Reincarnated as a Femboy Slave - Chapter 147

Chapter 147: You May Begin
The instant I let the bow vanish back into the floor, the pressure on my shoulders lifted—only to be replaced by something sharper, heavier, like the air itself had thickened with expectation.

Iskanda gestured sharply for me to follow.

I scrambled after her, trying to keep my footing, my ego, and my rapidly disintegrating sense of dignity all in one precarious balance as we ascended the stairs. Each step trembled underfoot, a subtle vibration that ran up the marble walls like a pulse, a heartbeat for the universe’s private amusement.

Eventually, the stairs leveled out into a dim hallway, the kind of passageway that felt like it existed between worlds, caught in some liminal space where the torchlight flickered weakly against walls that seemed to absorb more light than they reflected.

At the far end, a warm glow pulsed and danced, flashing with the rhythm of an open flame, and with each step closer, the sound began to filter through—voices, dozens of them, hundreds maybe, layered over one another in a cacophony of excitement, anticipation, and pure bloodlust.

My heart stuttered in my chest, a sharp, irregular beat that made my ribs ache, and I had to focus on breathing through my nose to keep the panic from crawling up my throat and strangling me. Iskanda walked ahead of me with that infuriating calm of hers, shoulders relaxed, stride confident.

We approached the threshold together, and I swear the air changed—thickened, vibrated, hummed—as though it recognized me before I’d even stepped into view. When the arena finally revealed itself, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The space was massive—no, massive didn’t even begin to cover it—it was a circular pit of warm, golden sand that stretched impossibly wide, the kind of arena you read about in old texts where heroes fought beasts and died with their names on the lips of poets.

The walls rose high around us, carved from that same oppressive black marble that seemed to be the tower’s signature aesthetic choice, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the blazing torches lining the perimeter in streaks of molten gold.

The seats—gods, the seats—rose in tiered rows that climbed toward the vaulted ceiling, each one packed, absolutely crammed, with bodies dressed in black, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

I’d known there would be spectators, of course, but this… this was beyond anything I’d imagined, beyond anything I was remotely prepared for.

Nearly the entire Velvet staff occupied those seats, glittering in their customary finery, alongside a vast assembly of nobles dressed head-to-toe in deep, ceremonial black, like obsidian carved into human shape, each one radiating authority, curiosity, or the faint, imperceptible twitch of impatience that only sharpened the air of expectation hanging over the arena.

I spotted a handful of lesser slaves scattered throughout the lower tiers, their presence almost jarring against the opulence surrounding them.

My attention snapped toward the very front where I spotted Brutus—his massive frame impossible to miss even in the crowd. He raised a hand in a lazy wave, grinning at me with that wild, reckless energy I’d come to associate with him.

I grinned and blew him an exaggerated kiss, if only because it made his eyes widen half an inch, which for Brutus counted as collapsing in shock.

My gaze drifted to the right then, drawn by the sheer presence of power radiating from a massive viewing platform cut directly into the seating, a private viewing box of sorts.

Director Thalen sat there in his wheelchair, his skeletal frame draped in his usual robes, his expression unreadable as always, though his eyes tracked my every movement with the cold precision of a predator cataloging prey.

Tora stood dutifully beside him, or at least he tried to, given that he was currently being hoarded by a swarm of noblewomen, their hands reaching for him, tugging at his robes, giggling and cooing as he flailed in protest, his face a brilliant shade of crimson that rivaled the torches blazing around us.

Saints above, that poor boy. I considered helping him for a whole two seconds before deciding the universe clearly intended this for my entertainment. I couldn’t help the small, delighted giggle that bubbled up in my throat at the sheer absurdity of it.

But it was the figure seated beside the Director that truly caught my attention, a man I’d never seen before but who radiated importance like a bonfire radiates heat—a fat man, obscenely so, draped in purple robes so rich and decadent they practically screamed wealth, his fingers laden with rings, his neck heavy with golden chains, his face flushed and gleaming with sweat despite the coolness of the chamber.

He lounged with the languid confidence of someone who believed the world owed him rent, his thick fingers lazily tapping on the armrest of his throne-like chair.

The chatter in the arena picked up as more eyes found me, voices rising in a wave of excitement, shouting things I couldn’t quite make out over the roar of blood pounding in my ears.

I caught fragments however—bets, jeers, encouragement, insults—all of it blending into a chaotic symphony that made my skin prickle.

I turned back toward Iskanda, who still stood at the threshold, her expression calm but her eyes bright, a faint grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she watched me take it all in.

“Who’s the fat one?” I asked, jerking my chin toward the fat man in purple, my voice barely audible over the noise.

“That’s Elvina’s patron,” she said simply, her tone laced with dark amusement.

Of course, I thought, the pieces clicking into place with an almost audible snap—of course he would be here, perched up there like a bloated vulture waiting to see if his investment paid off.

The implication alone made me grin wickedly. If Elvina fell today—if she lost in front of him—oh, saints, the drama would be exquisite. Delicious, even.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the funnier it became—my lips twitching into a slight snicker.

Iskanda straightened, placing a hand on my shoulder, her grip firm and grounding. “Remember,” she said, her voice low but steady, carrying the weight of every lesson she’d drilled into me over the past few days, “Keep your focus. Trust your instincts. The rest is up to you. You know what you’re capable of.”

I nodded, but before I could thank her, the noise of the crowd swelled again—harsher now, sharper, edged with anticipation. I turned instinctively, drawn by the shift of attention, and when I saw what—or rather, who—was emerging from the opposite tunnel, my jaw clenched with a mixture of disgust and incredulous disbelief.

Elvina stepped into the arena.

Her hair was done up in those atrociously pompous twin curls she insisted on wearing like some deranged pastry attempting a fashion statement.

She walked with the exaggerated sway of someone who thought the world rose and fell according to the rhythm of her hips, her dark outfit, a delicate princess line dress this time, clinging to her figure in a way that screamed theatrical vanity rather than actual competence.

Behind her trudged Quentin, poor, sweet Quentin, whose expression was twisted into a scowl so aggressive he could’ve curdled milk from fifty paces away.

Elvina blew kisses with both hands, her emerald eyes sparkling with manufactured warmth as she waved at the spectators like they were her devoted subjects rather than a pack of bloodthirsty gamblers waiting to see which one of us would leave the arena in pieces.

The cheers intensified, washing over her in a wave of adulation that she drank in like wine, her smile widening into something sharp and predatory.

I had to resist the urge to gag at the sheer theatricality of it all. Saints above, she was milking this for everything it was worth, playing the crowd like a maestro conducting an orchestra, and judging by the way they roared her name, it was working beautifully.

Then her gaze snapped to me, and the warmth evaporated from her expression so completely it was like watching a mask crack and fall away, revealing the cold, vicious contempt beneath.

The noise of the crowd faded into a dull hum as she raised one hand with theatrical slowness, her fingers splayed wide, and I watched as a dark spill of condensed shadow swirled around them like living smoke, twisting and coiling in patterns that defied physics, the tendrils writhing with a life of their own.

The air around her hand seemed to darken, to thicken, as though the shadows were drinking in the light and leaving nothing behind but a cold, oppressive void.

It was beautiful in a horrifying sort of way, the kind of magic that made your instincts scream at you to run, and judging by the murmurs rippling through the crowd, I wasn’t the only one who felt it.

I crossed my arms, tilting my head with an exaggerated air of casual curiosity, and raised one brow in what I hoped was a perfectly infuriating display of nonchalance.

“Really?” I called out, my voice cutting through the noise with just enough volume to carry across the sand. “Showing off your magic already? Isn’t that a little premature, Elvina? I mean, aren’t you worried about, oh, I don’t know… someone uncovering that vile lineage of yours?”

My tone was light, teasing, laced with just enough venom to sting, and I watched with no small amount of satisfaction as her hand froze mid-flourish, the shadows stuttering and flickering like a candle caught in a sudden gust of wind.

Her smile didn’t falter, not immediately, but something in her eyes shifted—a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the perfect veneer she wore so carefully.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into a sharp, hissing whisper that somehow carried across the space between us with perfect clarity. “How do you know about that?”

Her gaze bored into me, searching, calculating, trying to piece together how I could possibly know something that should have been buried so deep it would take an archaeologist and a miracle to dig it up.

“Oh, you know,” I said airily, waving a hand in a vague, dismissive gesture, “I read about it. Fascinating stuff, really. Very educational. I had no idea your family was so… creative. Though I suppose ‘creative’ is putting it lightly given the crimes they’ve committed. ‘Horrifying’ also works, but that doesn’t quite roll off the tongue the same way.”

Elvina’s body went rigid, her shoulders locking up, her breath catching audibly even from where I stood. She leaned back slightly, her expression twisting into something caught between disbelief and panic. And then she scoffed—a sharp, bitter sound that echoed across the sand.

“Impossible,” she spat, her voice rising just enough that the crowd nearest to us began to lean forward, straining to hear. “All public records of my family were destroyed years ago. Every single one. And anyone who knew about them—anyone who could have talked—they were dealt with. Permanently.”

Her eyes narrowed, her lips pulling back into something that was almost a snarl. “So unless you’re claiming to be a ghost, there’s no way you could know.”

A low murmur of confusion began to ripple through the crowd, spreading outward from the closest spectators like a stone dropped in still water, voices overlapping as people turned to each other.

“Wait—what are they talking about?” a woman near the front hissed to her companion, eyes darting nervously.

“What lineage? Are we missing something?” another voice piped up, sharper, tinged with suspicion.

No one seemed to have an answer, and the uncertainty only made the murmurs grow louder, more insistent. I laughed then, a sharp, genuine sound that burst out of me before I could stop it, and I had to take a moment to compose myself because the look on her face—the dawning realization, the sheer horror—was almost too delicious to bear.

“Oh, Elvina,” I said, practically purring the words, “you said all public records, right? Public. That’s an important distinction, don’t you think?” I paused, letting the words hang in the air, watching as her brow furrowed in confusion. “What about the private ones? You know, the kind that might be, say, locked away behind a very specific gate to the third floor of this very library? The kind that only a handful of people are authorized to enter?”

Her eyes blew wide, pupils dilating so sharply I could see the moment the realization hit her like a hammer to the skull.

Then her gaze snapped to something behind me, or maybe to a memory, and her voice came out strangled, barely more than a rasp. “That tome! The one you were carrying this morning.”

I gave her a slow, mocking bow, one hand flourishing outward in a gesture that was equal parts theatrical and deeply satisfying. “Ding ding ding! Ten points to the lady in the creepy shadow dress! Yes, Elvina, that tome. The one you so kindly brought to my attention by being such an insufferable nightmare that I had no choice but to dig up every scrap of dirt I could find on you. Really, I should be thanking you—without your constant harassment, I never would have stumbled across such… enlightening reading material.”

I straightened, my grin sharpening into something feral. “Turns out your family has quite the legacy. I’m sure your patron over there would love to hear all about it. Maybe I’ll give him a summary after this is over. You know, just in case he’s not fully informed about what kind of bloodline he’s investing in.”

Elvina’s expression twisted, her features contorting into something dark and hateful. For a moment I thought she might lunge at me right then and there, rules and spectators be damned.

But then she flipped the switch again, her face smoothing out into a smirk that was all teeth and malice, her voice dropping into a low, venomous purr.

“None of it will matter,” she said, “after I’ve killed you anyway. Dead men tell no tales, as they say.”

She let the shadows around her hand flare again, darker this time, more aggressive, as if to emphasize her point, and the crowd roared in response, sensing the shift in energy, the promise of violence finally about to be delivered.

Before I could fire back with something equally cutting, a voice boomed across the arena, so loud and commanding that it cut through the noise like a blade.

Director Thalen’s voice, amplified by whatever magic he employed, rolled over the crowd in a wave that demanded silence, and within seconds, the roar faded to a hushed, expectant murmur.

I glanced up toward the viewing platform and saw him rising from his wheelchair, his skeletal frame straightening with effort, and beside him, Tora flicked his wrist in that delicate, precise way of his, summoning the Director’s cane out of thin air and placing it neatly in his waiting hand.

The old man gripped it firmly, planting it against the marble with a sharp tap that echoed across the arena, and the crowd fell completely silent, every eye fixed on him as he surveyed the space with the air of a king addressing his court.

“Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed guests,” he began, his voice warm and smooth despite the rasping quality it carried.

I couldn’t help but notice the faint smile tugging at his lips, as though he were genuinely enjoying himself.

“Welcome, welcome, to an event that has not graced these halls in nearly a decade. Tonight, you bear witness to a spectacle of skill, of will, of raw, unadulterated ambition.”

He paused, letting the words settle, his gaze sweeping across the crowd before landing briefly on me, then on Elvina, and finally on the fat man in purple seated beside him.

“The rules, as always, are simple. The match continues until one combatant yields, is rendered unconscious, or is otherwise unable to continue. Lethal force is permitted, though not required—after all, where is the entertainment in a swift death?”

The crowd chuckled at that, a low, dark sound that made my stomach twist. “Magic, weapons, enhancements—all are fair game. Fight with honor, or fight without it. I care not, so long as you fight well.” He raised his cane slightly, the gesture almost playful, and his grin widened. “Now then… positions, if you please.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing my hands to unclench, and set myself into position—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced on the balls of my feet, every muscle coiled and ready to spring.

Across the sand, Elvina mirrored me, her stance predatory and loose, shadows still writhing around her fingers like eager pets waiting to be unleashed.

I could feel the eyes of the crowd boring into me, could feel the weight of Iskanda’s expectations, of Tora’s faith, of the crew’s trust, all of it piling onto my shoulders until I thought I might collapse under it. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Not now. Not here.

Director Thalen raised his hand, holding it aloft for a long, agonizing moment, letting the anticipation build until I thought the crowd might riot from sheer impatience.

Then, with a flourish that was almost theatrical, he brought it down sharply, his voice ringing out across the arena with gleeful finality.

“You may begin.”