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

Chapter 267: Not again

The courtyard was already alive with motion by the time Victoria stepped from the car.

Not noisy. Not chaotic. No, Vermillion never allowed that. But alive—in that particular way a school of prestige always seemed to hum before the first bell. Footsteps arranged like choreography, voices clipped just short of eager, and eyes—so many eyes—subtly pivoting toward the vehicle the moment its doors hissed open.

Victoria Langley stepped out first.

The heels of her boots clicked once, then landed in perfect silence against the paved path. Her blazer was fitted, her skirt crisp, her hair in a smooth twist that framed her cheekbones like it had been shaped by light itself. Her lips were a soft berry shade—not too bold, not too timid. Calculated. As always.

Celia followed, ever the blade wrapped in velvet—composed, austere, impossible to misplace. Cassandra emerged in her trailing storm of black silk and silver piercings. Lillian completed the formation, all radiant pastels and perfume-wrapped softness.

The Sovereign Quartet had arrived.

And the atmosphere shifted accordingly.

A beat passed.

Then, like the blooming of petals around royalty, the first wave of admirers made their approach.

“Victoria, good morning!” a second-year boy said quickly, stepping up with a too-carefully arranged smile and two iced coffees from Monarch Blend. The cups were already wrapped in velvet sleeves, her name monogrammed in gold.

Victoria accepted the one on the left without hesitation.

“Thank you,” she said smoothly, eyes flicking to the cup. No error in the order. Almond milk, two shots of mana-caffeine, light ice. Acceptable.

The boy stood there half a second too long—eyes hopeful, spine too straight.

She let her gaze slide past him to the others gathering—three more boys, at least. One held a shopping bag, another a sleek-wrapped book from the restricted wing of the academy library. She recognized the third one from last year’s honor committee; he was still trying to crack a smile out of her.

They wouldn’t.

They never did.

Not unless she wanted it.

Cassandra murmured something under her breath about “eager puppies,” and Lillian giggled. Celia accepted her coffee with the detached grace of someone who knew how to make silence feel like thanks.

Victoria didn’t comment. Not yet.

She glanced back at the boy who brought her drink—he was still there.

Waiting.

Maybe for a smile. Or a nod. Or a full sentence.

She gave him exactly what he deserved.

A single blink. Measured. Cool.

Dismissal dressed as acknowledgment.

He left, grateful for even that much.

More tried to approach, but Cassandra waved them off with a joking, “You’ll need reservations next time,” and the line quickly dispersed.

Victoria sipped her drink once, then turned her attention toward the academic wing.

Coming early had become routine.

Not out of necessity—none of them needed to arrive before the crowd—but because habits, when born from power, had a way of ossifying into tradition.

It started back in their second year.

Back when the halls of Vermillion still whispered with uncertainty around them. Back when teachers took just a little too long to learn their names, and upper-year girls watched them with tight smiles and eyes sharp with challenge.

Back before they were untouchable.

Even then, they drew eyes. Admiration wrapped in envy. First for their looks. Then for their placement. Then for how unshakable they were.

And by third year?

They weren’t just students.

They were status.

Now, in their final year, it was no longer surprising that followers waited by the gates. That gifts were timed with arrival. That admirers scrambled to learn their coffee orders, their favorite designers, even their study subjects—despite never having spoken to them directly.

They walked slowly. Deliberately. Not out of laziness, but because the pace mattered. Presence was its own language.

“This is ridiculous,” Cassandra said with a grin, adjusting the strap of her asymmetrical sleeve top. “I swear the boy who brought me my drink had glitter on his nails. I think he spelled my initials in rhinestones.”

Lillian tilted her head, bright-eyed. “That’s sweet.”

“That’s obsession,” Celia murmured, eyes scanning a nearby courtyard as they passed.

Victoria gave a small exhale of amusement but didn’t comment. The fanfare was expected. It wasn’t vanity—it was the price of dominance. Of perfection. People clung to whatever fragments they could find.

They turned the corner toward the east wing entrance, their heels clicking in practiced rhythm over the polished stone. A light breeze tugged at the edge of Victoria’s skirt, but she didn’t touch it. Let it move. Let it frame.

“It’s like they think we’re idols,” Lillian said, brushing her soft lavender scarf back over one shoulder. “I got a poem yesterday.”

“Oh?” Cassandra perked up. “Was it bad?”

“It tried to rhyme ‘indigo’ with ‘long ago.’”

Victoria actually smiled at that.

“I got a pendant,” Celia said dryly, “with a carving of a fox on it.”

“Ah, the classic symbolism route,” Cassandra quipped. “They probably think you’re sly and unreachable. I got an origami swan made from a theatre program.”

“Of course you did,” Victoria said, sipping her drink. “Because you can’t go one week without dragging us to a show.”

Cassandra flipped her hair back with exaggerated grace. “It was good. A mana-drama, postmodern, titled Echoes of a Shattered Sigil. Bloody, poetic, all the right amounts of trauma. You’d love it.”

“You say that every time,” Celia said.

“And every time, I’m right.”

Cassandra’s grin widened. “One of the lines from yesterday’s play was ‘If love is war, then let me be the final casualty in your kingdom of regret.’”

There was a beat of silence.

Then all three girls laughed.

Even Victoria—though hers was the quiet kind, a small exhale through her nose, one hand lifting to touch her temple lightly as if that might ease the secondhand embarrassment.

“That’s awful.”

“It’s art, Victoria,” Cassandra said, clearly delighted with herself. “Respect the drama.”

“You quote it like a priest delivering bad prophecy,” Lillian said through her giggles.

“I’ll have you know, the lead actor had tears running down his face when he said it. Real tears. Probably mana-induced, but still.”

They reached the front entry steps just as the clock tower chimed half-past. Still early. Still perfect.

More students were arriving now, trickling through the courtyard like a steady migration. Some stared openly. Others only glanced—but with that unmistakable weight of acknowledgment.

They passed through the grand archway, the doors gliding open with a whisper of enchanted glass and soft atmospheric charm. The air inside Vermillion’s main building was crisp with spell-filtered temperature control and faint traces of jasmine—the headmistress’s preferred scent.

Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, measured and light. Not rushed. Never rushed.

Victoria walked a pace ahead, coffee in hand, eyes forward. Her expression was composed—her usual look of effortless dismissal. But as they rounded the bend near Class 4-A’s wing, something subtle shifted.

Not in her. In the air.

The others felt it too.

Just up ahead, by the lockers near their classroom door, two students stood close—one leaning casually against the wall, the other standing in that stiff, not-awkward-but-not-comfortable posture of someone who’d just been caught talking too long.

‘Not again…’