My Femboy System-Chapter 47: Playing the Fool

There are silences you can taste.

Not the sweet kind, no—this one was dry, brittle, sandpaper-thick and sun-stale. Such a silence came slowly as the second game concluded, again with my loss. It curled in the back of my throat like cracked parchment and the slow death of dignity.

A silence that watched, that waited, like a coiled predator with the patience of ages. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

I sat in Oberen’s den, the devil’s cardroom carved out of rot. Every inch of the table before me felt soaked in someone else’s sin—sweat, tears, and desperation pressed into the grain like blood in the wood of an alter.

And across from me, behind a mountain of gleaming chips and that maddeningly serene expression, sat Oberen himself.

Old.

Bent like a tree that had weathered too many storms, fingers knotted like roots. His breath was slow and shallow, as if rationed.

But behind those rheumy eyes?

Madness. Humming, glinting madness.

Greed—not the desperate kind, but ancient, patient, the kind that didn’t need to rush because it knew it would win eventually.

There was also control. Not of the room. Not of the cards. But of the game itself. He didn’t just gamble, he devoured. He consumed opponents not with skill, but with inevitability. He had a way of smiling like the game was already over and he was simply watching the credits roll in slow motion.

"I’ll raise," he said softly, his voice a rasp carved out of years and broken players.

More chips hit the table with a soft clink, but they may as well have sounded like shackles snapping shut. I nodded then swallowed, pretending to flinch.

"Three chips this time," I replied, watching his face for any sign, any crack. But there was nothing, just that eternal smirk and the faint twitch of something old in his jaw.

He dealt again.

Old Maid.

The simplest of games.

Two players, matching pairs, trying to avoid holding the cursed Joker at the end of the game. But beneath its simplicity? A psychological war fit for emperors.

It wasn’t just about cards. It was about pressure. Eyes. Breaths held too long. Timing sharpened into razors. Everything in this room had become part of the show—the heat, the hush, the way Jazmin exhaled slowly against my neck, the scent of old sweat soaked into the walls.

Cards slid into my hands. A ten. A king. A seven. And—

The Joker.

Of course.

I didn’t react, not visibly. I palmed it carefully, made a show of fumbling my queen instead. Bit my lower lip. Faked a nervous twitch. I sold it perfectly.

Oberen smiled wider.

His cards snapped into place like pieces of a puzzle only he could solve. His fingers moved with confidence born of repetition, a rhythm so precise it seemed ritualistic. He didn’t check his cards—he knew them. Knew them like old scars.

And every round, he avoided the Joker.

Again.

And again.

And again.

No missteps. No slips. Every time he reached for my cards, his hand moved without hesitation. Each draw was perfect and unmistakably clean, like he could see through the backs.

But he wasn’t clairvoyant. He had an accomplice.

Jazmin, the lovely jackel in chains.

The clues had been subtle at first—innocent, even. A twitch of her left ear when he reached for my leftmost card. A curl of her fingers around my sleeve when the Joker was in my right hand. A barely-there sniff when he hovered too close to failure.

To the average onlooker, nothing.

To me?

Textbook coordination. It was so simple. So crude, but brilliant in its arrogance. He didn’t hide it because he didn’t think he had to.

And me?

I was just a poor, desperate fool with too much drama in my bones and not enough crowns in my pocket. I slammed my fist onto the table as another Joker revealed itself in my hand. The crowd—what remained of it—watched from the shadows.

Hollow men. Past players. Those who had sold names, limbs, and memories. Their eyes were dead but still watched with the hunger of gamblers clinging to someone else’s downfall.

"Dammit!" I roared, throwing my last two chips onto the table like a tantrum made flesh. "This is bullshit!"

Oberen didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to. He simply leaned back, lips twitching into that oh-so-pleasant smile.

"Poor lad," he said softly, patting my shoulder like a priest offering last rites. "You came into my den thinking you could walk away with your pride?"

The others laughed. Snorting. Howling. A mix of schadenfreude and pity too stale to feel honest.

"I just—" I trembled. Let my breath hitch. "Please..." My voice cracked. "I’ll do anything. Just...one more round. Just one more."

Oberen leaned in close, breath sour with old wine and victory. His eyes glittered.

"Anything?" he whispered.

I nodded slowly.

"Lick my boots."

The room exploded.

It wasn’t just laughter—it was devouring. Joy torn from my humiliation. The kind of cackling that snapped ribs and bruised souls. The echoes spilled into the hall outside, drawing ruined guests to the entrance like moths to the flame of another fool’s failure.

I didn’t hesitate. I climbed over the table like a drunk crawling toward a gutter dream, knocking cards aside, ignoring the pain of my knee striking old stone.

And I licked.

The taste?

Dust, leather, and rot.

And beneath it?

Power.

Oberen kicked me in the jaw. Not hard but just enough. A playful little tap from a god to his favorite marionette, a reminder of who owned the stage. I rolled back onto the floor, dazed, spitting blood—and grinning like I’d just kissed the devil. He flicked me a single chip.

Five crowns. Gleaming like a funeral coin. His eyes burned brighter than before. No longer dim. No longer human.

"Last game," he rasped. "Let’s make it poetic."

He placed five hundred crowns onto the table. My breath caught. Five hundred to my five. The stakes tilted like a mountain ready to crush me.

He dealt again.

The crowd leaned in, eyes wide.

He made a show of playing with them now—gesturing, drawing with flair, milking every reaction like a magician exposing tricks no one understood. The Joker floated between our hands like a ghost of the inevitable.

And I lost.

Again.

The table nearly shook from his chuckle. Low and hoarse, like a cough buried in gravel. I barely heard it. Because I was already moving, slow and intentional. I reached back into my coat, the fabric whispering as it shifted.

And then—

I pulled out the chip.

Golden-edged and heavy enough to shift gravity. Ten thousand crowns. I placed it on the table with a quiet click.

Silence fell like a guillotine. Not the playful hush of a tense table. Not anticipation, real silence. The kind that made your ears ring. That pressed into your ribs and made you forget how to breathe, that made the air taste metallic, electric—like the moment before lightning hits.

The candles above seemed to dim. The audience stilled. A chip bounced off the floor nearby and no one even blinked. All eyes turned toward us. And Oberen—Oberen froze like he’d been struck. His hands locked mid-gesture, fingers twitching faintly. His mouth hung half-open, caught between a laugh and a gasp.

And his eyes?

Locked on the chip, as if it were a loaded pistol aimed at the part of him that still remembered fear.

"Where..." Oberen rasped, the word cracking like dried leaves. "Where did you get that?"

I pulled out my feathered pen and held it between two fingers, letting its dark surface catch the low of the amber light. It gleamed with quiet menace—like a shard of moonlight dipped in blood and secret truths. The ink still shimmered at its tip, as if it remembered every name it had rewritten.

"A pen of mine," I said softly. "Didn’t really know why it was worth so much."

He reached out, hands shaking with something more than age. Reverence? Dread? His fingertips brushed the relic like it might vanish, like it might bite. When he finally held it, he didn’t move. Just stared—turning it slowly, delicately, like a priest handling a holy artifact. The light caught in his eyes, and for the first time, I saw it.

Terror.

"I...I used to collect relics," he whispered, almost too low to hear. "Long ago. Before the Tower swallowed me."

The past clung to his voice like dust in a tomb.

"This shouldn’t exist," he murmured. "This is nearly price—"

He trembled—but only for a heartbeat. Then the mask slid back on. He straightened, face smooth again, expression calm. Only his hands betrayed him, one tremor rippling through his fingers as he slid my pen back across the table.

"Very well," he said. "One final game."

He snapped his fingers.

"Bring an Overseer."

The Overseer arrived light midnight—quick and quiet, like a thought spoken too loudly in the wrong room. He was draped in dark robes that brushed the ground without wrinkling, his face veiled in layered silk that moved like mist. The air around him bent slightly, like reality was holding its breath.

His hands—gloved in something that shimmered with soft, hungry light—rested calmly at his sides. Magic swirled around them like threads looking for seams to unravel. His voice, when he spoke, was clean, cold, and sharp enough to cut through fate itself.

"Stakes exceed one thousand crowns. I shall observe. Being caught cheating results in immediate loss. Confirmed?"

Oberen faltered, but only briefly, before nodding.

"Confirmed," I echoed.

The Overseer glanced at Oberen.

"Your total wagered holdings amount to eight thousand, five hundred crowns."

Oberen nodded again before reaching slowly into his sleeve. He placed down one final chip, black and sharp-edged, etched in runes.

"Jazmin," he said, his voice a thread pulled tight.

My heart stuttered.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t look at me. She didn’t have to. This had always been the plan. She was never just a distraction, never just a tool. She was the final stake—the ace hidden beneath the table. Fifteen hundred crowns’ worth of flesh, beauty, and betrayal, a woman carved to be worshiped, sold, and finally...weaponized.

The Overseer nodded once, as though the world had shifted without our permission.

"Final wager set. Begin."

The cards were dealt.

I didn’t blink.

The game unfolded like a story I already knew.

Jazmin’s twitches were surgical now—sharp, precise, intentional. A flick of her tail when it mattered. A blink that lingered too long. A breath caught in her throat just as the Joker neared. Tiny fractures in her performance only I could read.

Oberen was soaked in sweat now, his brittle fingers trembling each time he drew, breath growing shorter with every round. And yet, he believed. In her. In their system. He thought he was still in control. How cute.

Because how could I possibly see it? I was the fool. The pathetic little man who licked at boots and cried over spilled chips. The one who begged, who trembled, who folded when the stakes got too high. That was who I let him see.

Now, it was time for the final draw.

Three cards remained—two in my hand, one in his. The entire table balanced on that last turn of fate. Oberen stared at me like I was a mirror he hadn’t expected to crack. Something shifted in his eyes—something uneasy, brittle. He looked to Jazmin for confirmation.

She smiled, faint and still.

One ear twitched.

The card on the right.

He reached for it.

Just then the air thickened and the room inhaled as one. His fingers closed around the card, trembling. He began to lift it. And then—

I smiled.

Slow and intentional, the kind of smile that split masks from the inside out.

"Are you sure?" I whispered.

It landed like a thunderclap and the illusion shattered. Oberen froze mid-motion. His eyes snapped back to mine. And for the first time since I sat down, I saw it—raw, sharp, and unmistakable.

Fear.

A primal kind of fear—the kind that seeps in when the foundation of control begins to crack, when the prey you thought you’d butchered starts baring its teeth. His pupils quivered inside bloodshot whites, and for a moment—just a sliver of it—he looked small. A man caught in the act. A liar seen through. A cheater one step from collapse.

"You..." he hissed, the word slipping out like venom from between clenched teeth. "You little shit."

His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with the rage of a king whose kingdom had just been mocked by a jester in rags.

"You think you’re clever, don’t you?" His voice rose now, scraping against the stone walls like knives on bone. "You think you can shake me, rattle me with a smirk and some cheap parlor line? Is that what this is?"

I said nothing, just sat there, watching.

Smiling.

Gods, it must’ve infuriated him.

"You’re a man on the last legs of desperation," Oberen snarled, voice swelling with every breath. "A loser who licked boots, who cried in front of a room of strangers like a mewling child—and now you have the audacity to pretend you’re anything else?"

He laughed then.

Bitter. Barking. Breaking.

It wasn’t joy. It was self-defense wrapped in mockery. The kind of laugh a drowning man gives to the boat just out of reach. He glanced toward Jazmin. Her face was unreadable now—no more smirks, no playful edge, no twitch in her tail or nose or ears. She was stone.

He hated that. The doubt burned behind his eyes. I leaned forward ever so slightly, voice low, almost tender.

"You’re sweating, Oberen."

His eyes widened for half a second, and then he snapped.

With a suddenness that shattered the moment, he roared, "Enough!"

He seized the card with a wicked smile.

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