My Femboy System

The next morning, I found myself back on the cathedral’s rooftop, staring down Salem’s dreaded obstacle course like it had personally insulted my mother. The air was cold enough to bite, the kind of cold that made you question whether your skin was still attached.

This was it — the last day before we set off on our two-day journey to Port Fallas, and my last chance to prove to myself that I could dismantle this monstrosity of a training gauntlet before the tournament. Tomorrow I’d be in a wagon, not a rooftop, and I refused to spend the ride brooding about missed jumps and botched landings.

I flexed my fingers, rolling my shoulders, listening to the quiet clicks and pops of joints that hadn’t quite forgiven me for the last time I’d done this. Somewhere off to the side, Rodrick was manning the bell tower, which was a polite way of saying he was in the best possible position to watch me fail spectacularly while ringing out my humiliation across the entire district.

Salem was down below, a dark shape in the distance, hands clasped behind his back like an executioner deciding when to pull the lever.

The course itself stretched before me in the patient, smug kind of way only inanimate objects can manage. The narrow planks over dizzying drops, the swinging beams, the pair of spires with that nasty little leap between them — all lined up in a sequence designed to remind you that gravity isn’t just a force, it’s a hobbyist sadist. I could almost hear it whispering: Go on, jump. See what happens.

Salem gave the signal and that was it. My body moved before my brain could offer an opinion. Feet pounding against the first stretch of space, I hit the opening obstacles like they owed me money.

Last time, I’d been cautious. Careful. The kind of careful that makes you look like you’re thinking about how careful you’re being. This time I didn’t even bother to think. I was already stacking enhancements before my first landing — calves, thighs, lungs — layering the power until the air felt thin around me.

I was doing three at once now. I’d been fumbling toward this level just a few days ago, but after last night’s training I could slip into it without effort. Almost. The sonic burst, though — that was still a mystery wrapped in Salem’s smug diagrams and vague metaphors about "splitting the energy and dispersing it throughout the body." I’d tried it twice in the dead of night and nearly convinced myself my spine had unzipped, so that was a skill I’d have to keep practicing on the road to Port Fallas... preferably somewhere Salem couldn’t see me fail and offer "helpful" commentary.

The narrow arch before was nothing — just a sprint and duck, weight centered, arms loose. The side step felt like child’s play, momentum carrying me over and onto the next platform in one smooth arc. My lungs didn’t burn. My legs didn’t hesitate. I was starting to suspect I could keep this pace for hours, though I knew full well I’d probably cough up a lung or two before the second hour was through.

Then the spire loomed ahead, all jagged gray stone and deliberate cruelty. It was meant to be climbed, to make you scramble for purchase until your arms screamed and your grip turned to mush.

I didn’t bother. I’d seen Rodrick pull off something better, and I wasn’t about to let him keep that little crown unchallenged. I shifted my focus to my hamstrings, layering the enhancement until my legs felt like they could punch holes through the sky, and then I leapt.

Stone blurred under me. My boots kissed the ledges only to push off again, each rebound sending me higher until the top of the spire was suddenly there, right under my hands. I didn’t even pause — the second spire was waiting, and between us yawned the gap that had made me hesitate last time.