Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

Chapter 269: Congratulations

“So—has anyone seen the lineup for the volleyball tournament?”

“Not yet,” Cassandra said, glancing up. “Is it out?”

“It is,” Arielle confirmed, unlocking her tablet and sliding it across the desk. “Just uploaded to the student network. Check under Events—Annual Games Week.”

The screen glowed faintly under Vermillion’s polished lights, showing the clean white list of class rosters, team brackets, and match schedules.

“The boys are playing football again,” Lillian noted, peering over her shoulder. “And we’ve got volleyball—same as always.”

“Of course,” Celia said mildly. “Tradition. Not to mention, fewer injuries.”

“Depends who you’re playing against,” Cassandra muttered. “Last year Class 3-B had that girl who treated the net like a battlefield.”

Victoria didn’t react, but her gaze had settled on the brackets.

The Annual Games Week was Vermillion’s legacy-brand answer to physical education—a formalized, status-wrapped inter-class tournament where pride, gossip, and social currency moved faster than the scoreboard. No drudgery. No sweat-soaked lectures or whistle-shouting coaches. Just clean uniforms, curated match schedules, and highly aestheticized athletics.

Even in fourth year, every class joined.

Because at Vermillion, you weren’t just expected to be excellent—you were expected to look excellent while doing it.

Cassandra tapped the edge of the tablet. “We’re in the second heat. Friday morning.”

“Good,” Celia said. “More prep time.”

Around them, other students were checking their own devices, murmuring quietly. The energy in the room was already shifting—just a little tighter, a little more alert. Competitive season at Vermillion wasn’t loud.

It was stylish.

Polished.

Curated conflict.

Lillian glanced toward Victoria. “You’re playing, right?”

Victoria nodded once. “As usual.”

She’d been a fixture on the volleyball lineup since second year. Fast reflexes, high arcane-awareness stats, and more importantly, an instinct for precision over power. It wasn’t brute force that won games at Vermillion—it was placement, pressure, and psychological control.

“But are we ready?” Cassandra asked, sitting up slightly. “Last year, we barely edged past 4-D in the finals.”

“They’ve already graduated,” Celia replied coolly. “And 4-B’s only real asset is that setter with the tempo-delay charm. We’ve seen it before.”

“And we’ll shut it down again,” Victoria added simply.

No flair. No boast. Just certainty.

The thing about Vermillion—a truth even its faculty quietly upheld—was that the school didn’t function like others. It was a private institution in name, but an engine in practice. One built to produce alumni who walked out with records tailored for global academy consideration.

That meant:

—Lectures were customized.

—Low-value subjects trimmed.

—Exam schedules molded around individual progress reports.

And most notably:

The standard grading? Lavishly inflated.

Because the only grades that truly mattered were the ones from the National Academy Exam at year’s end.

Everything else?

Window dressing.

Which meant students here had time.

Time to polish, perfect, and position.

Time to practice for tournaments that would flood social feeds and match-day threads with curated clips and commentary.

Time that, frankly, separated Vermillion’s elite from the frantic scrambling of the government schools where students drowned in rote lectures and workbook drills just to survive the exams.

“Anyway,” Cassandra said, scrolling through the team sheets, “we’ve got the better middle-row advantage this year. Lillian’s serve speed is up. And Celia’s spike angle tracking? Brutal.”

Celia allowed herself the smallest smile. “I’ve refined it.”

“We should probably get a few warmups in today,” Lillian said, glancing toward the enchanted noticeboard. “Before everyone starts booking out the gym.”

“Agreed,” Victoria said. “Lunch break. No excuses.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Cassandra stretched her arms. “This year, we win clean.”

A few other classmates leaned over, catching snatches of the conversation—some nodding in agreement, others whispering to each other while pretending not to look impressed. Even in a classroom like this, victory clung to reputation long before it arrived in scoreboards.

Then—

A crisp clearing of the throat.

The room adjusted.

Isabelle Moreau had stood from her desk at the front of the room—uniform neat, hair immaculate, expression composed.

Her gaze swept across the class once—steady, disarming in its calm.

“Everyone,” she said, not raising her voice. “Period is about to begin. Please return to your seats.”

******

The door clicked open with a smooth, echoing hush that hushed the room without a single word spoken. Conversations stilled mid-sentence, heads instinctively straightened, and the quiet sharpening of spines signaled only one thing—

The Vice Headmaster, Galen Kross had entered.

He stepped in not alone, but flanked by the subject teacher for the period, their presence almost ornamental compared to the quiet intensity that Galen brought with him. His black uniform, always crisply tailored, fell into place with every step. His gaze swept the room once—cold, assessing, familiar.

And then he spoke.

“Before we begin today’s session, a few words regarding last week’s academic performance.”

His voice carried like always—firm, controlled, never needing volume to demand attention.

“The monthly exams were completed last Friday. The results have been compiled and processed, and as of this morning, the academy board has reviewed them.”

He let the sentence breathe.

“The overall academic average of Vermillion Private School has risen by 3.7 percent.”

A small ripple went through the room—impressed murmurs, raised brows. That was no small leap.

“And while all classes contributed to this rise,” Galen continued, stepping toward the front, “the largest spike came from a single source.”

He paused. The air turned tight. He didn’t need to say it.

“Class 4-A.”

That landed cleanly. Several students sat just a little straighter—pride prickling beneath their tailored blazers.

Galen turned slightly, his tone turning faintly more deliberate.

“It appears we had some… sleeping dragons among us.”

He let the words hang, his eyes drifting slowly across the room. Not accusing. Not naming.

But everyone saw the glance that paused—just slightly—at the second row, third seat from the window.

Damien Elford didn’t smile. He didn’t even shift.

But there was a stillness to him that wasn’t there before. Like he’d become something denser. Calmer. Weightier.

Galen didn’t speak his name.

He didn’t need to.

“From the bottom quintile to twenty-third overall,” he said instead, vaguely. “A performance jump of that magnitude is rare. And it is noted.”

Another ripple across the class. Some eyes turned toward Damien. Others didn’t dare. But they all felt it.

The shift.

Galen exhaled slowly.

“Effort will be rewarded. As will discipline.”

Then, finally, his gaze moved—settling cleanly on the front of the room, where Isabelle sat perfectly upright, calm as still water, eyes unwavering.

“And with that,” Galen said, a different tone slipping into his voice—warmer, though still restrained, “I offer congratulations.”

“To Isabelle Moreau.”

A pause.

“First in the grade.”

Another pause.

“First in Vermillion.”

And finally—

“First in the nation.”

Silence broke with the sound of chairs shifting, small gasps, and a smattering of genuine applause from the back of the room. Some were slow to react, others already nodding in agreement. Even the instructor beside Galen gave the faintest smile.

Isabelle stood only halfway, giving a modest nod, her expression composed but unmistakably touched with something subtler. Not pride exactly—but responsibility. Recognition of what it meant to be seen at that height.

Galen offered the briefest incline of his head.

“Exceptional work, as usual,” he said. “Let it be an example.”

He turned back to the class, posture perfectly still.

“The semester is not a sprint. But excellence, wherever it rises, demands acknowledgment. I expect you all to continue.”

Source: .com, updated by novlove.com

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!