My Femboy System-Chapter 45: Let’s go Gambling

There are lines you wait in that make you question your choices—queues for confession, execution, or, gods forbid, midwinter discount sales.

But this? This line felt older. Hungrier. Like the floor itself was sizing up its next meal and quietly hoping you tasted of despair and poor impulse control.

We stood at the edge of Greed’s waiting room—an atrium carved from stone and heat, lit by oil lamps and the glint of crushed gems. Sand whispered across the ground as other guests filed in, drawn and worn, their eyes already drinking in the spectacle before them.

Before us stood the front desk, a massive altar of obsidian and bone, manned by a figure dressed in immaculate black robes, face hidden behind a theatrical mask carved with an eternal smile and tear-streaked eyes.

The guest ahead of us stepped forward, twitchy and barefoot, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the desk man raised one gloved hand with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for funerals and last rites.

"Welcome," said the desk man, his voice like chocolate dripping into wine. "You have reached the third floor of the Tower of Sin: The Gilded Pit of Greed. Your objective here is simple. Accumulate one hundred thousand golden crowns in the form of chips to earn passage to the next floor. A mere hundred will earn you access to the casino proper."

The man blinked. "Crowns? I—I don’t have a single coin on me!"

The desk man’s mask did not blink, yet it’s smile seemed to deepen.

"No problem," said the desk man. "All things are currency here. Guests may trade any item in their possession for chips. Any item at all."

The man’s brows creased. Then, slowly, with increasing panic, he began to strip. One layer, then another, until he stood bare before the altar of wealth, shame washing over him in waves. The desk man accepted the heap of clothes with gloved hands and studied them with the intensity of an art critic inspecting a half-finished masterpiece.

A moment passed.

Then the man slid a single, glimmering chip across the counter.

"Value: ten crowns," the desk man intoned. "Worn, stained, but woven from fine-threaded blend. Quality unimpressive. Sentimental weight: negligible. Value: minimal."

The man sputtered. "That’s it?! I’m naked!"

"Your pride," the desk man replied without inflection, "carries no market value here. Only fools try to sell it. Would you like to be kicked from the waiting room now or continue to barter?"

The man began to shake. His hands searched his body with the desperation of a drunk hunting for forgotten change in an empty purse. He whimpered. Then stopped.

His eyes locked on his hand. The desk man followed his gaze.

"Ah," he said. "Yes. That can be exchanged as well."

The air stilled.

"You—you’re saying I can sell my—my hand?"

"Of course. Everything has value. Ten fingers: fifty crowns. One full hand: one hundred and fifty. Forearm: three hundred. Upper arm included? One thousand."

"You’re mad," the man gasped, backing away. "You’re insane!"

"No," the desk man replied with quiet certainty. "Merely...honest."

The man paced, muttering, shaking, clutching his arm as if it might crawl off his body and offer itself up. The others in line watched him as one might watch an insect teetering on the lip of a blade. The desk man waited.

Unmoving. Unflinching. Unwilling to offer salvation.

Finally, with a strangled cry, the man stepped forward and placed his hand on the counter. "Take it," he whispered. "Just—just take it."

The desk man nodded and two masked attendants appeared from the gloom, gliding across the stone like shadows wearing human skin. The man was escorted behind a curtain of crimson silk.

And then—

A scream.

It didn’t echo.

It bent the room.

The kind of scream that split time and tore language from the throat. Wet, final, and undeniably human. When he emerged, the man was...different. His right arm was gone, severed clean at the shoulder and wrapped in fresh white bandages. His face was slack, dazed, and trembling—but also smiling.

It was the kind of smile that belonged to saints, lunatics, and those who had already surrendered to the game.

"Next," the desk man called gently.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching softly on the sand-stained floor. I placed the heavy pouch of gold coins onto the desk with a satisfying thump. The desk man tilted his head. His gloved fingers danced open the bag and poured the crowns onto the black stone. The coins glittered like teeth in firelight.

"One hundred crowns," he intoned, clearly impressed. "Base access granted. But there’s more, isn’t there?"

I smiled and began emptying my pockets.

Loose items fell like raindrops: a miniature bone comb from Ventri, two perfume vials—one cracked, one cursed—and a black-laced glove that may or may not have belonged to a nobleman I once seduced and then accidentally stuffed into a harp.

The desk man examined each item, placing chips beside them with surgical precision. "Comb: five. Vials: thirty. Glove: fifteen Total: fifty."

Before I could decide whether to be impressed or insulted, Willow stepped forward, stretching like a cat with far too much self-confidence and far too little fabric.

"Well," she purred, already peeling off her boots, "since we’re already getting naked emotionally, might as well contribute."

I turned—just in time to catch her stepping forward and shrugging out of her dress like it was made of mist and regret. Beneath it? Nothing but confidence, attitude, and the kind of artful wickedness sculptors weep to capture.

She dropped her dress and boots onto the counter like a queen surrendering a kingdom she never really cared about. The desk man froze mid-notation. His gloved fingers twitched.

"Dress: fifteen crowns," he murmured, voice ever so slightly hoarse. "Boots: ten. Combined: twenty-five."

I didn’t look at Willow. I didn’t need to. I was too busy watching Aria.

Aria, to her credit, tried to stay composed.

Tried.

But her face went from soft-pale to deep-crimson in a single heartbeat. She covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide, breath hitching like someone had slapped her nervous system into overdrive. Each inhale came sharp and shallow, fingers trembling slightly against her lips.

I glanced at her sideways.

"You alright?"

She nodded furiously, then squeaked, "Fine."

Miko leaned over and whispered, "She’s definitely not fine."

Willow just winked. "She’ll get used to it."

The man at the desk let out a loud, overbearing cough, pulling back the attention in the room.

He looked up at me. "Would you like to register any items as well?"

I raised a brow. "Register?"

"Registered items," he explained, "can be gambled directly, sold, or recollected at any time. Their value remains fluid while you’re in the casino. But the list is final. Once you leave the waiting room, the registry is sealed. No additions. No subtractions. Should they be lost, they are lost forever."

I considered, then pulled my pen and dagger from my coat. The moment the feathered pen hit the counter, the desk man froze. His breath hitched. He reached forward with trembling reverence. He didn’t touch it—he dared not. But he studied the pen like it was a blade pulled from a god’s spine.

"This..." he whispered. "This is..."

He checked a book. Whispered into the darkness. Waited for a whisper back.

"Value: ten thousand crowns."

He swallowed. "Possibly more. Possibly priceless."

I smirked.

He turned to the dagger next.

"Ornamental," he muttered. "Well-forged. Blood-soaked. Sentimentally saturated. Value: five hundred crowns."

Two chips were placed on the altar. One thick and golden, shimmering with subtle power. One thinner and silver-veined.

"Would you like to register party members as well?" the desk man asked without looking up.

My expression froze. frёeωebɳovel.com

"I beg your pardon?"

"You may place them into the registry," he said evenly. "Value: approximately fifteen hundred crowns each. Their chips will remain tied to you—controllable, reclaimable. Optional. But not unheard of."

I turned to face my party. They stared back at me—not with fear, not with accusation, but with something far more unbearable.

Trust.

Leo gave a slow, deliberate nod. His eyes, always so watchful, didn’t waver. "If it gives us a better chance...do it."

Willow tilted her head, the faintest smirk playing at her lips. "Just make sure I’m worth more than the curtains."

Aria’s voice was soft. "I trust you."

Miko was quiet. No quip. Just a small shrug and a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The weight of them settled over me—not like chains, but like responsibility made flesh. I hesitated. Then I nodded once, solemn and certain.

"Register them."

The desk man moved with speed now, creating chips carved from something darker—bone laced with obsidian, each one etched with their name and crest. He placed them into a separate pouch and handed it to me with both hands, as if passing over someone’s heart.

"Total value registered: sixteen thousand five hundred crowns. Total chips on hand: seventy-five crowns."

Just then my eyes flicked to the counter, where an odd-looking box sat apart from the usual clutter. It was small, blackened, and carved with intricate runes that seemed to pulse faintly under the dim light.

I nodded toward it. "What’s in that?"

The man’s expression tightened, just for a heartbeat. "That box," he said carefully, "is reserved for only the highest of bets in the casino. It hasn’t been opened in over a decade. It’s contents are of no importance to you."

He didn’t elaborate further, letting the weight of the silence fill the space between us, yet I noted the box in the back of my mind.

It could be a key to something useful later on.

I pocketed the pouch, straightened my coat and turned to the stairway that led into the casino proper.

The moment my foot touched the step, a figure appeared at the top of the curve. She descended with grace like dripping honey and heat.

Bronze skin shimmered with gold dust, her lithe body clothed in scandal and chainmail, every inch of her wrapped in jewelry and danger. Dark, jackal ears flicked above her head, tall and alert, twitching at the slightest sound like radar tuned to secrets.

Her slitted amber eyes gleamed with the kind of focus predators reserved for wounded prey—sharp, unblinking, and far too clever. Every glance felt deliberate, every movement choreographed by something ancient.

A beastfolk.

And from the looks of her? One high on the food chain.

She moved without speaking, walking up to me in a slow spiral like I was a sun she hadn’t decided whether to orbit or devour. Her gaze drifted past me—to Leo.

He flushed red.

Delicious.

Without a word, she turned and motioned me forward, to the upper floors. I looked back at my party.

"Stay here," I said. "Keep your heads down. Don’t engage unless you have to."

Willow gave a little wave. "Don’t die dramatically without us."

I followed the jackal-eared woman, each step ringing louder than the last.

The casino waited above—its golden lungs already inhaling, preparing to see what I would wager next.

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