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

Chapter 274: Elford ?

“I see,” Damien said, voice light, almost neutral. “Then I’ll consider the compliment entirely selfless.”

“It was,” she said, then added with a grin, “so don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Chessa murmured.

Damien tapped his tray once, then leaned back again, gaze drifting toward the garden wall beside them. He didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke. Just let the quiet stretch.

And for a second, it wasn’t mystery or arrogance hanging around him.

Just stillness.

Then Madeleine said, “So, are we allowed to crash your lunch now too, or was today a one-time charity?”

Damien didn’t look at her.

But his smirk returned, subtle and slow.

“You’re welcome to try,” he said. “Assuming you can keep up.”

“Pfft,” Chessa scoffed. “You think we’re the ones who need to keep up?”

Isabelle hadn’t said anything.

But she was watching him.

Quiet. Careful.

And this time, when he glanced at her—

She didn’t look away.

Not immediately.

Just long enough for something unreadable to pass between them.

Then she returned to her tray.

And Damien?

He picked up his chopsticks again.

The smile stayed. But his eyes…

Stayed on her a moment longer.

****

Lunch at Vermillion wasn’t a break.

It was theater.

Between the sprawling garden terrace and the twin-level dining atrium, the cafeteria felt more like an upscale galleria than anything built for students. The lines were automated. The food artisanal. And the seating—strategic. Circles of social gravity arranged across the space, from elite academic clusters to athletic guilds and the influencer-adjacent groups that lived on curated visibility.

The Sovereign Quartet, naturally, had their place.

Not reserved. Not labeled.

But always open when they arrived.

They didn’t rush to lunch. Never had. Instead, they took their time—gliding past the courtyard fountains and sunlight-warmed hedges as if the world would hold its breath until they were ready to inhale again.

Victoria walked with her drink in hand, half-listening as Cassandra and Celia traded quiet comments about some house council scandal brewing in 4-C.

“Apparently, someone’s trying to reroute funds from the enchantment club to boost their class charm barrier,” Cassandra murmured.

“Cheap,” Celia said, not even looking up. “Unoriginal too.”

“It won’t pass the audit,” Lillian added, brushing her hair back. “Victoria could probably crush it in one sentence.”

Victoria didn’t reply.

She wasn’t distracted by school politics today.

Her mind had been a step removed since morning. Maybe since earlier than that.

She exhaled softly through her nose as they reached the cafeteria steps. The sound of voices spilled out—vivid, energetic, a hundred different lives unfolding across tray-laden tables and filtered skylight.

They entered.

Automatically, students adjusted. Crowds shifted. Paths opened.

The girls moved with practiced elegance, drifting toward the food counters, scanning menus, exchanging half-voiced preferences. Cassandra chose a pasta fusion dish. Lillian went for grilled fish. Celia selected her usual—light soup and tea. Victoria’s tray filled with poached protein and goldenroot salad.

Everything ordinary.

Until she turned.

And saw it.

A table near the edge of the vertical garden wall—half-obscured, but not hidden. It wasn’t the kind of space meant to draw attention. A place for background conversations and casual afternoons.

But now?

Now it was a stage.

Victoria’s steps slowed.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

There—seated around one tray-littered table—was Isabelle Moreau.

Not surprising.

What was surprising… were the others.

Madeleine. Chessa. Miri.

And at the center—of course—Damien Elford.

He was leaned back slightly, one arm resting over the chair beside him, chopsticks lazily poised in his fingers. The others around him were laughing. Madeleine had just leaned in to say something—probably sharp, knowing her—and Chessa looked like she was holding back a retort.

And Isabelle—calm, upright Isabelle—was there in the middle of it.

Not correcting anyone. Not walking away.

Talking.

Engaged.

To be frank, Victoria didn’t usually care.

Not about cafeteria seating. Not about who talked to whom. Certainly not about who laughed over over-salted fries or tried too hard to look effortless while biting into rice puffs.

But this?

This was different.

Damien Elford didn’t come here.

Not once this year. Not until now.

He’d always been one of those types who floated around the edges of structure—barely on time, often missing from official group lunches, preferring rooftop shadows or empty lounges to anything resembling community.

And yet here he was. Not lurking. Not gliding by unnoticed.

Sitting.

Talking.

Laughing.

Like someone who belonged.

Victoria’s tray felt heavier in her hands.

She didn’t break stride—of course she didn’t—but the rhythm of her steps shifted. Fractionally. A single half-beat of hesitation that none of the others caught, but she felt like a splinter under her heel.

It wasn’t just that he was present.

It was that he looked settled.

Comfortable, even.

That was the unnerving part.

Because Damien Elford had always been a hazard. A blunt, vulgar, too-sharp shard of a person. He existed like a crack in a glass floor—easy to ignore until you stepped wrong and it spidered out beneath your feet. He’d said as much to them, months ago. Called them names. Looked them in the eye and didn’t flinch.

Victoria had filed him away after that. An irritant, not a threat. A loudmouth too proud to realize the kind of company he’d lost the right to keep.

But now?

Now he was in the very heart of Vermillion’s midday theatre, surrounded by people who didn’t recoil from his presence.

People who laughed with him.

And not just any people—Isabelle Moreau, the girl who practically issued citations for indecency with her gaze alone, was sitting next to him like he hadn’t burned bridges for sport.

Victoria’s jaw tightened.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t show anything.

But inside, there was a small coil of something—heatless, sharp—that wound tighter around her ribs.

She turned her gaze away.

There was no use staring. No use dissecting the scene any longer.

He was still Damien. Still a walking time bomb—smoothed out or not. And if there was one thing she knew, it was that proximity to that boy never ended well for anyone involved.

She pushed the thought down. Buried it beneath precision. Her steps found rhythm again as she followed the others to their table—their table—high up near the sunlight, where every angle was considered and every view strategic.

She set down her tray.

Sat.

Lifted her utensils with the same practiced grace she used for every negotiation and every committee meeting.

And if her hand was tenser around the fork than usual—well.

That was her problem.

Because Victoria Langley did not get distracted by chaos.

And she certainly didn’t get unnerved by the likes of Damien Elford.

****

The low clatter of utensils and the comfortable hum of conversation filled the space around the garden-wall table. The group had settled into a rhythm—banter flaring, dipping, and rising again with each passing moment. Even Isabelle, while still guarded, had softened slightly. Her posture less rigid, her frown smoothed out to something more neutral.

Then—

“Yo, no way.”

The voice cracked through the noise like a fastball.

Damien didn’t even have to look to recognize it.

Aaron.

Footsteps followed—Rin, Lionel, a couple of the other football guys trailing in behind him like a pack of slightly sweaty wolves fresh off cooldown.

They paused by the table, expressions ranging from amused to scandalized.

Aaron leaned in, eyebrows up. “Elford?”

It was time to answer some questions…

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