Hunting MILFs in a Trash Eroge-Chapter 130: Stealing my star

Stanley suddenly spoke up, his voice cutting sharply through the charged atmosphere of the training hall.

"Why are you just coming now?"

The words rang out clearly, loud enough for every elite student and instructor present to hear.

Damien’s eyes darted toward the source instantly. His calm expression tightened, his brows pulling together as his face squeezed into a faint frown. He locked eyes with the blue-haired student, taking in the anger blazing openly in Stanley’s gaze.

For a brief moment, Damien said nothing.

Because the irony of it all was simple.

The class wasn’t even supposed to begin yet.

According to the academy’s own schedule—one he remembered perfectly—the session was meant to start several minutes from now. The presence of multiple instructors gathering early didn’t magically change the appointed time. It didn’t rewrite the rules. It didn’t make him late.

Stanley knew that.

Which was exactly why Damien immediately understood what was happening.

This wasn’t about punctuality.

This was about provocation.

Stanley wasn’t correcting him or upholding standards—he was searching for trouble. Deliberately. Openly. And with a thinly veiled excuse that sounded righteous enough to mask his personal grudge.

Damien’s frown eased.

Then, slowly, the corner of his lips curled upward.

A smirk.

It was subtle, relaxed, and completely dismissive.

Stanley’s veins popped visibly along his forehead the moment he saw it.

"Late?" Damien said calmly, his tone light, almost bored. "No. I’m not."

The simplicity of the response hit harder than any insult.

Stanley’s jaw tightened so hard it looked like his teeth might crack. A low grinding sound escaped him as he gnashed his teeth, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade.

Then he moved.

With sharp, heavy steps, Stanley marched forward, closing the distance between them dramatically. He stopped directly in front of Damien, his chest puffed out, his posture exaggerated as though he were standing on a stage.

"We are elite students," Stanley declared loudly, his voice filled with self-importance. "The face of the academy!"

He raised his chin, eyes burning as he continued.

"You should have arrived at least thirty minutes before the scheduled time!"

With a sharp turn, Stanley spun around to face the rest of the elites, spreading his arms slightly as if presenting himself.

It was a calculated gesture.

A performance.

He clearly expected something—approval, agreement, maybe even admiration. Perhaps applause. Perhaps nods of respect.

Something.

Anything.

But what he received instead was silence.

The elite students stared at him.

Some with neutral expressions.

Some with faintly furrowed brows.

A few exchanged brief glances with one another, unsure.

No cheers.

No nods.

No roar of praise.

Stanley’s confidence faltered for just a fraction of a second—but he pushed forward anyway, his voice rising again as he filled the gap himself.

"I was here before anyone else," he continued insistently. "That’s the standard you should all follow! Discipline, dedication—this is what it means to be an elite!"

His words echoed against the walls of the training hall, but the effect he hoped for still didn’t come.

Damien watched him quietly the entire time.

Then he chuckled.

"You’re just being too full of yourself," Damien said, his smirk widening slightly.

The words landed like a slap.

A low ripple of murmurs spread almost immediately through the elite students.

Whispers rose in hushed tones.

"...He’s not wrong."

"...Thirty minutes early isn’t a rule."

"...Stanley’s pushing it."

"...I hate to agree with him, but..."

Even those who disliked Damien—those who looked down on him for his background—found themselves reluctantly acknowledging the truth in his words.

Stanley stiffened.

The realization that the room wasn’t on his side hit him harder than he expected. His eyes darted around, catching fragments of the murmurs, the subtle nods, the lack of support.

His expression darkened further.

And the atmosphere in the hall grew even heavier.

The murmur started immediately among the elite students. Whispered words, subtle nods, quiet acknowledgments.

Even though none of them wanted to openly admit it, Damien was right. Stanley’s claim to be the standard was overreaching. Too arrogant. Too bold. Too impossible to accept without question.

It didn’t take long for Damien to notice the subtle changes in their expressions.

The whispers grew, the slight frowns deepened, the glances darted sideways at one another.

Stanley’s words had crossed the line—the line where pride met reality, and the result was always unpredictable.

Damien observed all of this with satisfaction.

Stanley’s eyes widened as he realized something was off.

’That’s... that’s weird,’ he thought. ’How... how could they say they don’t believe I’m the standard?’

He looked around desperately, scanning the students for validation, for a single sign of agreement, for even a flicker of the respect he felt he deserved.

But then, there was none.

Stanley’s heart raced, his vision narrowing as the disbelief gnawed at him.

His entire world had always revolved around him. Since he could remember, people had responded to him predictably.

They cheered when he spoke. They deferred when he commanded. They admired without question. This had always been the rhythm of life around him, and it had reinforced his self-image every day.

Now it wasn’t.

Damien, on the other hand, felt excitement coil in his chest.

This wasn’t chaos, neither was it confusion on the elite students part. It was simply the natural, inevitable consequence of arrogance meeting reality.

He smirked, watching Stanley’s shock deepen. The veins in the boy’s forehead throbbed. His jaw was tight. His eyes darted nervously, trying to reconcile the world he thought he knew with what he was now seeing.

’So that’s it...’ he thought slowly. ’His main character percentage.’

The realization settled firmly in his mind, fitting perfectly with everything he had just observed.

The reason Stanley wasn’t getting the reaction he expected. The reason the room hadn’t erupted in praise. The reason the world, for once, wasn’t bending over backward to accommodate him.

That invisible value.

Main character percentage.

Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly as he continued observing Stanley, who was still standing stiffly in front of him, jaw tight, eyes darting around in disbelief.

Stanley’s main character percentage used to be a hundred percent.

Back when this world was still nothing more than a game to Damien, back when events unfolded exactly as scripted, Stanley had been the unquestioned center of everything.

The world had literally revolved around him. Characters reacted to his words with exaggerated admiration. Situations conveniently resolved themselves in his favor. His reckless decisions never carried lasting consequences.

That was why Stanley had managed to get away with all the stupid things he did back in the game.

Because he was the main character.

Because his percentage had been absolute.

A hundred percent.

Nothing competed with that. Nothing challenged it. Every important moment curved toward him naturally, as if guided by an invisible hand.

Other characters existed to complement him, oppose him briefly, or admire him endlessly. Even his enemies existed only to elevate his narrative.

But now...

Damien’s gaze sharpened.

That was no longer the case.

Stanley’s main character percentage wasn’t a hundred percent anymore.

It had dropped.

Eighty-five percent.

That missing fifteen percent hadn’t vanished into nothingness. It hadn’t dissolved or been erased. It had simply... moved.

And now, that remaining fifteen percent was with Damien.

The thought sent a faint thrill through him.

It meant that his influence in the world had grown stronger. Subtly, but undeniably. Events no longer flowed exclusively toward Stanley. Reactions were no longer guaranteed to favor him.

The narrative weight he once carried alone was now being split between the two of them.

Damien could feel it in moments like this. In how the other students refused to stand fully with Stanley.

This wasn’t coincidence.

It was influence.

Stanley’s arrogant act—his loud declaration, his attempt to establish himself as the "standard"—would have worked flawlessly if his target had been anyone else.

If this had been directed at a normal elite student, or even a group of them, the outcome would have been predictable.

They would have nodded. Cheered. Reinforced his worldview.

That was how it was supposed to go.

But it didn’t.

Because he had chosen the wrong target.

He had chosen Damien.

Someone who now carried a portion of that same narrative weight. Someone who could counter him—not with brute force or loud words, but with presence alone.

Damien didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to rally the crowd. He didn’t even need to argue convincingly.

The world did it for him.

Stanley’s attempt to curry favor and praises collapsed not because his logic was flawed, but because his authority was no longer absolute. His words no longer carried the same gravitational pull. They no longer commanded automatic agreement.

And Stanley could feel it.

Even if he didn’t understand why.

Stanley stood there, fists clenched, veins bulging slightly along his temples as he continued to fume. His breathing was heavier now, shallow and uneven, betraying the storm raging in his mind.

’It’s happening again...’ he thought bitterly. ’He’s stealing my star.’