How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 61: How to Rescue Someone Who’d Never Admit Needed Saving (1)

Chapter 61: How to Rescue Someone Who’d Never Admit Needed Saving (1)

He hadn’t changed. Not at all.

Even there, sitting in the darkest corner of the cell, he looked more like a stain than a man. The shaved head exposed the runes — the same ones that seemed carved in anger and then left to fate. The scars, old, were exactly where I remembered. The jagged line of the jaw. The cut on the left eyebrow that ran almost down to the cheekbone. Even the eyes were the same: too steady, too calm. As if they never needed to blink.

The last time I saw those eyes, I was bleeding from my mouth.

"What the hell is this," I repeated, because once wasn’t enough.

Mordrek smiled. Not a smile of nostalgia. It was more like the kind of smile someone gives when they find a pebble in their shoe and decide to name it.

"What a delicate way to run into an old acquaintance," he said. His voice dragged, lower than I remembered. Less threatening, maybe. But more cynical.

"Old acquaintance? Last time, you tried to strangle me with a runic rope and threw my body in a pit."

"And you survived. I must have done something wrong."

"You were born, for example."

He laughed. Low. The kind of laugh that tries to sound casual but carries a trace of bitterness. Like even the jokes were tired of being told.

"And you still have that sharp tongue, huh?"

"And you still have that face of someone who failed even as a secondary villain."

The silence that followed was thicker. But not uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who hated each other enough not to need to reaffirm anything. He looked at me with that studied gaze, as if trying to guess how long it took me to get rid of the shackles or which scar was new.

I did the same. Counting his breaths, the tension points in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his right knee. He was tired. But not beaten. Which, knowing even a little about Mordrek, meant either he had a plan or he had already resigned himself to improvising the next one.

"So then," he broke the silence, "what brought you to this... spar?"

"Rats. Illegal magic. An attack under the city. And, of course, the guard thinking I’m too ugly to be with an unconscious girl."

"That really sounds like your kind of romance."

"And you? Tried to kidnap someone else and fell into a trap again?"

He made a slight grimace, almost theatrical.

"I was ’detained.’ Security protocol. A case of mistaken identity, according to them."

"And what identity did you swap this time? Spy? Liar? Or failed circus owner?"

"None. This time, I was just an inconvenient messenger. And you know how Antoril treats those who talk too much."

That last phrase came with a little extra weight. It wasn’t just a pose. It was code. And even though part of me wanted to ignore it, the other part — the one that survived ambushes, traps, and bad questions — knew how to recognize when someone was trying to say something without putting it all into words.

"Tell me, what happened?"

He smiled. Slowly. Then looked up, staring at the ceiling of the cell as if searching for patience up there.

"Let’s say... there are too many people digging in the wrong place. And too many things showing up where they should be buried."

"Do you always talk like this? Like a criminal horoscope?"

"I’m a man of metaphors. And... precautions."

"I once knew a man of metaphors. I mean, something like a man who spoke in many metaphors. Let’s just say I’m tired of these half-word games."

"I was just being dramatic. But I guarantee I have an incredible story."

That sentence sent a chill down my spine. Because the tone had changed. It wasn’t just theater anymore. There was something firmer there, something he was holding tightly — and sooner or later, it was going to hit me.

I took a deep breath. The smell of the cell was still the same: rust, humidity, and wounded pride. But now there was something new there.

Something I didn’t know if it was information.

Or threat.

Or both.

And then, without me asking, he whispered:

"You know what’s under Antoril?"

"Rats?"

"No. Not the tunnels. Deeper."

I just blinked. Slowly. As if my brain was waiting for some part of that to deepen. It didn’t.

"Are you trying to sound mysterious or just stumbling over your own words?" I asked, settling against the stone wall like it was a recliner.

"I’m serious, Dante," he answered, now a bit louder. "Down there are things even the guards don’t really know. Double chambers. False corridors. Underground warehouses with enchanted light and that preservative smell only illegal stuff has."

"Preservative. How poetic. Now all you have to tell me is that you found a cellar with souls in jars."

He snorted. Crossed his arms over his knees, then cracked his neck like he wanted to look tense — but looked more like a lazy cat stretching its pride.

"You think it’s a joke, but I saw it, okay? Saw box after box, all marked with that burnt seal they pretend doesn’t exist. Partial rune seals, protection only until the second level — the kind of thing that stops curiosity but not experts."

"And what exactly are you an expert in? Fooling idiots and stumbling onto secrets?"

"Listening. Surviving. And sometimes... being in the wrong place at the right time."

I raised an eyebrow. That I could confirm, since I had that skill too.

"So speak. What did you see down there, besides boxes and preservatives?"

"People. But not workers. They didn’t seem to be carrying anything. They seemed... to guard. To watch. And there’s a part of the complex that even the upper-level staff don’t know about. I hear whispers. They talk about ’The Blind Chamber.’ They talk about a central artifact, something that can’t be removed — not even by those in charge."

"That’s starting to sound like bored prisoner superstition."

"Or like some kind of hidden truth in a place where everything is a lie. You decide."

I took a deep breath, forcing my brain to filter the exaggeration from the useful information. With Mordrek, everything came with a layer of theatrics. But sometimes, just sometimes, the content still held up after clearing the varnish.

"And there’s more," he said, like someone who can’t keep a secret even if their life depended on it. "A new shipment is going out through one of the hidden accesses. In two days. Maybe less. They said they’ll speed up the process because of rumors."

"What kind of rumors?"

"That people are asking too many questions."

Now I looked up.

"What kind of questions?"

He hesitated for a second. But it wasn’t strategy. It was just that mental pause of someone trying to remember if they’d already told or were still keeping information as currency.

"I don’t know exactly. I just heard that someone’s been interrogating the wrong people. They thought no one would notice. But they noticed."

"And?"

"And she was marked."

"’She’?"

"Yes. That’s what they said. A girl. Very talkative. Said she was from outside, but asked questions like she had more right than curiosity. She messed with the wrong names."

My stomach turned to stone.

Too many questions. Sharp voice.

It was Thalia.

I didn’t move. I just kept staring at Mordrek like he was telling a bad joke. But inside, my mind was already replaying the paths we took, the looks she gave, the questions she insisted on asking when no one wanted to answer. The way she looked at the papers like she was unraveling war maps.

And most importantly: she was unconscious. Vulnerable. And now, marked.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked, my voice lower but no less serious.

"Of course I am. I heard it straight from one of the carriers. He was drunk. Spitting dry bread as he talked, but too scared to make it up."

"And when did he say this?"

"In two days. Maybe one. Maybe less. I just know they’re in a hurry now. And that girl... if she doesn’t disappear soon, she’ll become one of the boxes."

Silence fell again. But this time, there was nothing funny. No sarcasm. No theatrics.

Just the cold certainty that, for the first time in a long while, Mordrek had said something that really mattered.