My Femboy System
Chapter 31: Carousel of Cruelty

Chapter 31: Carousel of Cruelty

The amusement park had not aged well. Once, perhaps, it was the jewel of Ventri’s childhood delights—a place of candied screams and sugar-spun hysteria. Now, it looked like joy had overdosed in a corner and no one had bothered to clean it up.

Ferris wheels creaked like haunted violins. The Tilt-a-Whirl sat in rusted silence, a skeletal husk of nostalgia. The popcorn stands had long since turned into beer booths, and the cotton candy machines now spun silk ropes for binding wrists.

Delightful.

I walked through the gates in Divine Femmeform—an artful vision of lust and theater wrapped in lace. Though still in my previous costume from the Baron’s theater, my hips swayed like a slow threat and my lips were glossed redder than sin. I was an open invitation with a dagger in my garter.

Miko and the beast boy trailed behind under the illusion of being two wide-eyed guests. The boy, still bruised but walking steadier now, hadn’t said much. But his ears were perked, his tail stiff with unease.

"I must say," I whispered to Miko as we slipped past a pair of scowling guards dressed like discount undertakers, "this is easily the cheeriest amusement park I’ve ever seen—assuming your idea of fun involves trauma and tetanus."

Miko didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He was staring ahead, face carved from stone.

Ah. He’d seen it too.

The carousel.

It sat in the center of the park like a grotesque crown jewel. Once, I imagined, it played bright music and bore painted horses for giggling children. Now, it groaned beneath the weight of bound bodies. Sex slaves—naked, drugged, displayed like glistening ornaments—were tied to the poles, rotating slowly as bidders circled.

Some of the audience clapped. Others licked their lips. One man was openly drooling into a lace handkerchief. A woman in furs was fanning herself with a ticket bearing a red insignia I didn’t recognize. Her laugh sounded like broken glass.

And then came the whimper.

A low, primal sound, somewhere between a growl and a plea. The beast boy.

He was trembling again, shoulders locked, teeth bared, tail puffed out like a struck cat. His golden eyes were fixed not on the carousel, but on one figure in particular.

A woman. Mid-twenties, perhaps. Dirty but defiant, strapped to the central horse like a prize. Her eyes were sharp despite the bruises. And in that moment, I saw it.

Recognition.

Somehow the beast boy knew her.

And judging by the tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes, she had once mattered very, very much.

"Miko," I said tightly, "don’t let him charge. Not yet."

Miko nodded. The beast boy didn’t move, but every fiber of him vibrated like a string stretched too far. I crouched slightly, fingers resting on the hilt of my disguised dagger.

The auction had begun.

A voice boomed from the speakers above, nasally and theatrical. "We begin with the main attraction, ladies and gents. A rare find! Strong. Spirited. Exotic bloodline with a history of rebellion. Bidding starts at fifty gold bars."

Fifty gold bars. That was enough to buy a vineyard, a small village, or a politician’s silence for a decade.

The bids flew in rapid-fire—sixty, seventy-five, one hundred.

The numbers soared like arrows dipped in madness. And just when it seemed it couldn’t possibly go higher—

"One-fifty," came a voice. Deep. Polished. The kind of voice that wore tailored suits to bed.

And as the crowd parted, he stepped forward.

Renolas Vaunte.

Of course.

Tall, elegant, and viciously handsome in a way that suggested his cheekbones had personally offended at least three gods. He wore a deep burgundy coat lined with fox fur, a cane with a silver handle, and a smile so smug it could’ve curdled fine wine.

I recognized him instantly.

The father of Pharrenwell Vaunte—the academy boy I had marked, twisted, and left a moaning wreck in more ways than one back during the early establishment of the Velvet Court.

He stood beside the auctioneer now, his hand casually extended as the woman was detached from the carousel and thrown at his feet like luggage.

She groaned.

He crouched, lifted her chin, and smiled.

And then he slapped her.

Hard.

"Be grateful," he sneered, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "You’ll be the most expensive bitch I’ve ever broken."

She winced. The beast boy snarled harder.

That was my cue.

I strutted forward, hips sashaying like rebellion incarnate. Every eye turned toward me as I approached the stage.

Renolas noticed. Of course he did.

His eyes narrowed. "Well. I’ll be damned."

"Already are," I said sweetly, climbing the steps. "But don’t worry. I’ve come to light the candles."

"Cecil Valen," he hissed, as though my name were a curse.

"In the divine flesh," I purred. "And you’ve aged terribly. But I suppose that’s what years of repression and overcompensation do to a man."

He snarled. "You...You ruined my son."

I tilted my head. "I improved him."

"You corrupted him. Turned him into a—into—"

"A functioning, self-actualized, bottom-heavy masterpiece?" I offered. "You’re welcome."

He raised a hand to strike me.

Oh, darling. Wrong play.

Before his palm could land, I caught his wrist mid-air. My grip tightened like velvet on a noose.

"Ah-ah-ah," I said, leaning in close. "Touch me again and I’ll turn you into something that bleeds glitter when aroused."

His face paled.

I pulled back, smiling like a viper in love.

"Now," I said sweetly, "let’s talk business."

Renolas staggered back a step, as if the very sound of my voice threatened to unravel his intestines. His eyes flicked toward the crowd, desperate for a lifeline—one that, unfortunately for him, had no intention of appearing.

"Oh, don’t bother," I said with a pitying coo. "You’re already losing."

"I want no dealings with you," he spat, wiping blood from his lip. "You’re the reason my son—my heir—walks like a whore now. You turned him into some simpering, painted little—"

I stepped in, and the shadows leaned with me. "Careful. I might think you’re jealous."

His jaw trembled.

"Let her go," I said, glancing to the woman still bound and silent on the floor beside him. "And in return, I’ll offer you something...merciful."

Renolas shook his head, his breath coming faster now. He opened his mouth, likely to offer some long-winded excuse for generational abuse, but I was already bored. With a snap of my fingers, a scroll appeared in a puff of perfumed smoke—lavender and rose, with a hint of burnt cinnamon.

Renolas flinched.

"Contract," I said simply. "Divine law. Gold ink. Impossibly binding and dazzlingly aesthetic."

He eyed it with the caution of a man who knew better, and yet also knew he’d already lost. "What...does it say?"

I smiled wider. "Oh, nothing scandalous. Just the usual. You sign, she walks free, and we all pretend you never slapped her like a wine-soaked toddler with a power complex."

He reached out slowly, trembling fingers brushing the scroll. "There’s no mention of money?"

"Of course not," I said, wounded. "How tacky."

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious now. "No punishment clause?"

"Renolas," I purred, "this isn’t about punishment. This is about liberation. Don’t you want to feel like a good man again? Imagine the applause when you return home and tell your stiff-backed wife and inbred dinner guests that you did the noble thing."

"And...will I be able to get my son back?"

"Why of course."

He hesitated.

"Besides," I added, a shade more firmly, "you don’t have much choice. Either sign, or I carve your secrets into the stone and make sure every brothel, temple, and tea house in Graywatch hears how you spend your Thursday nights."

He winced. "Fine."

The quill appeared in his hand like fate itself had slipped it between his fingers.

He signed.

The scroll glowed. Once. Twice. Then shimmered into golden dust and vanished with a musical chime.

The crowd gave a polite, confused clap. Renolas wiped his brow.

And I gave him a beat.

Just enough time for hope to creep back into his spine.

"Thank you," he said, voice breaking. "I—gods, I thought—I thought you were going to—"

"Oh, I still might," I said lightly. "But for now? No. You’ve done your part. She’s free."

The woman gasped softly as her bindings vanished in a puff of warmth, like a sigh from a kindly god. Miko rushed to her side, gently helping her stand.

"And me?" Renolas asked, licking his lips. "It’s done? We’re square?"

I tilted my head. "Hm. Not quite."

His face dropped. "But I signed—"

"Yes," I said, nodding. "You did. I’m very proud."

Then I reached into my coat and pulled out the duplicate clause, tucked safely in a silk-lined envelope like a love letter from a demon.

"Shall I read it aloud? Just a snippet. ’In addition to the immediate transfer of ownership, the signee accepts a nominal inheritance clause binding their entire lineage to a contractual obligation—three thousand bars, compounded quarterly.’"

Renolas froze.

"Wait. That wasn’t in the main—"

"Ah," I cut in, wagging a finger. "But it was. Tiny script. Near the bottom. Written in a dialect that predates common tongue. You remember Infernal Legalese, don’t you?"

His mouth opened.

Then shut.

Then opened again.

"You fucking bastard. You tricked me—!"

"I negotiated," I corrected. "You simply didn’t read the fine print. Always a fatal flaw in men who believe they own everything."

Renolas dropped to his knees. "Please—my estate can’t cover that kind of debt. My sons, my daughters—they’ll be ruined—"

"Oh, you poor thing," I cooed, crouching beside him. "You thought evil was supposed to be loud, didn’t you? Explosions, fire, curses. But real evil, Renolas? It’s quiet. It smiles. It hands you a pen and lets you ruin yourself."

I then turned to the woman and helped her to her feet. "Welcome to freedom. It’s a bit messy, but we have robes and therapy."

She didn’t smile, but her eyes gleamed.

I turned sharply to Miko. "Take her—and the boy—back to the Baron’s place. Now."

Miko’s eyes flickered with hesitation, doubt trailing like a shadow. "You’re not coming?"

I scanned the crowd. Too silent. Too rigid. The air tasted sharp, like a blade waiting to slide.

"No," I said, voice low and steady. "I have to focus on finding Mavus. Also, something’s approaching."

The beast boy’s gaze locked onto the gathering darkness. His fingers clenched, knuckles whitening with barely contained fury.

"You did well," I told him, voice a rasp of encouragement. "But this is the time for you to run."

A guttural growl escaped his throat, thick with resolve. He didn’t move away. Instead, he planted his feet firmly, shoulders squared.

He wasn’t leaving. Not now.

The women slipped past us with Miko, vanishing into the folds of shadow, but the boy remained—an anchor in the rising storm.

Then—the music stopped.

The carousel’s haunting melody died with a shriek and a metallic grind.

Lights flickered, then died. Darkness swallowed the edges of the clearing, as the crowd parted with a slow, sickening inevitability—like a wound peeling open, raw and trembling.

Two figures emerged from the gloom.

Seven feet tall each, and grotesquely beautiful in their unnatural stature.

They were clowns. But no child’s delight.

Patchwork suits of torn red and faded gold hung from their massive frames like cursed relics. Their porcelain masks were cracked, jagged fractures spiderwebbing around mouths twisted into silent snarls. One bore a horn crudely stitched into his chest, dripping something thick and black. The other dragged a ragged sack that seemed to pulse with whispered screams.

Their eyes—deep, bottomless pits of ink-black behind ghostly white makeup—locked onto me with cold, merciless intent.

"Oh," I whispered, feeling the chill crawl beneath my skin. "No. No, thank you."

They advanced without hesitation, heavy footsteps that barely stirred the dust but shattered the stillness like thunder.

I slipped back, drawing my knife that glimmered faintly in the gloom. The divine ink beneath my skin flared, hot and alive, crawling up my arms like fire.

"Gentlemen," I said with a thin, venomous smile, "I’m flattered, truly, but I don’t do clowns. Not since the incident with the mime and the helium curse. Therapy’s ongoing."

The two titans closed in until they stood at the edge of the carousel’s shadowy platform.

One raised a gauntleted hand, dripping dark, sticky blood that pooled and sizzled on the cracked wood.

"Cecil Valen," the other said in a voice that was like the clinking of shattered bells, twisted and out of tune. "Your sins have been tallied."

"And?" I asked, voice low, steady, eyes gleaming with wicked light.

"Judgment begins."

The last thing I saw before extending my blade was my reflection in the mirror-paneled column of the carousel: mad, beautiful, and utterly ready.

"Well then. Let’s make it a performance."