Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 192: Mockery

The soft, venomous giggles continued from the front. Just loud enough to carry, just quiet enough to be deniable. Like always. Their voices a syrup-thick blend of fake concern and real pettiness.

"…Well, I heard he only got into this class because of family backing anyway."

"Right? His record’s been crap for years. Honestly, the fact he thinks he can climb back now is almost adorable."

A scoff. "Maybe he thinks being mysterious will make up for being irrelevant."

That one earned a few snickers. Plastic and sharp.

Then came the louder voice.

Too clear. Too intentionally placed.

"Can’t wait to see where all that arrogance lands him when the results drop," someone muttered, right in front of Damien.

Moren.

Of course.

The boy didn’t turn around—he didn’t need to. His shoulders were squared, voice pitched just enough to cut through the other conversations. Calculated. Weakly brave. The kind of courage people find when they think the room is on their side.

’There it is.’

Damien’s gaze sharpened slightly, but he didn’t shift. Didn’t reply.

Moren.

The loyal "friend" from the past. The one who used to laugh at Damien’s jokes, tag along like a faithful mutt, nod along to every half-assed scheme. Until, of course, a girl got involved.

Victoria.

One who stopped replying the moment Damien started his acting.

And just like that—like flipping a switch—Moren blamed Damien for it.

The weird, stilted silences. The half-lies. The nervous side-glances when Celia or Victoria passed by.

’You weren’t a friend,’ Damien thought, his lips twitching faintly. ’You were a parasite. And she left you because she saw through you, not because of me.’

Of course, Moren couldn’t handle that.

So now he postured.

He mocked.

Tried to rally others against Damien like it would change the fact that no one chose him—neither friends nor crushes.

"Guess even rich kids can’t buy a brain," Moren added, more boldly now, earning a couple of low chuckles from his section.

Damien’s smile returned, slow and effortless.

Damien’s smile returned, slow and effortless. But this time, it wasn’t for the ceiling.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, and let his voice cut the air—low, unhurried, but impossible to ignore.

"Can’t impress your crush with grades," he drawled, "so now you’re trying to impress her by acting tough?"

The buzz of chatter dimmed. Like a subtle ripple had passed through the room.

Moren stiffened.

Damien didn’t stop.

"Little Moren," he said, his tone almost affectionate, like he was speaking to a pet that had bitten his hand. "Did Victoria ignore you again, or what?"

That hit.

Moren didn’t turn around, but his shoulder twitched. His head dipped, just for a second. Just enough for Damien to see it land.

The silence behind him wasn’t empty now—it was watching. Waiting.

Damien’s eyes sharpened, his smile thinning into something precise.

"You used to sit beside me, remember?" he continued. "We were both at the bottom of the board. Perfect little simps, praying for crumbs."

Some snickers now. Lower. Meaner. A few students pretended not to listen, but their ears were pinned.

"But here’s the difference, Moren," Damien went on, voice smooth and unwavering. "I started climbing. You? You’re still licking the same boots, hoping she throws you a text."

Moren turned then—finally—and his face had tightened into a pale, defensive scowl. His mouth opened, but Damien cut him off with a glance.

"I didn’t want anything more to do with you," Damien said, tone cooling, voice dipping with that dry, razor-edge calm. "I gave you distance. Thought that was mercy."

He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp.

"But you come at me like this?" He chuckled. "Then I suppose it’s only fair to correct the delusional."

A breath. A pause.

"Don’t confuse proximity with relevance, Moren. Just because you sit in front of me doesn’t mean you’re worth my attention."

A beat of stunned quiet filled the classroom. Even the girls in front—who had sparked the fire—had gone still, glancing awkwardly between each other and the boy who’d just been gutted in public.

Moren’s jaw clenched. His fists curled on the desk.

But he didn’t say a word.

Couldn’t.

Damien leaned back again, gaze flicking to the side—past the frozen stares, past the fake whispers.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, just loud enough:

"And if you’re still trying to get Victoria’s attention?"

He smiled.

"Try growing a spine."

Damien let the moment stretch—just long enough for the silence to settle into skin. Then, with that same lazy, lidded stare, he added—voice light, cruel, and conversational:

"Without a spine, you just sound like a soy."

He let that hang for half a second. Then:

"Easy to mistake you for one of the girls from the front row."

A collective breath shifted through the room. Not gasps. Not outrage. Just that stunned, delicious silence where everyone wanted to laugh but no one dared to be the first.

Moren’s face flushed deep red. Not the heat of anger—shame. That dangerous, suffocating kind that rises when a truth gets dragged into daylight and there’s no mask left to hide behind.

The girls up front bristled. One of them turned sharply in her seat with a scoff, about to speak—but Celia didn’t move. And Victoria?

Still smiling.

Damien caught that with the corner of his eye.

Of course she was.

Victoria loved watching people burn, especially if she didn’t have to strike the match herself.

He looked back to Moren one last time—expression flat now. Empty.

"I don’t care what you say behind my back," Damien said. "But if you’re going to try to bark in front of me, at least learn how to bite."

The chair scraped hard against the floor.

Moren shot to his feet.

"You think you’re better than everyone now, huh?!" he barked, voice cracking under the strain. His shoulders trembled—not with rage, but with the cornered energy of someone who’d been stripped naked in front of a crowd and didn’t know how to cover himself.

The roar was loud. Desperate.

A few students flinched.

Damien didn’t.

He just blinked. Slow. Bored.

Like he was watching a dog try to climb a tree.

Moren took a step forward, fists clenched. "You act like you’ve changed, like you’re something else now—but you’re just a coward hiding behind snide comments and fake confidence!"

That was the cue.

The girls from before—scenting drama, licking at the edge of the scene—rose from their seats like loyal spectators.

"Oh my god, seriously?" one of them scoffed, stepping up beside Moren. "You talk like you’re above everyone, but you used to be just like him. He trusted you."

"You ditched him," said another. "What kind of person does that to a friend?"

"He helped you back then," the third added, her voice sharper. "And now you’re acting like he’s some bug under your shoe? You’re disgusting."

Moren didn’t say anything. Just stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked on Damien like he was still trying to win something.

Damien slowly stood, his movement deliberate—measured—not out of threat, but as if he couldn’t be bothered to stay seated for this low-budget performance.

He looked at Moren.

Then at the girls.

Then back again.

His voice was quiet. But it landed.

Damien’s gaze drifted from Moren to the girls, landing on each face with the slow, surgical precision of someone peeling back skin to see what rotted underneath.

Then he spoke—quietly, but clear enough for the entire room to hear.

"That’s not how a friendship of my definition works."

The words were almost clinical. Like a correction on a test. Like he was grading them in real time.

"You don’t sell your friend out because a girl ghosted you. You don’t throw them under the bus just to score pity points from someone who barely remembers your name."