My Femboy System-Chapter 144: I Hate You

It was, in retrospect, inevitable.

The moment the attendant uttered those dreadful words, my ribs clenched as though someone had taken them in a vice and started tuning me like a harp.

I sighed, long and theatrically miserable, before nodding to the hooded figure. Dignity demanded obedience, though I briefly entertained the notion of collapsing onto the corridor floor and pretending to have contracted some rare plague.

Alas, Rodrick’s wide-eyed horror at seeing his brother ensured that dignity, that most fickle of companions, would not allow me the reprieve.

Another attendant emerged from the shadows then, silent as guilt, and stooped to gather the discarded body of the poor Cathedral woman the High Priest of the Southern Sun had struck down. I shuddered at the crimson streak still glistening along the wall.

My heart lurched when I realized how easily I could be sprawled there next, my wit reduced to a stain in the mortar.

Turning, I gripped Rodrick by both shoulders, forcing his wide frame to focus on me rather than the darkness in his own head. His body trembled as though it longed to collapse again, but I squeezed him tighter, jaw set.

"I’ll be back," I said, steady as stone. "I promise. Don’t go collapsing into melodrama while I’m gone. That’s my specialty."

His mouth twitched in the faintest shadow of a smile, and he gave me a single, jerky nod. It was enough.

And so I followed.

The attendant and I wound through the bowels of the colosseum like worms through old soil, the air thick with mildew and the faint tang of iron. Torchlight bent around corners, each shadow shifting as though eager to play tricks on my mind.

I could still hear the muffled roar of nobles overhead—the flutter of fans, the hollow laugh of men who had never known hunger—but it sounded distant now, filtered through the stone as if I had already been buried alive.

One step at a time, I told myself. Do not think. Do not imagine. Do not remember the stories whispered of the Northern High Priest—the shadow in the Cathedral, the hand no one could name without trembling.

And yet, naturally, I thought, I imagined, I remembered. My mind was not a fortress but a sieve, and dread leaked through every pore. By the time we emerged onto the outer terrace of the colosseum, my chest was clammy and my palms trembled as though eager to leap from my arms and run for safety.

The terrace stretched in a wide ring around the arena, open to the dawn air. I smelled smoke, the acrid perfume of ruin, curling thick along the wind. And ahead of us—there it was. The private balcony, the one I had glimpsed earlier trailing that obscene haze, suspended above the world like the throne of a petty god.

The attendant halted before the veil of smoke and gestured. "Enter."

How charming. No trumpet fanfare, no red carpet, no last rites. Just enter.

I waved the haze aside with a hand, each movement more bravado than grace, and stepped inside.

My lungs stilled.

The chamber stretched large but ruined. Marble pillars once polished to a holy sheen now cracked like bones left in the sun. A throne sat at its center, though to call it a throne was generous; it looked more like a chair that had eaten a cathedral and decided to digest slowly.

And upon it was him, The High Priest of the Northern Cathedral.

My heart froze.

He was not merely big. He was massive, a wall of flesh draped in the trappings of priesthood. His cassock strained against his chest and shoulders, threads stretched thin over a frame that seemed designed to snap bones by accident.

His face was broad, brutish, carved in the image of intimidation, yet framed by slicked-back black hair that suggested a man vain enough to tame the beast he presented.

But it was his eyes that stopped me.

Deep red, set and sunken, like coals buried too long in ash but still burning with an ugly, patient fire. They pinned me where I stood, dissected me, condemned me, all in a single glance.

And beside him—

My throat seized.

Lysaria.

He knelt chained at the foot of the throne, his hair tangled, his bruises raw. His beauty was a shattered thing now, splintered but still unbearable to behold. He swayed faintly, as though even breath weighed too much for him to carry. His eyes lifted when I entered, and saints damn me, they found mine once again.

I nearly broke then and there. But the brute upon the throne spoke before I could utter a single word.

"Dagon."

His voice cracked through the chamber like a whip. For one heartbeat I cocked my head, almost expecting to feel smoke curl around my ears, to hear bells toll, to feel the air itself split and curse me. A spell, surely, or a mark. That syllable carried weight, older than language, thicker than blood.

But then the brute on the throne leaned forward, his lips twisting, and I realized with a jolt—no, it wasn’t a curse. It was a name. His name.

I forced my jaw into a smirk. "Dagon," I repeated, savoring it on my tongue like vinegar. "Charming. I’d half expected something holier. ’His Most Pious Rotundity,’ perhaps? Or ’Father Meatwall of the Eternal Flatulence’? But Dagon—it has a ring. Like someone dropped a boulder down a well and liked the echo."

His eyes burned hotter then. "Painted prick," Dagon rumbled, slamming his fist on the throne’s armrest. The marble cracked like old bone. Lysaria flinched against his chains, and my chest caved for one awful second before I plastered the smirk back on.

"You think this is theatre?" He spat, leaning forward, each syllable soaked in venom. "You think I dragged you into this slaughterhouse for a laugh? No, boy. I dragged you in because I hate you. I hate your fucking grin, your pen, your filth-slick words. I hate the way you walk like the world owes you a bed, a brothel, and an applause for breathing. Saints damn me, I hate you for breathing at all."

I tapped a finger on my chin, slow and deliberate. "Strong words. You rehearse those in the mirror, or does the Cathedral provide lessons in colorful invective? I’d give it... seven out of ten. Needs more creativity. Compare me to vermin, perhaps. Or a fungus. Something earthy."

He stood. Gods, he stood. The throne seemed smaller for losing him. Dagon’s sheer size sucked the air from the chamber, and with every step toward me, the ground seemed to tremble in anticipation. Lysaria’s chains rattled softly as he lifted his head to watch, his eyes wide with something close to warning.

"You stink," Dagon growled, pressing closer. His breath was wine and rot and iron. "You reek of lust. Every fucking pore of you leaks it. It dribbles from your voice, it festers in your bones. Don’t smirk, boy—I’ve smelled corpses with less hunger. And you know what makes me want to grind your face into this stone until you’re pulp?" He jabbed a massive finger into my chest, shoving me back a step. "The world loves you for it. They love you. For that filth. For that rot. For the slime you leave behind when you breathe."

Something sharp pierced me then—sharp, ugly, and terrifying in its presence. I laughed too fast, too shrill, cocking my head like a jester with a noose around his throat. "Loved, am I? How flattering. I’ll add that to the reviews. Cecil, reeking of lust, adored nonetheless. A true five-star experience."

His lips peeled back from his teeth. "You think I don’t see it? Every eye that lingers too long. Every trembling fool who hears your voice and wants to fall on their back like a bitch in heat. You think it’s your wit, your tricks, your clever tongue. It isn’t. It’s the stink. The aura. Your goddamn relic bleeding through you. They’re not loving you, boy—they’re drowning in your stench."

My pulse hammered in my throat. Saints help me, his words sank deep, deeper than I wanted them to.

"And what of you, oh holy Dagon? Here you are, pressed close, snarling about my scent as though you’ve been bathing in it all along. Careful. People will talk. They might think you enjoy my company."

He seized my collar in one massive hand and dragged me up, until my boots barely scraped the stone. My smirk twitched, but I held it. Saints damn me, I held it.

"Shut up," Dagon hissed. His eyes burned into mine, close enough to blind me. "I dragged you here to break you. To grind down every ounce of that mockery you call charm. To prove to every pissant watching from above that you’re not a wit, not a savior, not even a man—just a stink in silk, a slab of meat dressed up by fate’s cruel humor. And when I’m done, when you’re nothing but ink and dust, maybe the world will stop loving you."

My chest heaved against his grip. My voice came thin, but I managed a rasp of a smile. "That’s... quite a lot of effort... for a man who claims he hates me. Almost sounds like obsession. Tell me, Dagon, are you sure you’re not in love?"

His fist tightened. For one heartbeat, I thought he’d crush my windpipe then and there. But instead, he threw me back, hard. I slammed into a stone pillar, breath tearing from my lungs, knees buckling. My smirk cracked into a grimace, but I forced myself upright again, spine shaking, heart rattling.

Across the chamber, Dagon stood like a storm barely held in human skin. His lips curled. "Love? Fuck your love. If you were the last cunt alive, I’d fuck the dirt before I even think about touching you."

Silence fell. My chest burned. Lysaria’s chains clinked faintly, the only sound besides my ragged breath.

And for the first time, I understood something terrifying: it wasn’t merely hatred. It was something deeper, darker. Dagon despised me for what I was, yes, but also for what I made others feel. For the fact that despite his strength, his fire, his holy throne, I was loved, and he was not.

Just then I heard it.

"Cecil." 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

It was barely a whisper, a frayed thread of sound clawing its way out of Lysaria’s throat. My name, cracked and broken, but mine nonetheless.

I froze. For one terrible heartbeat, I almost smiled—until Dagon’s head snapped like a wolf scenting blood. His eyes ignited, and before I could breathe, he spun, one meaty hand clamping around Lysaria’s neck.

"You dare—" His roar split the chamber. He lifted Lysaria’s body, his feet kicking against the stone, a grotesque marionette strangled by its strings. Foam flecked Lysaria’s lips, his face purpling as his mouth gaped without sound. "Did I tell you to speak?!"

"Wait—" My voice cracked, useless against the thunder of his fury.

Dagon slammed him down. The stone shrieked beneath the impact. Lysaria folded like broken glass, and a sound tore from my throat before I could stop it.

Then came the kicks.

Once. Twice. A third, brutal strike, each one burying itself into Lysaria’s stomach, driving air and life out of him with sickening cracks. "Filthy whore," Dagon snarled with each blow, spittle flying, rage boiling so hot it seemed to scorch the very air. "Disgusting. Disgusting!"

By the fourth kick I was moving, sprinting toward them, pen gripped so tightly my knuckles burned—when suddenly two attendants burst through the smoke. Hooded, silent, they seized Dagon by his arms, their strength clearly honed for this one task, restraining their priest.

"Enough, High One," one whispered urgently. "Enough."

Dagon jerked like a beast in a trap, teeth bared, eyes bloodshot. Then, with a guttural grunt, he ripped free, not to strike again, but to stagger back toward his throne. He dropped into it with the force of a landslide, panting, glaring, his eyes searing through me as if daring me to intervene.

I didn’t care. I fell to my knees at Lysaria’s side.

"Lysaria—" My voice broke. His body trembled under my hands, ribs caved inward, bruises already blooming like rotten flowers across his skin. He turned his face weakly toward me, foam still wet at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m fine," he rasped. The words were lies, but the faint smile clinging to his lips nearly gutted me. His hand lifted with painful slowness, tugging at my sleeve in the gentlest gesture. His eyes—clouded, fading—still burned with the same stubborn light. "Don’t... don’t worry about me. Do what you do best. Give them a performance."

Saints damn him, I almost wept. Instead, I bit my tongue until the copper taste of blood steadied me. I nodded, my face cracking into something that pretended to be a smile.

"Of course," I whispered. "Always."

I rose then, stretching my back straight, forcing my shoulders proud even as fury threatened to tear through me. My pen gleamed in my hand, a dagger of ink and promise.

I locked eyes with Dagon across the haze, lounging in his throne once more, silent now, but his stare—by every saint and sin alike—his stare was pure malice. I knew then that he lived for one purpose only: to make me suffer.

And oh, how I wanted to fight him. My fingers itched, my lungs burned. But the air told me the truth. This man was no ordinary priest. He carried the weight of power like Arculaus, like The Man in White, like something monstrous clothed in stolen faith. A king-class mage not doubt. I would be ashes before my pen even touched him.

Just then, I saw it. A shift. A flicker. The haze at the chamber’s edge rippled.

I caught it in the corner of my eye, someone moving, presence masked so utterly it was as if the smoke itself had grown legs. I turned, pen snapping up instinctively.

"You."

The figure laughed, the sound low, slick, like oil catching fire. "Took you long enough."

And then he stepped free of the haze, between me and Dagon, the smoke curling from his shoulders like it obeyed him.

That was when my chest locked tight. My blood turned to ice. Because standing there, smug and whole and horribly inevitable, was not a stranger.

It was my sponsor.

No—in fact, it was much worse.

"Japeth," I said, the name scraping off my tongue like broken glass. It tasted of old ash and rotting prayers, a word I’d buried in the darkest corner of memory only to watch it crawl back into the light, grinning like a madman.