My Femboy System-Chapter 44: The Devil’s Trigger

Some sounds didn’t belong in the Tower.

The Tower moans, whispers, purrs. It seduces and entangles. It doesn’t crack. So when the sound of a gunshot shattered the air like a hammer through glass, my body locked mid-step, heart stuttering with dread and recognition.

No magic, no illusion, no fantasy.

Just brass, powder, and death. A sound from another world.

And I knew exactly who pulled the trigger.

I moved.

The soft grass underfoot seemed suddenly thicker, clinging to my boots like it wanted to hold me back. Pillars flanked me on either side, wrapped in flowering vines that shivered without wind. I ducked low, breath shallow, vision cutting through the darkness in long slashes.

And then I saw him.

Vincent Lacona.

He stood ahead in the clearing, half-shadowed by the moonlight that filtered through the illusory sky above. He looked untouched—perfect, as always. One hand rested lazily on the butt of his coat, the other held a pistol like it was born there. Before him lay a woman. Her chest was already caved in, blood painting the grass in wide arterial arcs.

She reached toward him, fingers trembling. Her mouth opened, rasping something I couldn’t hear. It didn’t matter.

Vincent sighed. Not cruelly. Not out of frustration.

But boredom.

He loaded a new bullet into the chamber with a click so clean it made my skin crawl.

And then—pop.

The woman’s head snapped back.

Crimson splattered the grass like spilled perfume.

Her body dropped into stillness. A doll discarded.

I ducked behind the nearest pillar, biting back a curse. My heartbeat thundered against my ribs.

He has a gun. A real one. A forbidden one.

After the Soloris Civil War years back, all firearms had become strictly taboo. They weren’t just rare—they were erased. Banned, buried, and hunted by every legal faction in the nation. The existence of one here...No. Of him, here, with one...

How many rules had he broken just to prove he could?

Vincent turned slightly, gaze sweeping across the field. For one dreadful moment, I thought he saw me. I held my breath, back pressed hard to the stone, hand trembling near my dagger’s hilt.

But he turned again—away. Toward the pillar behind him.

He placed a hand against its surface, as if caressing an old lover. The stone shimmered faintly. A low mechanical hum whispered through the grass. Machinery. Movement. Hidden just beneath the Tower’s skin.

Vincent smiled slow and steady.

As though he had just found the door to heaven.

And then—soft footsteps behind me.

No. No, no—not now.

Before I could move, I heard Willow’s purr. Miko’s muttering. Leo’s even tread.

And Aria.

She stepped out first, eyes wide and unsure.

"We heard a noise and came back to—"

Vincent turned.

Gun already raised.

The moment cracked open.

I lunged from behind the pillar, sprinting across the grass with everything I had left. Time seemed to slow—not magically, not from any spell—but with the sheer weight of inevitability.

"Get down!" I screamed.

I tackled Aria just as the shot fired.

The bullet sliced across my shoulder, a hot, tearing pain that lit my nerves on fire. I screamed—loud and unguarded—as we crashed into the grass.

Her breath hitched beneath me. Mine was barely there.

Vincent lowered the pistol slightly.

"Still as dramatic as ever," he murmured.

Then Leo struck.

No roar, no warning. Just velocity. He came in fast, fist connecting with Vincent’s side with enough force to break stone. But Vincent didn’t break. He flowed—twisting aside, retaliating with a sharp elbow that caught Leo in the ribs.

Miko emerged from the shadows, daggers made of shadow singing through the darkness. He struck low, then high, vanishing and reappearing mid-lunge. Vincent spun, stepped aside, and clipped him with the back of his gun. Miko stumbled, blood already staining his sleeve.

Willow remained behind with Aria, murmuring soft things while velvet light flickered in her palms. Protection, or promise. Maybe both.

I forced myself up, shoulder slick with blood. My dagger trembled in my hand.

It wouldn’t be enough.

Not against him.

Not alone.

I turned to my companions. Leo was still fighting, still standing. Miko circled like smoke. Aria clutched the grass. Willow’s eyes met mine—sharp, knowing.

I breathed in then moved in a blur of motion.

I grabbed Leo first—by the collar—and kissed him.

Hard. Fast.

He blinked, completely stunned. "What—?"

"Velvet Leech," I whispered against his lips, and his memories spilled into me like hot wine.

Combat instinct. Muscle memory. The fury that made his fists like iron.

Next was Miko.

He met me halfway, grinning despite the blood. "Finally," he said, and leaned in.

The kiss was wicked, slick with teeth.

My power took what it needed.

His shadows. His speed. His flair for the impossible.

I felt the power flood through me, threads of them woven into my own bones.

"Velvet Aura," I muttered next.

Magic shimmered around us. My two marked companions lit up like divine temptations. Desire rolled off them in waves—hypnotic, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Even Willow moaned under her breath for a second, licking her lips.

Vincent faltered.

Just slightly.

A flicker in his posture. A twitch at the corner of his eye. Like some part of him—however small—hadn’t expected us to last this long.

He drew the stopwatch.

And time shattered.

He vanished and reappeared behind Leo, striking with inhuman precision—one brutal fist driven into the base of the spine. Leo folded without a sound.

Then—behind me.

A blur. A cold boot against my knees. I crashed to the ground, grass and pain filling my lungs.

Miko moved with a snarl, twin blades made of shadow contrasting the starlight above.

But Vincent was waiting.

He snatched Miko mid-motion, spun him effortlessly, and hurled him across the clearing like refuse. Miko struck a pillar hard and slid down, dazed and silent.

Willow screamed her fury, unleashing a storm of demonic chains—lust-bound magic, coiled and spitting. They cracked toward Vincent like living whips.

He clicked the stopwatch.

The moment bent.

Time rewound just enough to unmake the strike.

He stepped back, untouched, a man moving between seconds.

We kept coming because it was all we could do.

Bloodied. Bone-bruised. Breathless.

He barely moved.

And we fell.

One by one, we crumpled to the grass like discarded puppets. A tangle of limbs and curses. Bruised hearts and broken pride.

Vincent stood over us, calm as a priest at a funeral. The pistol hung loose in his hand, like he’d forgotten he was even holding it.

He stepped among us—slow, methodical, his boots never once stumbling.

When he reached me, he paused and tilted his head.

His eyes softened, just slightly. Not pity. Not cruelty.

Something worse, regret.

And then he yawned. Casual and indifferent. Like this had been little more than a chore.

The bastard.

Without a word, he turned away and approached the nearest pillar. He raised a hand and the surface shimmered like rippling glass. The hidden passage stirred and he stepped toward it before he stopped, turned, and looked back.

His eyes found mine.

They held no triumph. No rage.

Only inevitability.

"This is your final warning, leave this tower immediately and return to Graywatch. Trust me Cecil, its for your own good. I can’t tell you everything. Not yet. Just trust me." he said simply, something dark lingering behind his eyes, something I couldn’t yet understand.

Then he stepped through and the stone swallowed him whole.

I dragged myself to my knees. My body screamed, but not louder than my pride. I ran and reached for the wall, slamming my palm against it.

Solid.

Unyielding.

I screamed—rage, frustration, pain. I slammed my fist again and again, until blood smeared across the stone.

"Come back, you smug, dead-eyed son of a bitch!"

But the only sound was the mechanical hum behind the wall.

The elevator was rising.

The others limped to me—Willow holding Aria, Miko clutching his ribs, Leo silent and grim.

I turned to them, breath shallow.

"He didn’t kill me," I said. "He can’t. He’s under orders."

"Lucky you," Willow muttered, spitting blood.

"No," I said. "It’s worse."

Because he wasn’t trying. And he still destroyed us.

I clenched my fists.

"We can’t fight him. Not like this." I turned to the others. "We need to find a way to challenge him in a place he can’t cheat. Where luck, wit, and charm matter just as much as strength. We need to force him into a fair fight."

Miko nodded slowly. "And if we can’t beat him at that?"

"Then we flip the rules."

About an hour passed before we could hear the hum of the elevator once more.

The hum swelled, rising in volume until the pillar before us began to shimmer, its surface rippling like liquid. Without a moment’s hesitation, we stepped forward—together—into the stone.

The elevator lifted us smoothly and silently, climbing higher and higher, the air around us warm and heavy with anticipation, stretched taut by the endless ascent.

When the doors slid open, we were devoured by golden light and sound.

The third floor: Greed.

We stepped into a temple carved from endless sandstone—pale gold and sun-warmed, as if the entire place had been unearthed from beneath time itself. The floor crunched faintly beneath our boots, polished smooth in places, brittle in others, as though hundreds of feet had already tried their luck here and failed.

The casino rose before us like a shrine to desire. Colossal. Opulent. Reverent. The walls weren’t just built—they were sculpted, shaped by hands that craved beauty and bled for it.

Every arch, every pillar, every corner was packed with sand—veined with crushed gems, glowing faintly with ancient heat.

Three tiers of balconies wrapped the space like ceremonial garlands, their edges carved into the shapes of grinning beasts and hollow-eyed gods. No velvet. No marble. Only the desert stone.

Crumbling and eternal.

In the central pit of the ground floor, the games played on. Tables cut from the same living rock sprawled across the chamber, etched with faded runes and red-black patterns that pulsed faintly beneath the candles.

Dice made of bone.

Cards thick as leather.

Chips stacked like burial coins.

The croupiers wore robes the color of dust and time, their faces veiled, their hands precise.

Laughter echoed low and distant—dry as a mirage. The kind you only hear after your soul’s already halfway sold.

Music drifted in: slow, smoky jazz made from breath and echoes, curling through the halls like incense.

We waited just inside a vestibule hollowed from stone, lit with flickering oil lamps. The benches were carved right into the walls. No comfort here—just temptation, worn into ritual.

And the others waiting with us?

They were ruined.

Eyes wide. Hands trembling. Their clothes wrinkled, stained, torn at the hems. Skin pale and thin as paper. They were survivors of Gluttony—barely. People who had seen too much. Eaten too much. Wanted too much. Their hunger had been devoured, and now only emptiness remained.

Their gaze drifted across the casino floor like children watching wolves.

But me?

I smiled.

Because this was my domain now.

No teeth. No blood.

Here, it would be masks. Smirks. Cards slipped from sleeves.

Here, I could fight Vincent my way.

Through elegance.

Through lies.

And through games meant to break gods.

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