My Femboy System
Chapter 54: Ashes and Anesthesia

Chapter 54: Ashes and Anesthesia

You ever try chopping down a tree that doesn’t want to die?

It’s a spiritual experience. A spiritual fuck you. Every swing is like trying to take a bite out of a brick wall while it moans like an old lover in protest. I wasn’t even sure if the trees here were made of wood.

They bled like memories and creaked like they knew your mother. Still—I kept swinging, axe in hand, shirt discarded on the floor next to me, hair soaked with sweat and pheromonal victory.

With use of sheer force, in just a few minutes, the first tree was already leaning like it had too many shots and was about to confess something terrible at a dinner party.

And me? I wasn’t a lumberjack. I was a man with a grudge and an axe, which in Tower math, made me a prophet. Because this island wasn’t just fake—it was wrong. Every hammock was just a bit too plush, every drink and layer of indulgence too conveniently placed.

This floor—Sloth—wasn’t paradise.

It was anesthesia.

And the trees were its veins.

I took another swing. THWACK. Sap—or was it ink?—splashed up my arm. I wiped it across my jaw like warpaint. Very dramatic. Very sexy. Possibly insane.

"Excuse me—!"

I paused mid-swing then turned, slowly.

A man was approaching through the clearing in a robe so violently floral it deserved its own crime scene. A noble, clearly. Hair coiffed. Eyes heavy-lidded. He looked like he’d spent the last six hours being lightly oiled by two twin masseuses and now had the gall to be annoyed by the sound of me dismantling his forest.

"Do you mind?" he sniffed, waving a hand at me as if I were a particularly chatty stray.

I gave him a soft smile.

"Do you mind?" I asked, casually spinning the axe like I was flirting with a guillotine. "I’m trying to dismember nature before it eats us in our sleep."

He frowned, blinking with the effort of comprehension. "What?"

"I said," I stepped closer, letting the blade rest on my shoulder, "I’m building a raft."

The noble gaped. "That’s insane! A raft?" He scoffed. "How silly."

"Insane? Oh no," I said, "Insane was sticking around to enjoy a tropical mind prison. Just think of this as...strategic deforestation."

I winked.

Then I beat him off.

No, not like that. I mean I waved the axe vaguely in his direction and said, "Shoo, soft boy," until he squealed and wandered back toward the beach, muttering something about "ruining the ambiance."

Gods bless him. He was going to die face-first in a mango mojito and never know what hit him.

THWACK.

Another piece of bark peeled away like skin. I was half-expecting to hear a moan from the canopy. Just then, I heard them—voices, boots on moss, laughter that made the trees lean in like voyeurs. My party. My disaster-crew. My beautiful, awful, brilliant little unit.

Willow strolled out first, draped in nothing but attitude and a breezy sheet of seaweed that wasn’t hiding a damn thing. Miko followed with his shirt unbuttoned down to his stomach, the wind playing through his hair like it owed him money. And Leo...

Oh, Leo.

His face was dotted with lipstick kisses of multiple colors. He looked like a war hero who’d survived an orgy and wanted to go back.

"Cecil," Willow drawled, arms wide, "are you redecorating the island?"

Miko snorted. "We saw a nobleman raving about a ’shirtless man with an axe and a God complex.’ Thought it could only be you."

I grinned, resting the axe against the tree trunk. Leo flopped down on a mossy boulder beside us. "So what’s the deal? You chopping firewood or trying to seduce the forest spirits?"

"Neither," I said, stretching. "We found something. Aria and I—"

And that was when she appeared again.

Or rather—he.

Aria emerged from the brush with a length of rope in hand, cheeks flushed, his dress rumpled in a way that screamed post-coital chaos. His eyes immediately dropped when he caught sight of Willow. She looked him up and down.

Then down.

Then her smile turned dangerous.

"Oh," she purred, slinking over. "Look who finally folded~"

Aria tried to respond, but Willow was already on him—one hand casually pressed against his chest, just enough to make him stiffen, and I didn’t mean his spine, the other trailing down, down...

Willow’s finger traced a slow, deliberate line along the bulge beneath his dress.

Aria whimpered.

And then—oh gods—he gasped, and a damp, dark spot bloomed against the fabric. Willow giggled, flicking her tongue against his ear.

"Oh darling," she cooed. "You came before I even started flirting."

Miko rolled his eyes. "Gross."

Leo clapped with a toothy grin. Aria buried his face in his hands. I coughed into my fist.

"Okay," I said, "Let’s get back to the part where I explain why I’m deforesting paradise."

They gathered close. I pulled out the folded map Aria and I had found in the greenhouse and spread it over a nearby stump.

"There’s no elevator," I said. "Not here. Not anywhere on this island. This island is a stasis chamber dressed in flower print. It’s meant to keep us comfortable and unmoving. In other words, as of now, we’re rats sitting in a luxury trap."

Willow raised an eyebrow. "So...what. We start digging for treasure?"

"No, we build," I said, tapping the smudged-out spot on the map. "This blot—this smear—was done by hand. Something’s out there. Something the Tower doesn’t want us seeing. So we go off script. We make a raft and we set sail to uncover what lies beneath the ink."

Miko whistled low. "Mad. I like it."

I pointed toward the greenhouse behind us. "Shed’s full of gear. Grab what you can."

Willow gave Aria one more teasing pat. "Let’s get the tools shall we?" she said, voice honey and knives. "Just try not to explode again, sweetheart."

Aria whimpered.

Then they scattered. Aria jogged after Willow like a deer chasing danger. I went back to chopping, sweat rolling down my back in waves of regret.

Just then, more nobles arrived, dazed, confused, and half-asleep in silk and perfume.

"Stop that!" one shouted.

"You’re ruining the mood!" cried another.

"Why is he swinging an axe?!" a third moaned, clutching his head like it contained all the drama in the world.

I didn’t even glance at them. I just kept chopping—steady, deliberate, rhythm loud enough to echo into their perfectly perfumed skulls. Then I stopped, one hand on the axe, the other slipping upward to scratch at my nose with all the elegance of a bored toddler.

A few nobles gasped.

One man—draped in a robe worth more than my last three apartments—staggered back like I’d just kicked over a sacred urn. He clutched his chest. His knees buckled. He dropped to the moss in a swoon of disbelief and disgust.

I took a mental snapshot. Framed it, and filed it under ’personal victories.’

Then I turned, slow and purposeful, letting the axe rest against my shoulder like a prophet leaning on his cross.

"My friends," I said, voice low and coarse like gravel after fire, "this island isn’t paradise, it’s a lullaby—dressed in silk, soaked in fruit, and humming you straight into the grave."

The quiet that followed was thick. The kind that sits in your lungs. No breeze. No birds. Just the soft sound of someone shifting in place, suddenly aware they were living in someone else’s dream.

"You think this is peace?" I went on, slower now. "It’s not. It’s a coma, a slow death served with drinks and decorative umbrellas. You want to stay here, sleeping through whatever’s coming? Fine. Be my guest."

I let that hang, watching my words settle like dust.

"Just don’t come crying when the Tower folds you into its wallpaper. If you wish to live, join me and together we can carve our way out of here."

I raised the axe again, fingers tight on the worn handle.

"Or you can rot in bed. Your call."

Still silence.

Then—

A voice, nasally and indignant, rose from the crumpled noble now struggling to reclaim his dignity.

"I don’t believe you," he spat, standing as if the vines themselves had hoisted him upright. "You’re just some sweaty, half-naked cretin with a tool fetish and delusions of revolution! The Tower provides for us. You? You’re making noise."

Willow came back just then, setting a handful of tools on the ground. She passed me a glance and understood instantly, moving like silk sliding off a sharpened blade.

She slipped in beside the nobleman so smoothly the vines around his feet seemed to part in courtesy. One hand trailed casually along his shoulder, the other danced beneath his chin, fingers tipping his head up like she was considering whether to eat him or bless him.

"You poor, fragile idiot," she murmured sweetly, voice sugar melting into sin. "If you help us..." she circled behind him, breath hot against his ear, "...I’ll thank you in ways that will destroy your reputation."

He blinked.

Then swallowed.

His whole body twitched like it wanted to blush but couldn’t decide where. Then, as if possessed by lust, shame, or sheer Tower-bending horniness, he spun to face the crowd with all the fire of a man reborn.

"We help the axe man!" he roared.

Cheers erupted. A slow clap. Then a faster one. Then three nobles started crying for reasons unclear. One man ran to the greenhouse and emerged wielding a saw like he’d just pulled a holy sword from a stone made entirely of generational wealth and bad decisions.

And me?

I grinned, watching it all unfold.

We had an army now. Not a smart one. Not a sober one. Certainly not a well-dressed one. But gods, they worked.

Nobles in silk dragging trees with ropes they’d used hours ago for bondage. Half-drunk socialites hacking at stumps with ornamental daggers, grunting through perfume-clouded breath. A woman in pearls sat on a log directing two shirtless men like they were ballroom staff, shouting "Left! Left! Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s a raft not a chaise!"

It was chaos. Beautiful, wood-chipping, rope-tangling, sex-sweaty chaos.

I oversaw the raft.

It wasn’t a pretty thing. Five tree trunks lashed together with enough rope to make a dominatrix blush. A deck of planks slowly forming on top, uneven and splinter-happy.

Miko had started carving oars out of stripped limbs, whittling with a patience that made him look like some ancient monk with murder in his heart.

Leo lifted entire beams like they were children, muscles flexing, sweat running down his neck in rivulets that had more narrative than the tower itself.

For a while...it worked.

We were building. Breathing. Defying.

But then—

Something shifted.

The first noble dropped mid-hammer swing. Just...slumped forward into the sand like a puppet whose strings had been quietly snipped. At first I thought it was just exhaustion from overworking. But then another collapsed, face-first into a pile of rope coils.

And another. And another.

It was slow at first. Subtle. Like background noise. But soon it became undeniable.

They were falling. Not fainting. Not unconscious from effort.

But slipping—melting—into sleep.

And not the light kind. The deep, boneless kind. Limbs splayed, breath slow, twitching fingers curled like they were dreaming something sweet. I called one’s name. Slapped another. Nothing.

And then it hit me too.

A yawn, wide and sudden, split my jaw like a crack down the spine. My knees buckled with it. My vision swam for a moment—not dizzy, not fatigued. Just...heavy, the kind of tired you didn’t come back from.

My breath came shallow.

And I did the only thing I could.

I drew my dagger.

And cut.

The blade bit into my palm, a sharp, clean slice that seared like a memory of pain. Blood welled instantly, warm, red, and real. I hissed through my teeth, clutching the cut tightly to keep myself in the moment. The pain anchored me like a stake through sleep’s skull.

It worked.

Barely.

I staggered to my feet, dizzy from the adrenaline spike and the smell of blood in my nostrils. But I was awake again.

And that was when I realized something else—something colder.

We wouldn’t finish.

Not like this.

Half the workers were already down. A few still moving were slow and blinking like drunken children. The raft was only partially built. Time was running out. Not in hours. But in awareness. This floor was eating our minds. Stealing them in pieces.

I glanced toward the greenhouse then stepped forward, vision narrowing, ears ringing faintly. A strange, itching warmth slid behind my eyes like a pressure rising from within. I blinked—and for a second, the air shimmered. A ripple. Barely visible. But it was there.

I reached up, fingers outstretched, and touched the light. My fingertips came back slick with dew. No. Not dew. Spores.

Tiny, nearly-invisible particles floated on the air like dust from some dreaming beast’s lungs. They clung to skin, hair, breath, sweet and soft in their presence. When I inhaled, I tasted honey, moss, and the edge of sleep like it had a flavor.

My head tilted, unbidden before I realized something. The greenhouse wasn’t just laced with temptation. It was exhaling it. Bleeding poison into the air like an organism that fed on surrender.

I planted my axe into the dirt with a grunt and turned.

"I need fire," I said.

My voice sounded too loud. Too sharp against the lush quiet.

Miko didn’t even ask why. He just reached into his coat, thumbed open a silver flip lighter, and tossed it to me in a perfect arc. I caught it midair without looking and flicked it once. The flame hissed up like it had been waiting.

My feet moved without instruction. Toward the greenhouse. Toward the bloom of lies and the flowers that smiled in their sleep. The jungle parted for me in wary hushes—fronds pulling away, vines curling like cats afraid of heat.

That’s when they came.

Three of them. Black panthers. Silent as guilt, as big as nightmares. They dropped from the canopy with no sound but the thump of impact. Not natural. Not born. These were creations. Tower-forged predators with eyes that pulsed faint blue like echoes of the same damn spores that now clung to my throat. They didn’t growl.

They purred.

I cursed under my breath, flicked the lighter closed, and slipped it into my pocket. Then I drew my dagger from my belt.

The first panther lunged without warning.

I pivoted left, barely ducking its outstretched claw, and drove the blade upward into its side. The skin gave like wet leather, and I felt the blade scrape something hard inside.

It howled and spun away, vanishing into shadow.

The second hit me in the ribs with the force of a carriage. I flew backward, slamming into a nearby tree, bark shattering around me in cold teeth. My head rang. My shoulder burned. I rolled just before its teeth closed in on my leg and came up swinging.

The blade caught the underside of its chin, and it shrieked before dissipating into black mist.

I was bleeding. Not badly, but enough to make a difference.

The third came slower, smarter. It watched me, prancing in circles and waiting for me to falter.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I faked a stagger, just enough to show it weakness.

It lunged at me in the blink of an eye.

I spun, caught its neck under my arm, and drove the dagger into its eye with a grunt that tore my throat raw. It bucked. Thrashed. Then melted like ash into the wind.

Silence returned. Not peace, but stillness.

I turned back toward the greenhouse. My arm throbbed. My side ached and yet I walked on anyway. Inside, the air pulsed. The flowers glowed like they were dreaming. The vines curled toward me, slow and sensual.

Then I pulled the lighter from my coat, struck it once, and tossed it to the floor.

The vines didn’t scream.

But they wilted.

Curled in on themselves as if they had regretted even blooming in the first place—ashamed to have reached for light in a place built to steal it.

The fire caught with ease. It spread quickly, like it had been waiting. Like it was hungry. It leapt from leaf to leaf with the eagerness of gossip in a ballroom—bright, fast, and fatal.

I turned without ceremony and walked out as the entire greenhouse erupted in silent, radiant light behind me.

I smiled.

Let the Tower dream in ashes—I was done sleeping in someone else’s paradise.