My Femboy System-Chapter 147: Brief Intermission

It happened so fast I didn’t even have the chance to blink.

One moment, Jinway the Silverscale stood there, frozen mid-step, his mouth still trying to form the word how—and the next, the Stitched Man’s maul descended like the judgment of some bored god who had grown tired of waiting for permission.

There was no flourish, no roar, no display of power—just one single swing. A dull, wet sound followed, and suddenly the Fishman ceased to be a person and became something far less dignified.

The sand where he’d stood erupted into a cloud of red mist, and for a breathless heartbeat the entire world held still.

The crowd’s gasp hit like a collective intake of breath before suffocating itself. It was absolute silence—so thick you could have poured it into a jar and sold it as a luxury perfume to nobles who liked the smell of terror.

My throat went dry, my stomach twisted, and the only thought that drifted through my skull like a stunned moth was: Well. That escalated quickly.

Rodrick nearly jumped out of his seat, his armored hand clutching the balcony rail as though he meant to dive in after the poor bastard. Salem’s expression collapsed into something grim—one of those rare moments when all his charm fled him, leaving only the soldier underneath.

Even the announcer, that eternal carnival barker, looked struck dumb. His mouth opened once, twice, like a fish gaping on a dock, and no words came out.

The Stitched Man didn’t care. He didn’t even acknowledge the thing he’d just unmade. He simply lifted his maul, resting it across his shoulder with the indifference of a man clocking out after a long shift.

His head turned slightly, gaze sweeping the stunned masses above us as if searching for something—or perhaps confirming that nothing here was worth his attention—and then he walked toward the exit. No victory pose. No grandstanding. Just a steady, deliberate walk through the settling haze of red dust.

The announcer finally found his voice, though it cracked like a choirboy in puberty. "A-and there we have it, ladies and gentlemen!" he declared, forcing false bravado into every syllable. "A... decisive victory! Truly, efficiency incarnate! One swing! One corpse! Let’s hear it for—uh—the Stitched Man!"

The crowd hesitated, uncertain whether to cheer or vomit, before the herd instinct kicked in. Applause erupted, desperate and shrill, a thousand voices clawing to pretend they’d enjoyed it all along. Petals rained down again, the nobles clapping with manic glee, the same way children applaud after someone juggles knives without realizing the juggler just lost a finger.

I swore under my breath, low enough that even Salem barely heard me. The taste of iron hung in the air like a cruel reminder. Salem, meanwhile, hadn’t looked away from the sand. There was something in his eyes—a quiet grief, maybe, or understanding. He’d seen that kind of death before. Quick. Brutal. Meaningless.

And then, from behind us, a voice I had come to dread more than divine judgment itself: "Bah! That was it?!"

Gramps. Of course.

The old man was red-faced with fury, jabbing his cane toward the arena so fiercely that the younger attendants ducked for cover. "Hardly even a fight! A single swing! When I was young, a duel meant duel! Fists, fury, honor! This—this was a bloody execution!"

"Gramps," Salem murmured, trying and failing to soothe him.

"Don’t Gramps me!" the old man barked. "If this is what passes for competition now, the gods themselves must be weeping! Someone fetch me a corpse to fight; at least then I might see some spirit!"

Rodrick rubbed his temples. "Saints help me, I’m beginning to think he means it."

I let out a weak laugh that didn’t sound nearly as convincing as I wanted. "Oh, he means it. Give him ten minutes and he’ll challenge the Stitched Man himself. We’ll be scraping him off the sand before lunch."

Salem sighed, shoulders heavy. "Don’t tempt him."

Before Gramps could launch into another tirade about the decline of martial valor, the announcer’s voice returned, slightly steadier now—though his cheeriness sounded like a man whistling through a battlefield.

"A spectacular opener, my radiant degenerates! And now, while our attendants... ah... retrieve the remains of our fallen competitor, we’ll take a brief intermission before the next bout!"

As if on cue, several hooded figures hurried into the pit, dragging what was left of Jinway into a tarp that was somehow both too small and too late to preserve his dignity. The sight made my stomach churn.

The nobles above didn’t seem to care; half were already reaching for refreshments, chattering as though nothing had happened.

I leaned against the balcony rail, exhaling slow. My limbs ached with tension I hadn’t noticed building. My hand still clutched the pen at my hip like a talisman, as though its weight alone could ward off the absurdity of what I’d just witnessed.

"Well," I said finally, breaking the uneasy quiet. "That was a lovely start to the morning. Nothing says breakfast quite like liquefied fishman."

I stretched my arms above my head, joints popping, and rubbed my eyes until the afterimage of red mist faded. "Remind me next time to bring toast. It feels rude to watch carnage without condiments."

Rodrick didn’t answer. He was still staring down at the pit, jaw set. Salem gave me a look—half disapproval, half weary amusement. "You joke like that because you’re nervous," he said softly.

"Of course I’m nervous," I replied, feigning outrage. "I just watched a walking burlap sack of corpses redecorate the arena with someone’s skeleton. Nervousness seems appropriate." I yawned then, the sound deliberately exaggerated. "I’m just better at accessorizing my terror."

That earned a faint smile from him, which was enough of a victory for me.

The rest of the contestants began to file out, attendants ushering them toward the inner halls for refreshments, prayers or, in Gramps’s case, a chance to insult the architectural integrity of the stairwell.

I lingered a moment longer, more out of stubbornness than curiosity. Something in the air felt... heavy. The kind of heaviness that clings after lightning strikes—a silence with a pulse.

As I turned to leave, a shadow crossed my path. White fabric brushed against my shoulder, smelling faintly of incense and iron. I froze.

The Man in White.

He stood close—too close for propriety, too close for comfort—his hooded gaze cutting through the pretense of civility like a scalpel through silk.

"You saw him," he whispered, voice low enough that even the air seemed hesitant to carry it.

I nodded once. The Man in White’s expression darkened. "Then you understand that you must watch yourself. If Japeth has his eyes on you, then every move you make is being measured. He’s laid traps before. He’ll do it again."

"I appreciate the warning," I said, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach my eyes. "But I’m running out of bandwidth for paternal advice. Between you, Dagon, and dear old Pops, I’m practically drowning in father figures."

That earned me the faintest quirk of his lips—whether a smile or a grimace, I couldn’t tell. "Be careful," he said simply, and then he was gone, melting back into the shadows like a ghost dissolving into fog.

I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head throbbed. Between murderous priests, undead brutes, and unsolicited mentorship, I was beginning to suspect the gods had developed a personal grudge against me.

I was halfway to the exit when I saw her.

The Lady of Fangs.

She stood by the archway like a painting that had crawled off its canvas in search of an audience. Her gown shimmered faintly, the parasol in her hand casting a shadow delicate as spider silk.

On either side of her loomed her twin thralls—pale men with matching crimson eyes and the sort of sculpted cheekbones that suggested she’d personally chosen them from a catalog labeled Decorative Servants for the Discerning Sociopath.

Her gaze locked onto me, sharp and hungry.

I sighed. "Ah. Trouble with eyeliner, we meet again."

As I approached, the twins shifted subtly, mirroring each other like reflections in warped glass. She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that pretends it isn’t a threat.

"How lovely of you to linger," she purred. "I was beginning to think you’d slither away before we could exchange pleasantries."

"Pleasantries?" I raised a brow. "I’m surprised you still remember the word. I thought you’d traded all yours in for bloodletting and performance art."

Her smile tightened, a crack forming at the edges. "I see you’re still insufferable."

"It’s a talent," I said lightly. "Some juggle, some sing. I ruin conversations."

Her fingers flexed around the parasol, the metal tip digging faintly into the stone floor. "I watched you during the match," she said. "You didn’t even flinch when the Fishman died."

"Flinching is gauche," I replied. "Besides, I was too busy cataloguing the crowd’s reaction. You can tell a lot about people by how they clap for murder."

Her eyes narrowed. "Still pretending not to care, then?"

"Oh, I care deeply," I said with mock sincerity. "I care so much that if I cared any harder, my heart would develop its own tragic subplot."

The twins tensed, but she gestured for them to stay still. "You joke because you’re afraid," she murmured. "I can smell it. Beneath the perfume and bravado—you reek of it."

I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Could be fear. Could be the cologne. Hard to tell; they both come in glass bottles labeled Regret."

Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. "You think I’m broken," she said suddenly. "You look at me and pity me. Don’t deny it."

Ah, there it was. The crack in the mask. I saw it flicker across her face—too fast for the nobles to notice, but I wasn’t a noble. I noticed everything, especially when people tried too hard to hide it.

"I wouldn’t dream of pitying you," I said softly. "Pity’s far too kind a word."

Her chin lifted. "And what word would you use?"

"Tragic," I said, almost gently. "You were magnificent once. And now you stand here, hissing at ghosts and dragging thralls around like bad jewelry." Her eyes flashed, but I didn’t stop. "I don’t pity you, my lady. I mourn the waste."

Silence stretched between us, taut and brittle. The twins shifted uneasily, glancing at each other.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, trembling at the edges. "Careful, boy. The next time we meet, I’ll make sure you bleed for that tongue."

I smiled faintly. "If you wanted my tongue, you could’ve just asked. But fine—save it for the ring. Just try not to trip on your ego before you get there."

Her parasol snapped shut with a metallic hiss, the sound sharp enough to make the twins flinch. For a moment, I thought she might actually strike me. Instead, she turned on her heel, skirts sweeping the floor like a wave of black water.

"Come," she ordered her thralls. "The stench of witlessness offends me."

They followed wordlessly, their eyes lingering on me a moment longer before vanishing into the shadowed corridor beyond.

I stood there, watching her retreating form until it disappeared entirely, then let out a long, slow sigh. The laughter that escaped me afterward was quiet and brittle.

"Gods," I muttered to no one. "She’s halfway between a tragedy and a punchline."

And then I began to walk. Further down the hall, the noise of the arena faded into something distant and ghostly.

By the time I reached the corridor where the others waited, my nerves had mostly settled into that comfortable, familiar blend of fatigue and sarcasm that passes for composure.

Rodrick was the first to speak, his voice low but edged with unease. "So," he began, "what are we going to do about it?"

I blinked, feigning confusion because it was easier than immediately confronting the looming existential dread in his tone. "About what exactly? You’ll have to be more specific. The universe gives me far too many problems to choose from."

He rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated enough to rattle his entire skull. "You know what I mean. We all saw what happened out there. The Stitched Man. The Fishman. One swing. No mercy." He leaned forward slightly, his jaw tightening. "Any one of us could be facing that next."

"Ah," I said, "that problem." I pretended to think, tapping my chin with mock seriousness. "Well, we could always run away, change our names, and start a bakery. You’d make a fine breadwinner, Rodrick. Very commanding kneading technique, I imagine."

Dunny snorted. Rodrick glared. "I’m serious."

"So am I," I said with a sigh, my voice softening. "But so is the situation." I looked at each of them in turn—the exhaustion in Rodrick’s eyes, the quiet fear hiding behind Dunny’s stoicism, and Nara’s wide, uncertain gaze. My humor faltered for a moment, replaced by something quieter, heavier.

"You’re right," I admitted. "Any one of us could be next. Maybe against each other, maybe against something worse. But it doesn’t really matter who fights who, does it? So long as one of us wins this damned thing. That’s all that counts."

Rodrick’s expression softened, and he nodded slowly. "Right. One of us."

There was a silence then—the kind that stretched out like a string pulled too tight. It hung between us, full of things none of us wanted to say.

Before I could even sigh, something tapped me sharply on the back. I jumped about a foot in the air, spinning around to gaze wide-eyed at my potential assassin.

However, behind me stood an attendant—tall, impassive, dressed in the immaculate black of the Church’s servants. His face was the sort of expressionless that probably required training. "You are to be escorted to the ground floor at once," he said, his tone polite but final. "You have been selected for the next match."

I blinked, then groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Of course I have. Saints forbid the universe let me enjoy five minutes of rest. I suppose a nap would be too much to ask?"

"Apparently," Dunny said dryly.

Before I could muster another complaint, Nara sprang on his feet. He bounded over, tail flicking, eyes wide with both excitement and worry. "You’ll win," he said quickly, clutching my hand in both of his small ones. "You always do."

"Oh, sweet summer fool," I murmured, crouching to his level. His ears twitched nervously, and his cheeks flushed faintly. I reached out, brushing my thumb against his temple before leaning forward and pressing a light kiss to his forehead. "That’s for luck," I said, forcing a grin. "And if it doesn’t work, I’ll haunt you personally."

Nara’s blush deepened to an alarming shade of crimson, his little ears twitching furiously. "You—you’re awful," he mumbled, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

"I try my best," I said, standing. "Now, be good. If I die, make sure Rodrick doesn’t spend all my inheritance on swords he doesn’t need."

"I don’t buy swords," Rodrick said indignantly.

"Of course not," I said. "They just mysteriously appear in your room like divine blessings."

The attendant cleared his throat pointedly. I sighed. "Yes, yes, I’m coming. No need to look like someone’s about to die. Well. Except for me."

They watched as I followed the attendant down the winding hall, the flickering light from the torches stretching our shadows long across the stone floor. Each step echoed faintly, the sound gradually swallowed by the distant roar of the crowd building once again.

We descended a narrow stair that led into the arena’s underbelly—a place that smelled of rust, sweat, and something faintly metallic, like blood that had been scrubbed but never forgotten. The walls here were damp, beads of condensation trailing down rough stone like slow tears.

At the bottom lay a wide chamber lined with racks of weapons—blades, axes, spears, all meticulously maintained but somehow radiating the quiet weariness of tools that had seen too much use. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

I gripped my spear. Its shaft was smooth and familiar against my palm, the weight balanced perfectly.

"Well," I said softly, "looks like it’s you and me again, darling."

From beyond the far wall came the faint, muffled roar of the crowd—thousands of voices rising as one, chanting, jeering, alive with bloodlust. It vibrated through the stones, through my bones, through the very air, a reminder that the world above still demanded its entertainment.

I still didn’t know who my opponent would be. Didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they’d be better rested, better armed, maybe even better trained. But I had one thing they didn’t.

A crippling inability to shut up.

The attendant returned, checking me over, eyes flicking across me with the detached professionalism of someone measuring a corpse for its coffin. "Are you ready?" he asked.

I smirked, spinning the spear once in my hand with a lazy flourish. "As I’ll ever be," I said. "Though if you’ve got any advice on how not to die horribly, I’m all ears."

He didn’t even blink. "Very well, my lady," he said flatly, and before I could correct him—or thank him for the unintended promotion—he pushed open the heavy iron doors.

Light flooded in. The sound hit like a tidal wave.

I exhaled, squinting against the glare, my heart pounding in my chest like it was trying to dig its way out. I could feel the heat of the sun on my skin, the sand under my boots, the weight of the spear in my hand, the taste of dust and dread in my mouth.

"Alright then," I murmured, stepping forward into the light. "It’s showtime."