My Femboy System

Rodrick and I stepped through the arched entrance and into the open space of the main pit, our footsteps a strange duet — his light and measured, mine deliberately slow, as if the extra seconds might change the outcome of what was about to happen. I didn’t expect it to.

The dueling grounds of Graywatch Academy were never quiet, even at night. They weren’t meant to be. The place was built like a living stage for the city’s best and worst fighters — a wide, open arena of beaten dirt and stone ringed by cracked marble columns, old enough that their histories had stopped being recorded and started being guessed at.

The torches mounted high along the outer walls burned with that particular stubborn flame Graywatch favored: tall, gold, and a little too bright, like they were trying to burn away the smell of sweat and blood that clung to the place no matter how many times the ground was raked clean.

I could already feel the eyes on us. They came in the form of sideways glances from duelists oiling their blades, chuckles from a knot of archers leaning against the far wall, a couple of outright smirks from the young bloods who thought they’d invented swordplay just because they’d won a few tavern challenges.

You could always tell who the regulars were here — they lounged on the sidelines like cats that had already eaten, sizing up new prey not out of hunger but for the sport of it.

"Looks like the academy’s gone soft," one voice called from my left. The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with too much hair on his forearms and too little in his wit, if the smug twist to his mouth was any indication. His friends snickered.

I didn’t even bother looking directly at him when I answered. "Don’t worry," I said, voice slow and sugar-sweet, the kind of tone people use right before poisoning someone’s tea, "I’ll make sure to keep it soft when I bury you in the ground. Wouldn’t want the dirt to bruise your delicate ego."

The laughter from his corner stumbled, then stopped. One of his friends coughed like he’d swallowed a fly. The man’s mouth opened as if to retort, but no words came out — only the sort of awkward grunt a man makes when he realizes he’s about to lose a battle without even drawing his weapon.

That was enough for me. I wasn’t here for them.

Rodrick and I reached the center of the arena, the dirt beneath our boots still warm from the last bout. I exhaled, loosening my shoulders, and let the familiar weight of the spear slide into my palms. The silver gleamed under the torchlight, catching and throwing back the fire in long, wicked glints. It was beautiful in a way that made my chest tighten — perfectly balanced, deadly without shouting about it.

This was the first time I’d get to use it.

I started with a warmup. Not the kind you do before a fight to keep your muscles from cramping — the kind you do to make a point. My point was simple: I was better with a spear than anyone here was prepared to admit.