exam. Precision tools for precise minds. Not that many would use them correctly.

Isabelle Moreau walked with poise, the exam proctor beside her. He was a tall, thin man in his forties with the perpetual scowl of someone who had long since stopped believing in youthful excellence. His black robe dragged slightly at the hem, whispering across the tile floor with every step.

Isabelle didn’t mind carrying the materials herself.

It was part of the role. The burden of order. The expectation of control.

She liked expectations. They kept people in line.

As they reached the door of Class 4-A, the proctor stopped, nodded at her once, and pressed a hand to the recognition panel.

The door slid open.

The hum of low voices died immediately.

The class tensed, every back straightening, every pen or notebook suddenly still.

Isabelle stepped inside first.

"Seats," the proctor said coldly, stepping in behind her. "No talking. Bags away. No exceptions."

Chairs scraped softly. Notes vanished. Eyes turned forward.

Isabelle’s gaze swept across the room as she moved to the teacher’s podium and gently placed the exams and optics onto the desk with the precision of someone handling a ritual offering. She felt the usual calm settle over her—ritual and rhythm working in tandem.

Until her eyes reached the back of the classroom.

And stopped.

There he was.

Damien Elford.

Slouched in his seat like the concept of tension had never entered his vocabulary. His uniform was perfect—of course it was—but there was a relaxed defiance in the way he rested one arm across the back of the chair, head tilted slightly, gaze half-lidded but not unfocused.

He was looking at her.

Not staring. Not smirking.

Just… looking.

And for a moment, she stood still.

The memory came uninvited—sharp and clear.

That day outside the lecture hall. The ridiculous bet. His grin when he said he’d make the top twenty-five. Her demand that he respect the classroom. The smug way he’d said he would show results.

Her hands had curled slightly then, and they did now—fingers brushing the edge of the podium as if to ground herself.

’He better not be bluffing.’

That’s what she thought.

That’s what she wanted to believe.

Because if he had been bluffing all along, if it turned out he was nothing but smoke and charisma and wasted potential… then she’d have wasted her time.

And that would be annoying.

She exhaled softly, straightened, and adjusted her glasses.

Then turned to the proctor and began distributing the exam packets.

Isabelle moved with calm precision, her hands steady as she walked down each row, placing the thick exam packets on desks with silent efficiency. The rustle of shifting paper and the clipped breath of anxious students filled the otherwise still room, but her focus didn’t waver.

She was methodical. Mechanical. Just another part of the process.

Until she reached the final row.

Until she reached him.

Damien Elford.

He hadn’t moved.

Still reclined slightly in his chair, still exuding that relaxed defiance—like he had wandered into this world by accident and decided to stay just to see how far he could push it.

As she stopped beside his desk, he tilted his head back and looked up at her.

Their eyes met.

And then—

That smile.

Subtle. Knowing. Touched with a heat that didn’t show itself in words, only in the corners of his mouth and the flicker of something dangerous behind his gaze.

"Hope you didn’t forget our little agreement," he murmured, his voice low, meant only for her.

Her fingers twitched slightly around the packet.

"Top twenty-five," he added, his grin widening just enough. "Better keep that study schedule clear, Rep."

Isabelle narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching with the threat of a frown. She placed the packet on his desk—perhaps a little too neatly—and leaned down just slightly, her voice clipped.

"If you’re just here to talk, Elford," she whispered, "I suggest failing now and saving us both the time."

He chuckled under his breath, the sound infuriatingly soft.

"But then how would I win the prize?"

She stared at him, long enough that the air between them felt taut, as if stretched by invisible string.

Then she stood straight.

"Focus on your exam," she said quietly, coolly. "You’ll need more than charm to pass this."

And with that, she turned away, the crisp line of her posture a silent refusal to entertain him any further.

"Ahaha…."

Damien let out a low laugh, quiet but unmistakably amused. The kind of sound that made a few nearby students glance his way with subtle confusion—was he laughing before the test?

He didn’t care.

His eyes were still on her retreating back, sharp with mischief.

"Passing?" he echoed under his breath, the smirk tugging lazily at his lips. "We never used such a word."

Isabelle didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

"Whatever," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear as she returned to the front of the room, her expression composed, her steps precise. But the way she moved—just a beat faster than usual—told him she’d heard it. And that it had landed.

That was enough.

She returned to her seat beside the proctor and gave a sharp nod.

"All students, you may now begin," the proctor announced, voice clear, authoritative.

The rustle of pages followed immediately—desks shifting, pens clicking, the subtle hush of collective breath as 4-A threw themselves into the storm of calculus, probability, and proofs.

Damien leaned forward, flipping the packet open in front of him.