How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 60: How to NOT get in home after a long night in a manhole (4)

Chapter 60: How to NOT get in home after a long night in a manhole (4)

Each step was a sentence.

The water on the ground had turned into thick mud, mixed with blood, fur, old urine, and whatever else had been festering there for decades.

My feet sank like shovels into coagulated sewage. Every pull of my legs came with a wet pop, and the weight of Thalia on my shoulders—though not unbearable—created a new kind of urgency in my chest: the urgency not to fall.

Because if I fell, she’d fall too.

And if she fell... she might not get back up.

She was trembling. Breathing weakly, her fingers clutching at my shirt like the claws of a disoriented bird. No more screaming, no more crying. Just panting.

A kind of silence born from shock, not peace.

And behind us, the sound that never faded: paws. Dozens. Scratching at the tunnel, gnawing at the ground, chewing through the trail we left behind. A sea of teeth and eyes.

The darkness ahead was just as thick as behind, but I searched for breaks. Small openings, cracks, any light that wasn’t just a reflection of panic.

The tunnels branched out in paths that appeared and disappeared too quickly, as if the city itself wanted to lose us inside it. An ancient labyrinth. A forgotten structure. The kind of architecture that only makes sense to someone born at rock bottom.

But then I saw it.

A sliver of light.

Faint. Yellowish.

But alive.

There, on the left, between two curved stone walls, there was an opening. Narrow, but open. I followed it without hesitation, my whole body throbbing with exertion, my mouth dry, and my throat so raw that breathing felt like spitting glass shards.

The light grew, and the sludge receded. The air changed—from pure sewage to dry mold, old wood, forgotten dust. We were getting close.

I climbed a steep little staircase, relying more on instinct than strength. And then, with one final push against the iron hatch, it gave way.

The world opened.

Air slapped my face like a cold hand. It was early morning, the sky still dark, kissed by the last lazy stars. We were in a side alley in Antoril, between two abandoned warehouses—the kind of place that smelled like spilled wine and broken promises.

Thalia began to stir more strongly on my shoulder, as if the light was breaking through her trance.

"Dante...?" she whispered.

"Almost. We’re almost there."

But before I could take two more steps—

"STOP RIGHT THERE!"

The voice cut through the air like an arrow. Trained, official. And the shine of raised spears joined the torchlight shaking in the hand of a guard. Within seconds, three soldiers surrounded us, emerging from the shadows like bureaucratic predators.

"Drop the lady!" the one in front shouted, his face brimming with suspicion and poorly managed testosterone. "Immediately!"

I blinked. Looked at Thalia, who now stared back at me, completely filthy, hair a mess, dress torn, her eyes wide as if she’d just crawled out of a warzone—which, technically, she had.

"It’s not what it looks like," I tried.

"Then what does it look like?!" barked the second guard, already raising his blade. "An ogre kidnapping a defenseless maiden in the middle of the night?"

"I’m half-orc. And that’s institutional prejudice."

Thalia tried to raise her hand, maybe to say something, but slumped again onto my shoulder, like her body had simply decided it was done cooperating with any logical defense.

"She’s in shock," I tried to explain. "We just escaped a tunnel full of demon rats!"

Not to mention an organized crime network.

The guards’ silence lasted longer than I would’ve liked.

"Right," said the leader. "So now you’re not just a predator—you’re a liar too."

"Liar? Look at this rat bite." I held out my wounds. "This isn’t from injecting anything. These were rats."

He made a sharp gesture, not really listening to what I was saying.

Two soldiers came toward me. One touched his blade to my neck. The other gently pulled Thalia away, trying not to look aggressive—though he was clearly shaking.

She collapsed into his arms like a broken doll, but conscious enough to glance back at me with a mix of thank you and you’re going to pay for this.

"In the name of the Royal Guard of Antoril," the captain said, "you are under arrest until proven otherwise."

"Look, no offense, but that’s going to be hard," I said. "The opposite’s been pretty busy lately."

The iron of the shackles bit into my wrists.The world got colder.And the floor still smelled like rats.

Arrested.Disarmed.And stuck with these prejudiced knights thinking I’m a criminal.And the worst part?

It was still just the beginning of the night.

Because getting arrested in Antoril didn’t have the charm of tavern tales. There were no rusty bars with room to squeeze through, no sleepy jailers tossing dice with keys dangling from their pockets.

There was silence. There was protocol. And there was the kind of efficiency you only find in those who imprison more than they protect.

The royal guard’s detention wing was isolated, behind a secondary wall—almost like they themselves were ashamed of what they kept in there.

The walls were raw stone, stained with time and indignity. The guards spoke little. They walked with firm steps, their eyes long past seeing innocence—even in the stones.

They stripped me of my cloak and searched me with the kind of coldness only earned after years of not caring about explanations. Ropes with embedded runes were tied around my wrists—not the kind of magic that kills your strength, but the kind that dulls it.

A numbness in the muscles. Like the magic was asleep inside me, but with its eyes open.

They led me to the north wing. The air smelled of mold, dried sweat, and old blood. Not the heroic kind—just scraped elbows, broken teeth, and bones that gave out on cold stone.

"She’ll talk when she wakes up," I muttered, not looking at the guard captain.

"And if she doesn’t?" he replied, tone almost casual.

"Then I hope you’re good at apologizing for preemptive torture."

"We call them ’precautionary measures.’"

I smiled. Cynical.

He gave a signal. I was pushed forward.

The iron door groaned in protest. The hallway echoed with my arrival. At the far end, a cell already occupied.

"Congratulations. You’ve got company," the guard muttered, with the indifference of someone who’s locked up too many people to care.

The lock turned with a metallic screech that rattled my teeth. Then the gate opened, revealing the kind of cell that looked like it had never known sunlight.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. A mix of damp stone, dried piss, and something older—more stubborn—like the sweat soaked into forgotten flesh.

The cell was small. Straw messily scattered across the floor barely disguised the dark sludge soaking the edges. In the corner, the waste hole gave off a lukewarm resignation.

And the walls, cracked and salt-stained, looked more tired than the inmates.

I stepped in slowly.

Not out of fear—out of calculation. Every cell has its own rhythm, its own unofficial ruler. And if I was going to be here for a while, I needed to feel the space before claiming a place in it.

I leaned against the far wall. The cold stone clung to my back like a slap of reality. I scanned the room, absorbing the dimness.

The only beam of light came from a slit too high to reach, too narrow to offer hope. But still, it was there. A cynical reminder that the world kept turning outside.

The "company"—they took longer to reveal themselves.

He was seated at the back of the cell, nearly swallowed by shadow, one knee raised, hands resting on it. Face partly turned away, eyes closed—or maybe just half-lidded. Hard to tell. Breathing calm. No tension. Like someone who had nothing to fear. Or nothing left to lose.

And it was only after a few minutes, when the silence stretched too long, that he spoke.

"So you’re still in one piece."

The voice.

Dry. Familiar. Disgustingly alive in my memory.

I turned my head. Slowly. The words formed before the visual confirmation. As if my brain had recognized the pattern before my eyes.

He leaned forward. A smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. And his eyes—ah, those eyes hadn’t changed. Still carrying that sharp calm. That confidence of someone who knows exactly where to strike to make it hurt for longer.

"Wasn’t for lack of trying," I finally murmured.

I sat down. Rested my head against the stone and closed my eyes for a moment.

He continued:

"So what’s the crime this time?"

"None. Just the crime of being in the wrong place. With the wrong face."

He nodded, like someone who’d heard that story a hundred times.

"That’s always the worst kind."

The silence returned. But it wasn’t the same as before. Now it pulsed with memories. With fragments of sentences left unsaid. With the kind of past that doesn’t fit on any criminal record.

But even without a record...

My whole system reacted.

Because now I knew exactly who I was talking to.

The light hit the side of his face. Just enough to reveal the scar on his jaw, the ancient runes tattooed onto his freshly shaven scalp.

The same ones I’d last seen while bleeding out in an Ashveil alley, fire in my lungs, and the sound of a laugh I’ve never forgotten.

Mordrek.

"What the fuck is this."