My Femboy System
Chapter 28: Arrival in Ventri

Chapter 28: Arrival in Ventri

We walked.

Gods, did we walk.

The stretch between the wreckage and Ventri was long, cold, and uncomfortably quiet. A day of wind-split hills and dirt paths slicked with melting frost. Every step squelched. Every gust stung. And still, we walked.

Miko trudged beside me with his hood pulled low, the tips of his hair fluttering like a dying moth. I envied his silence. Mine had begun to crack like old porcelain.

"It’s official," I announced to the hills. "This is the longest I’ve gone without getting wine-drunk, propositioned, or stabbed. The restraint is killing me."

Miko let out a slight giggle, glad to see me back to my old self.

We passed a frozen orchard where the trees looked like they’d clawed themselves out of the soil and died standing. A murder of crows watched us from the bare limbs above, which I took as a good omen. Anything involving murder usually meant I was close to something interesting.

And then—finally—on the second dusklight breath of our cursed journey, the city revealed itself.

Ventri.

A beast of a place. A city so vast it spilled over its own hills, coiling with towers and half-sunken bridges like some great, sleeping leviathan. Red mist clung to the rooftops, and the cobbled streets burned with oil-lamps in hues of blood and garnet. Lust. Power. Passion. And underneath it all—secrets.

I sighed, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

"Home sweet hell," I muttered.

We descended into the outer district—no walls, just a shift in mood. One moment wilderness, the next, decadence with a knife’s edge. A row of brothels met us almost instantly, some carved from old chapels, others barely more than canvas tents with heart-shaped windows.

A man in nothing but a velvet thong called out, "Looking for a night of divine ecstasy?" before winking at Miko.

Two women with spiral tattoos on their bare thighs tried to pull us toward a painted wagon advertising The Madam’s Cursed Touch. I had to swat them away with theatrical disdain.

Miko, for his part, seemed more stunned than repulsed.

"Is it always like this here?" he asked, side-eying a trio of drunks who had clearly taken an unhealthy interest in his hips.

"Red is more than a color in Ventri, darling," I said. "It’s a currency. It’s hunger, dressed up in silk and moaning your name."

A fat man with a wine-blossomed nose whistled at Miko. "How much for the pretty one?" he slurred.

"Twice what your liver’s worth," I snapped.

He paled and stumbled away.

Miko shot me a look, part flattered, part annoyed.

"I’m going to kill someone before we even reach the damn Baron," he muttered.

"That’s the spirit."

We were headed toward the place of Baron Wesley, and old friend from the capital city of Soloris and our main source of information.

As the city sprawled wider and deeper, the buildings lost their polish. Brick turned to rot, and gold leaf flaked from temple doors. We followed a twisting alley until it dumped us into the slums—where real power often lingered. The red haze thickened, made viscous by smoke and sweat. Somewhere, a woman laughed and screamed in the same breath.

And there it was.

The Baron’s theater.

A dilapidated relic of what may have once been a chapel or a music hall—now adorned with paper lanterns shaped like breasts and a marquee that simply read: Tonight’s Feature: Blood and Creation.

Charming.

I paused before the doors and turned to Miko. "Before we enter, a warning. The Baron is a friend. But he’s also crude, grotesque, and dangerously entertained by other people’s misery. We are not here to like him. We are here to use him."

Miko arched a brow. "So, like most of your friends."

I grinned. "Exactly."

We stepped inside.

Heat and laughter hit us first. The scent of perfume and smoke made my nose wrinkle. The house was full—merchants in embroidered coats, painted nobles lounging with concubines on either arm. The stage was set but bare. Two men stood at its center in mismatched tunics, clearly sweating through their lines.

"Is this... supposed to be a play?" Miko whispered.

"Technically."

The actors fumbled with their swords—wooden props at first glance—though they shook with real weight. One whispered a line too loudly. The other stuttered through a monologue, clearly praying for it to end.

I spotted the Baron easily. Front row. Surrounded by courtesans and cackling so hard he had to wipe tears from his cheeks with a perfumed handkerchief.

I led Miko to a seat in the shadows—far corner, where the sound was softest and the smell of whiskey hadn’t yet permeated the floorboards.

Then the fight began.

The swords they drew weren’t props. I knew steel when I saw it.

And gods, did they swing.

It wasn’t art. It was panic—two desperate men swatting at each other, blades clanging, gasps rising from the audience.

Miko tensed. "They’re going to kill each other."

"That’s the point," I said. "The Baron buys prisoners. Makes them act. Then pits them against each other. Loser dies. Winner gets...marginally better lodging."

A gasp. One of the men stumbled back, clutching his stomach. Blood poured from between his fingers.

The other advanced, eyes wild, mouth trembling.

Then—a strike to the heart.

The crowd cheered like children at a puppet show. The Baron howled with laughter, slamming his fist on the edge of the balcony.

"Encore! Encore!" he bellowed.

I closed my eyes briefly.

"Gods preserve us," Miko murmured.

"No gods in this theater," I said. "Only appetites for blood."

The play ended with the victor bowing stiffly, clearly traumatized. The body was dragged offstage without ceremony.

It was time.

We approached the Baron, who was now swimming in perfumed bodies, laughing into the cleavage of a woman who looked entirely disinterested.

When he saw me, his expression exploded into a grin.

"Well I’ll be fucked sideways by a ghost," he roared. "Cecil fucking Valen. What happened to your face? You look like a haunted painting!"

"Charmed," I said, brushing ash from my sleeve.

He snapped his fingers, and two girls slid off his lap. "Come. Sit. You’re a fucking sight. A wretched one, but a sight nonetheless."

I took the seat next to him. Miko hovered.

"Get this man some clothes!" the Baron barked. "And a wash basin! He looks like he rolled through his own funeral!"

I stripped down without ceremony.

Instantly, I was swarmed by women—naked and soft scented like orange blossoms and honey. Lips kissed my neck, my collarbone, the corner of my mouth. A tongue licked behind my ear. Hands roamed with muscle memory.

The Baron grinned. "We’ve done this dance a few times, haven’t we, Saint Cecil?"

"I didn’t come here to indulge," I said, though I wasn’t exactly pushing them away.

Miko stiffened at the sight. Something close to jealousy—or judgment—flashed in his eyes.

The Baron noticed. "Aw, don’t sulk, pretty one. Come here."

Before Miko could protest, the Baron had pulled him into his lap.

Miko bristled. "I am not—"

"Shh," the Baron crooned, stroking his hair. "Such lovely hair, such dainty bones. You’d sell for a fortune."

I cleared my throat. "He’s not for sale."

"A shame," the Baron purred, his fingers drifting toward Miko’s lower back. "Your properties are always delectable."

"Focus," I snapped.

The Baron waved the girls away. They pouted, but obeyed.

I laid it out. The wreck. The assassin. Vincent.

The Baron’s expression shifted—just slightly. Enough to know he’d heard that name before.

"Fuck," he muttered. "You always bring such delightful drama."

"I need your network," I said. "Your brothels. Your ears. You have eyes in places no one else does. Alongside this, I was hoping I could spread my Court’s influence within your brothels as well, I suspect it would benefit the both of us in the long run."

He sipped his wine. "You want information? Done. You want influence? Also doable. But..."

"There’s a catch."

He chuckled. "There always is. The City’s brothel oversight belongs to the Red Mistress now. She’s the City Lord. Dangerous woman. Rarely seen. The entire district bows to her."

"Can you tell me where to find her?"

"I could," he said, voice growing playful again. "But that’s heavily classified. Would take something... dramatic."

I frowned. "I have no coin. And you already know Miko’s off-limits."

He sighed theatrically. "No poetry in you anymore."

"Then what do you want?"

The Baron leaned in, grin widening.

"Perform for me," he said. "Star in my next play. Something twisted. Beautiful. Bloody. Something they’ll remember for decades."

I stared at him.

"And if I do?"

"I’ll get you everything. The Red Mistress. Vincent’s trail. Even a nice bottle of wine."

I stood slowly. "Fine. But I get to choose my costume."

He laughed. "Now we’re talking!"

I was ushered backstage, through velvet curtains that reeked of sex and stale sweat. A dresser handed me a black doublet embroidered with silver serpents, tight leather pants, and a rapier polished to a mirror sheen.

As I dressed, I stared into the cracked mirror before me.

Cecil Valen, resurrected.

Not the man who had knelt in the snow beside the wreckage.

No.

Something sharper now.

The audience began to chant beyond the curtain.

"Bring out the Saint!" they cried. "Bring out the priest of sin!"

I smiled.

Time to make them remember.

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