Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 87: Consequences (2)

The assembly hall was grand, its high ceilings adorned with intricate chandeliers, the polished marble floors reflecting the glow of artificial lighting. Rows of students sat in disciplined silence, their gazes directed toward the elevated podium where Vice-Principal Galen Kross stood, his sharp presence commanding attention.

His voice rang through the vast hall, steady and unwavering.

"Welcome to a new year at Vermillion Private School."

Celia Everwyn sat in the front row, her posture poised, her expression carefully composed. But beneath the surface—

She was fuming.

Not just angry. Livid.

The events from the courtyard still clawed at her mind, replaying over and over again like a cruel taunt.

Damien Elford.

That mutt had humiliated her.

In front of everyone.

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A nobody. A pathetic, disgusting thing that had once begged for her scraps had dared to look her in the eye and discard her like she was nothing.

It made no sense.

It shouldn't make sense.

Damien had no right to act that way.

Yet he had.

And now, all Celia could think about was destroying everything he was.

Her grip tightened against the silk fabric of her skirt, her breathing deep and controlled. But her rage ran deeper than mere emotion. It seeped into her core—into the very energy flowing through her veins.

Mana.

The air around her shimmered for the briefest moment—so faint that only those attuned to such things would have noticed.

Because Celia Everwyn was no ordinary student.

She was an Awakened.

And even if she was only ranked F, it was still more than Damien Elford would ever be.

Or so she had thought.

The very fact that he had stood against her without so much as a flicker of hesitation made her wonder—

Did something change?

The question made her rage flare hotter.

A faint crackling sound sizzled at her fingertips, an invisible pressure curling at the edges of her being—unseen by normal eyes, but unmistakable to those who knew.

Then—

A soft, amused chuckle whispered beside her.

Celia's breath caught as she flicked her gaze to the side.

Iris Blackwood.

Her crimson eyes gleamed, filled with something knowing—something dangerous.

She wasn't looking directly at Celia. She didn't need to.

Just that smile was enough of a warning.

Celia's fingers twitched, and in an instant, she crushed the flow of mana within her, suppressing it with practiced ease.

Not here.

Not now.

She could not afford to lose control in public.

She took a slow breath, exhaling softly, forcing herself back into composure.

Iris finally turned toward her, her smirk deepening ever so slightly, as if to say:

"Careful, Celia. You're slipping."

Celia wanted to rip that smug look off her face.

But she didn't.

Because Iris was right.

This wasn't the time.

But soon.

Soon.

Damien Elford thought he had won something today.

But by the end of this year—

Celia Everwyn would make sure he regretted ever breathing in her presence.

******

The rhythmic ticking of the clock filled the grand office, a sound that usually blended into the background of General Magnus Ardent's relentless routine. But tonight, it only fueled the storm brewing inside him.

The scent of polished oak, burning cigars, and old steel lingered in the air, mixing with the faint hum of the holographic displays in front of him. War reports, logistical assessments, and military budgets—none of them mattered now.

Because on his desk, staring back at him like an omen of impending catastrophe, was a file stamped Elford Family—Immediate Action Required.

His fingers tightened into a fist.

Leon.

His damn son.

Magnus's golden-brown eyes burned as he scanned the report again, his gaze narrowing at the scene that he was witnessing.

"This…."

The video that was playing.

Damien Elford.

Did he really hit Damien fucking Elford?

His teeth clenched.

The Elford family wasn't just another noble house. They weren't some disposable aristocrats who clawed their way into power with mere wealth. They were one of the Seat Holders—pillars of Azaria Dominion's power structure. Their influence stretched across every level of governance, military, intelligence, and commerce.

And Leon had just punched their only heir.

Magnus's fingers dug into the armrest of his chair as his fury boiled over.

"That fucking idiot—!"

With a snarl, he slammed his fist down onto his desk. The polished surface shuddered under the force, sending a stack of reports scattering onto the floor.

This wasn't just some schoolyard brawl.

This was a political disaster waiting to explode.

He grabbed the communicator on his desk and barked into it.

"Get me Leon. NOW."

His voice echoed through the office, sharp and commanding.

Within seconds, the secure line connected.

"F-Father," Leon's voice came through.

Magnus didn't let him speak.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

Leon flinched on the other end. "I—"

"You hit Damien Elford?" Magnus growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you even understand what you've just done?"

A pause. Then, Leon exhaled.

"He insulted Celia. Humiliated her in front of everyone. I couldn't just stand there and let it happen."

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing sharp and controlled. "You think this is about Celia?"

Leon hesitated. "...Isn't it?"

A sharp crack echoed through the office as Magnus smacked the side of his desk, his patience snapping.

"You. Arrogant. Fool." His voice seethed with barely contained rage. "This isn't some fairy tale where you get to play knight in shining armor. You just threw a fucking punch at a Seat Holder's heir!"

The weight of those words finally seemed to register. Leon's breath hitched.

"...Shit."

Magnus exhaled through his nose, his fury momentarily shifting into raw contempt.

"You finally get it now?" His voice was lower, but no less dangerous. "Elford could ruin us. With a single call, he could make our entire lineage irrelevant. Our family—our status—our power—it could all be fucking erased, and you wouldn't even see it coming."

Silence stretched between them.

Then—

A new sound.

A sharp, electronic chime from his desk.

A call.

But not just any call.

Magnus's blood ran cold as his eyes flickered toward the display.

[INCOMING CALL: HIGH COMMANDER VALEN ASHCROFT]

His superior. One rank above him. A direct chain to the Dominion's ruling authority.

Magnus inhaled sharply, his teeth grinding together.

"Leon. Shut the fuck up and wait."

He cut the line before his son could say another word.

Then, with a slow, controlled breath, he reached for the receiver and answered.

"This is General Magnus Ardent."

A pause.

Then, a voice—low, deliberate, carrying the weight of absolute power.

"Magnus. Come to the Directorate. Now."

****

Magnus stood motionless.

The weight of the words he had just heard pressed against his chest like a steel gauntlet.

Demoted.

The word alone sent a slow, burning rage coiling in his gut. His fingers curled into a fist at his side, the creak of leather gloves stretching over his knuckles barely masking the violent storm brewing beneath his composed exterior.

He had known this was coming the moment he saw that goddamn disciplinary report.

Leon's stupid, reckless, short-sighted decision had cost them everything.

And now, just like that—years of carefully built influence, of brutal victories, of proving himself through blood, sweat, and unrelenting discipline—had been swept away with a single, effortless stroke from the Elford family's hand.

Sent to the Eastern Border.

A dumping ground. A goddamn exile.

For a man of his station, it was nothing short of a death sentence.

Magnus inhaled sharply, controlling the sharp exhale that threatened to escape his lips.

The Directorate's decision had been final. The High Command had spoken. And now, his boots would no longer echo through the grand war halls of the Azaria Dominion Military Headquarters but would instead tread through the dirt, the blood-soaked trenches, and the godforsaken wilderness of the Eastern Front.

A place where careers ended. Where soldiers disappeared into the mist, never to be spoken of again.

He knew why this had happened.

Because the Elford family had moved.

Because Dominic Elford had lifted a single fucking finger.

And everything fell apart.

Magnus's golden-brown eyes burned as he exhaled slowly, his breath steady but carrying a razor's edge of fury.

Leon had no idea what he had done.

None at all.

With precise, controlled movements, Magnus reached for his military coat, throwing it over his shoulders as he strode toward the door. His steps were sharp, measured—not rushed, not frantic, but filled with an undeniable finality.

The two officers stationed outside his office—loyal men who had served under him for years—immediately straightened at his approach.

But they already knew.

Their eyes, despite their disciplined posture, held something different now. Not quite pity. But acknowledgment.

Magnus ignored them.

He didn't need their sympathy.

He stepped forward, his boots striking against the polished marble floors as he made his way toward the exit of High Command.

The once-familiar halls now felt foreign.

His name, once spoken with respect and weight, would now be whispered in hushed conversations.

A fallen man. A discarded piece.