My Femboy System-Chapter 48: The Subtle Art of Winning

Every breath I took dragged dust and tension into my lungs.

Oberen’s trembling fingers hovered over the card he had just plucked from my hand and slammed onto the table, not daring to flip it just yet, as if even touching it might snap the last thread of his sanity.

I watched him, still and patient, with Jazmin resting in my lap like a decadent afterthought.

Around us, the den watched with dead eyes—spectators too broken to gamble, too haunted to leave. They’d seen men lose everything here. They’d never seen a man like me.

Oberen tapped the back of the card with one yellowed fingernail. Just once. Just enough to make a sound that rang in my ears like the start of a sermon.

His eyes, bloodshot and glistening with anticipation, locked onto mine.

"You’ve got a fine face for failure, boy," he rasped, voice thick with smug rot. "It’s the kind they carve into cautionary statues."

I said nothing.

He chuckled, dry as bone dust. "You ever watch a man break from the inside out? Most scream. Some laugh. The smart ones don’t make a sound—they just look down, realize they were never special, and finally shut the hell up."

He leaned in, the edge of the card trembling just slightly between his fingers. "And you thought you could bluff me. Thought you’d swagger in here with your poet’s coat and your cocky little grin and outplay me. I’ve gutted men who played cleaner games than you."

His grin widened, like the jaws of something that had mistaken me for prey.

Then, with hands steady and swollen with certainty—

Oberen flipped the card with a bang.

The Joker stared back.

Oberen didn’t move at first.

His hand stayed clenched around the edge of the card, fingers white with pressure, mouth ajar as if he meant to protest but couldn’t remember how language worked. His eyes bulged slightly, trembling in their sockets. I could see the exact moment his brain connected the truth—he’d lost.

Not just the game, but everything he thought gave him power. It wasn’t just a bad draw he was facing—it was a death sentence wrapped in ink and symbolism.

I leaned forward, plucked the second card from the table—nine of hearts. Matched it with my other nine and tapped the pair on the felt like a soft drumbeat.

"Pair complete," I said, letting the words land like a guillotine.

My voice was calm, almost bored, like I was calling out a grocery list and not his soul’s eviction notice.

The Overseer stepped forward without a word, his silhouette gliding through the dense heat of the room like a cut in the world itself. From a sleeve of black silk, he produced a satchel of weighty chips and placed them before me with deliberate precision.

The heavy clink of ten black-edged tokens, each carved with runes of value, hit the table. The Overseer’s voice cut the tension like a whisper made of razors: "Victory confirmed. Ten thousand crowns transferred."

The room inhaled as one.

Oberen exploded.

He shot to his feet like a man being burned alive, his chair clattering to the ground behind him. His eyes were wild now, feral, the cracked vessel of his composure leaking madness by the second.

"You cheated!" he howled, voice ragged with disbelief. "You little shit! You scammed me! You colluded—you—!"

The Overseer didn’t respond. He simply turned and walked into the shadows, robes trailing behind like water parting for silence. He did not justify the result. He didn’t need to. The Tower had spoken.

Oberen whirled on me, spit flying from his lips, eyes nearly tearing from the sockets. "You did something! You—you—how did you—? It’s not possible—Jazmin never misses a signal!"

"She didn’t," I said, almost gently. "She just decided against it."

That shut him up for exactly two seconds before he barked a laugh so brittle it cracked. "Bullshit! That’s what this is. You’re full of it. Jazmin would never betray me. I pulled her from the streets, gave her a name, a home, luxury. Her loyalty runs deeper than blood!"

He turned to her now, like she might confirm his delusion. Like she might laugh at me, throw her arms around him, and deny it all with tears of relief. But she didn’t.

She stood, visibly disgusted, and that alone felt like thunder in the bones of the room.

Her gaze didn’t meet his. It drifted lower instead—down the length of her body, down to her thigh, where her fingers casually lifted the hem of her dress. The motion was slow, elegant, and absolutely final.

And there it was.

The mark.

Etched into her skin like a second heartbeat. Glowing faintly, an elegant swirl of ink formed in the curve of command—a sigil designed to be beautiful, binding, and unbreakable. Oberen froze. His face paled like all the blood in his body had abandoned him. His hands fell limp to his sides. When he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Only breath.

I didn’t gloat.

Not yet.

Because the truth was worse than he imagined.

The pen I’d used—my sacred relic, he’d seen the pen. He’d felt its value. But he didn’t understand it. I’d secretly used it on Jazmin before we collapsed into sleep.

A brush against her thigh beneath the sheets, delicate and deliberate, disguised as post-coital affection. When she fell into unconsciousness, I whispered the phrase that ignited my skill: Velvet Command. The sigil bloomed silently, and with it, her will bent—not against her nature, but toward mine.

The command wasn’t even complex.

"Help me win," I had whispered. "In every way that matters."

Jazmin didn’t flinch now. She didn’t apologize.

She only smiled before this time completely lifting her dress to reveal her...now his complete anatomy...all parts included.

Oberen broke.

He fell back a step, then another. His hand touched the wall behind him like he needed proof the world was still solid. "You really are the devil," he whispered.

I took that as a compliment.

I stood slowly, the sound of my coat sliding against the back of the chair smooth and final. Jazmin stepped away, silent as a dream, his tail curling like a question mark. I turned to follow, boots crunching lightly on the sand-dusted floor.

And that’s when he crumbled.

Oberen dropped to his knees like a marionette with its strings cut, crawling around the table like an insect, then at my coat. "Please," he rasped. "Just...just one chip. I can rebuild. I can start again. I deserve another chance."

Oh, how the mighty weep.

Oberen’s gnarled hands scrabbled at my boots, trembling as he tugged at the laces like a beggar denied warmth. His breaths came in short, frantic bursts—choked by shame, smothered by the weight of the room’s judgment.

His face twisted with desperation, eyes glazed, no longer a man of wagers and words—but a beast brought low.

I grabbed him by the hair—thin and white, brittle as old straw—and slammed his face against the sandstone floor. There was a crack, the wet crunch of cartilage folding in the wrong direction. Blood smeared in a perfect crescent beneath his ruined nose.

"Lick," I said.

And he did.

Not just a lick—a groveling, wet, trembling submission. His tongue dragged along the dusty leather of my boot like he was tasting salvation. Like every scrape of salt and filth might grant him absolution.

He licked like a man dying of thirst at a poisoned well.

The others erupted.

Laughter—cruel, raucous, echoing—burst from the walls like cannon fire. Spectators clutched one another, gasping between screams of delight. They roared in approval as Oberen, the once-proud master of games, debased himself in the filth of his own altar.

When he was done, when his lips were stained with blood, dust, and bile, he lifted two trembling hands, reaching with the blind reverence of a dying man toward a god.

His voice cracked. "Please..."

I reached into my coat—slowly, deliberately, dragging the silence to its breaking point—and pulled out a single chip that I had kept hidden. Pale ivory. Worthless and priceless all at once.

I held it out before him like an icon. A final mercy.

His eyes widened. His mouth opened in wonder, lips stammering over promises and sobs.

"Thank you—oh, thank you, I’ll never forget this, I swear—I’ll—"

I flipped the chip once across my knuckles.

Then palmed it.

It vanished without a trace.

"Surprise," I said, my mouth, tongue and all, bent into a wicked smile so wide even my eyes curled up in glee.

The scream that tore from him wasn’t human. It was the sound of pride splintering, of a man watching the last piece of his identity dissolve into ash.

I leaned down, slow and merciless, letting him see the smile that had won the game. Then I raised my boot, and shoved it straight into his mouth.

He choked immediately, body convulsing as leather scraped tongue, teeth, throat. Tears spilled freely down his bloodied cheeks, mixing with spit as I pressed—not cruelly, not gently—just enough to remind him of his new place.

Then I stepped back. Oberen collapsed like a puppet with its strings slashed, gasping for air, retching with blood, and sobbing uncontrollably.

I didn’t say a word, didn’t need to.

Jazmin followed in my wake, his steps silent and fluid, the embodiment of a whisper—no footfall, no breath. Just moonlight given hips.

We descended the stairs like a funeral procession for a god who never deserved worship. Halfway down, I tried holding back a giggle. However, I simply couldn’t contain the laughter that burst from my lips.

It was low at first. Then louder.

It was the kind of laugh that cracked cathedral walls, that made statues weep and saints forget their prayers, the laugh of a man who had gambled everything, torn off the mask, and found the world lacking.

We passed the threshold of the third floor, and then the second, walking with purpose that felt ritualistic. One step, one floor, one layer peeled back from the Tower’s rotting heart. By the time we reached the first, the others were waiting. Or rather, they found me—like iron drawn to magnetism.

Willow arrived first, unfurling from the shadows like silk slipping off a dagger. Her smile was lazy, feline. Dangerous.

Leo came next, bruised and bloodied from something violent. There was a split on his lip and fire in his eyes, but he said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Aria stepped out from behind a column, her crystalline blue dress still torn, her hair wild, and her gaze still glimmering with constellations. The Tower hadn’t dimmed her. Only sharpened her edges.

Miko was last—grinning, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Something about him had stiffened, hardened. He looked like a man who had learned too much in too little time.

We gathered at the center of the grand entrance hall, marble beneath us, shadows above, air far too still to be natural.

"Where’ve you been?" Aria asked, voice cautious.

I lifted the leather pouch from my belt. Tossed it once. Let it land in my palm with a heavy, satisfying thud.

Ten thousand crowns.

The room stilled. Eyes locked to the pouch like it pulsed with life.

Leo tilted his head. "You didn’t rob a vault, did you?"

I gave him a grin made of knives. "Worse. I robbed a man’s soul. And then I made him thank me for it."

No one laughed.

Even Miko whistled, long and low. "Damn."

Willow blinked, her voice soft with a rare kind of respect. "I’ve seen you do some wicked shit, Cecil. But that? That’s twisted even by my standards."

I opened the pouch with a flick of my fingers. Inside, chips gleamed like relics pulled from beneath the earth. I handed them out one by one—equal cuts.

"This," I said, savoring the weight of the moment, "is our war chest."

"For what?" Leo asked, eyes narrowed.

"To either crush Vincent in an all-out battle of coin and blood..."

I smiled.

"Or buy our way out when everything turns to shit."

They took the chips in silence, tucking them into hidden places—sleeves, boots, belts, collars. We were no longer wanderers, no longer pawns. We were investors now, and we were going to bankrupt a god. The atmosphere shifted. You could feel it—coiled anticipation, the promise of controlled violence. We weren’t just confident— freeweɓnovel~cѳm

We were hungry.

I pointed, one by one, each gesture a commandment.

"Find the snobbiest, richest, most arrogantly bankrupt souls in this floor’s filth. Bet just below the thousand crown mark. Stay under the Overseer’s radar. Bleed them dry."

They nodded.

I held Willow back for a second, whispering something in her ear. She smiled faintly before letting out a slow, stifled giggle.

And then they scattered like wolves released into a ballroom. I walked up to the second floor balcony and rested one hand on the rail, watching it all unfold beneath me. Cards shuffled. Dice clattered. Laughter rose and fell like waves on a poisoned tide.

It had begun.

Miko slid into games like smoke in a wine glass, his shadows reaching out to nudge dice, tip cards, whisper secrets. No one saw him cheat—but they felt it.

Aria’s strange shimmered behind her like a veil. Each time she somehow predicted a draw, people stared. Whispered. Some accused her. But she just smiled, gently radiant, and they believed.

Leo played with emotion. Sweet. Innocent. Vulnerable. Then he stared. Glared. His fist twitched, and suddenly opponents were folding out of pure intimidation.

Jazmin? A machine. Elegant and ruthless. Cards like razors. Smirks like daggers. He didn’t just play—he demolished.

But Willow...

Willow played a different game entirely.

She slipped through the crowd like silk—seducing the front desk clerk with a sultry smile, a whispered promise, and a brush of fingers that left a trail of heat. Nobles circled her like moths to flame, desperate for a touch, a glance, a stolen moment.

With effortless grace, she laughed her way into locked rooms and private chambers, her lips ghosting over wrists, her voice a secret only meant for the lucky—or the foolish.

Behind a velvet curtain, she vanished with the man at the front desk. Moments later, she reappeared, a sly grin curving her lips, the mysterious black box cradled in her palms and chips spilling like coins from her fingers.

It was time.

Willow’s grin deepened as she approached me on the second floor balcony, the black box resting like a secret treasure in her palms.

"It’s here," she whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief.

I took the box with a slow smile, fingers tracing the worn edges. Opening it revealed exactly what I’d been hoping for—a plain, unadorned set of playing cards.

No tricks. No illusions, just the raw tools of the game. Without a word, I slipped into a private room, shutting the door behind me. Hours passed in silence broken only by the faint rustle of cards and whispered calculations.

When I finally emerged, sweat glinting on my forehead and a new fire in my eyes, I handed the box back to Willow.

"Get it back where it belongs. Quietly."

She nodded, already melting into the shadows.

The casino pulsed around me—golden light, thick perfume, the clink of coin and crystal. Time slipped past like oil through fingers. Wagers blurred into stories. Wine ran like water.

And then—

I looked up. My body shivered as I saw him.

Vincent.

He stood motionless on the third-floor balcony, framed in flickering chandelier light like some idol carved from malice and marble. His coat, jet-black and razor-cut, clung to him like shadow tailored by gods. Not a wrinkle. Not a speck.

His dead winter eyes glinted with something old and patient. Then he raised one hand, slowly and deliberately, a single finger pointed down at the central pit.

No words.

No theatrics.

Just that simple, inevitable gesture.

An invitation.

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