How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 67: How to Uncover a Massive Corruption Scheme by Accident (1)

Chapter 67: How to Uncover a Massive Corruption Scheme by Accident (1)

The hallway ahead was far too long for my taste, with doors spaced in an uncomfortably symmetrical way—like the architecture itself was watching us.

The echo of our footsteps—or rather, my footsteps, since Thalia could barely carry her own weight—reverberated against the walls paneled with wood darkened by time. At every fork, I did my best not to pick the wrong path, but the truth was that most of it was instinct mixed with a generous dose of suicidal luck.

There were no alarms. No shouts behind us. But I knew it was only a matter of time. Once they found the unconscious body of the assassin in the isolation ward, the reaction would come fast. And loud.

The first room we passed was a storage for blankets and splints. I dumped Thalia in there for a second, left the door half open, and checked the nearest window to scan the inner courtyard.

A little garden. Walled off. No direct exit. I went back, picked Thalia up, and we kept going.

She was puffing against my shoulder like each breath cost her a confession. Still weak, her body kept swaying between trying to help and just collapsing fully onto me. I didn’t complain. I’ve carried rocks with more attitude.

We turned into a side corridor. Weak magical lights, barely flickering. Maybe a maintenance hallway. It smelled like dried herbs and rust.

In the distance, I heard arguing—two, maybe three staff members. Still unaware of what had happened, but beginning to feel something was wrong. I slipped into the nearest room, filled with flasks and tubes. Maybe a runic lab.

I hid Thalia behind the counter and locked the door halfway—just enough to pretend we’d always been there if someone walked in.

She protested. Her voice was weak, but sharp.

"You can’t keep carrying me like this. I’m not a sack of potatoes."

"Unfortunately. Potatoes wouldn’t be whining this much."

"Put me down."

"Not now. As soon as we find walls that don’t echo and windows that don’t offer front-row seats to our escape, you’ll be free to choose between walking and crawling. Until then, you’re cargo."

She huffed again. Tried to stand on her own. Fell back into my arm. Looked at me with a blend of rage and shame that only someone who nearly died and still refuses to look vulnerable can pull off.

"Let me know when your pride becomes more useful than my legs," I muttered, pulling her closer again.

We crossed another corridor—this one wider. The doors here were all locked—unused wards, probably. At the end, a narrow staircase led us down to the ground floor.

Two staff members appeared far off, walking away from us, arguing about expired vials. They didn’t see us. I took the chance and slipped out through a side door that led to a drying patio for herbs.

The morning breeze hit my face with the taste of freedom. It wasn’t full daylight yet—the city was still stretching in lazy yawns, and the sky had that violet-gray hue of an undecided hour. The street was practically empty.

Two vagrants slept sitting beside a dry well. A vendor was setting up a stall, slowly, like he didn’t believe a single customer would show up before noon.

I went down the steps with Thalia still hanging on my arm. She was walking on her own now—barely—but with some dignity. The hospital gown fluttered in the wind, and she held the collar with one hand, trying to salvage what was left of her composure.

She didn’t say anything. Neither did I. For a few moments, we just walked. Each step a little firmer. Each meter a little further from the silent death that almost got us back there.

"We’re going to the Republic house," I said, without looking back.

She didn’t argue.

And we walked.

No rush. No chase. Just the quiet urgency of those who survived, and still carried far too many questions on their backs.

The walk to the boarding house felt longer than it should’ve been—or maybe it was just the exhaustion turning every block into a small urban desert crossing. When we finally arrived, the three-story mansion with peeling paint looked safer than any fortress.

I locked the door the second we stepped inside, shut the front windows, and helped Thalia to the couch—or what remained of a couch, since the cushions had more scars than I did. She dropped onto it with an annoyed sigh, as if her weakness were somehow my fault.

I went to the side window, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and stood watch. The street was still empty. No silhouettes. No pursuers. No freelance assassins working overtime. But that meant nothing. In Antoril, silence was always more threat than comfort.

Behind me, Thalia shifted. The sound of fabric against upholstery. Heavy breathing. And then, like she couldn’t stand the quiet anymore:

"We should be doing something. Looking for records. Tracing who hired that man. Not just... staring out the window!"

"We’ve been alive for less than an hour," I replied, still facing outside. "One step at a time."

"One step at a time is how people like us die before getting anywhere! We had leads, Dante. People. Documents. And I—"

"You overexposed yourself," I cut her off, coldly, turning to face her. "You spoke too loud. Asked too many questions. And now we have an unconscious body, an entire city on alert, and you with a target painted on your back. Congrats."

She widened her eyes at my tone. Then clenched her fists.

"I was trying to help."

"With enthusiasm. With heart. And with zero experience. You’re good with words, Thalia, I’ll give you that. But investigation isn’t just asking questions. It’s knowing where to step, when to shut up, and most of all, how to make it out alive after. You almost died today. And I almost killed someone because of it."

She stood up from the couch with the kind of energy that usually ends in something breaking.

"You don’t get to judge me. You’re not better. You’re just more used to surviving in chaos."

"And where do you think that came from? Study? Talent? No. It came from failure. One screw-up after another. And if I survived, it’s because I learned from every single one of them. You still think you can play the hero and walk out untouched."

She stared at me for two more seconds. Then turned away, furious, and stormed into the bathroom. The door slammed shut with a muffled thud. Water started running—either to clean herself up, or to hide the sound of crying. Didn’t matter now.

I stayed there, alone, still watching out the window, with my breath stuck somewhere tight in my chest. The street remained quiet.

Too quiet.

"Great," I muttered with a cynical smile. "Looks like the day still has room to get worse."