How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 75: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (2)

Chapter 75: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (2)

Ashveil woke up the way someone does when they really don’t want to—fog still hugging the streets, the smell of burned wood drifting lazily between chimneys. But that morning, something felt different. It wasn’t the noise of the market opening, or the sound of hammers on rooftops, or even the off-key singing of some drunk late to get home. It was more... ceremonial.

I noticed it the second I saw the gate.

Guards lined up with a care they rarely bothered with. Polished, clean-shaven, their spears aligned like teeth in a threatening jaw. And between them, one figure in well-polished plate armor—the local sergeant, who looked about as comfortable in all that shiny metal as a cat in a bath.

All of it to escort us.

Me, Dante, and Thalia. Two "pardoned" convicts returned under public pressure, being pushed back to our hometown like poisoned gifts.

[EVENT: "Return to Ashveil"]

→ Escort Units: Active

→ Public Perception: High Curiosity

→ Dress Status: Formal / Cleaned (Authority-Assisted)

→ Charisma Bonus: +3 (Unexpected Elegance)

They’d been careful, I’ll admit. They gave us clean clothes before we left Antoril. I wore a dark, almost military-style coat with brass buttons, high collar, and a belt with a runic buckle. Thalia had on a moss-green dress with long sleeves and subtle oak-leaf embroidery—elegant, respectable. She looked beautiful. Too beautiful, honestly. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun that didn’t completely hide the gold strands falling over her forehead.

Of course. The appearance of innocence. The appearance of dignity.

The strategy was obvious: if we’re returning them, better make them look respectable. So Ashveil will accept them without trouble.

The problem was: Ashveil loved trouble.

The ride to the gate was already noisy. Kids ran alongside the cobbled road, shouting and laughing. Old women peeked from windows with curious eyes. Men dropped their tools to watch the procession. Two carts got stuck in the street, the curses of the drivers turning into an impromptu audience.

When we passed under the stone arch that read "WELCOME TO ASHVEIL" in crooked, chipped letters, the sound changed. A collective murmur. Surprise. Contained excitement. Like they were expecting a king returning from victorious campaign—not two troublemakers being returned under escort.

But before the crowd could really find its voice, a firm, familiar one cut through the air:

"Citizens of Ashveil!" boomed Marlow, the old newsman himself, standing dead-center in the street, hands raised like a conductor not of music but of living headlines. "Behold the return of our... heroes!"

The word spread like a spark in dry hay. Someone repeated it, softer. Someone else laughed. But Marlow didn’t even blink. His battered hat was jammed onto his head with pride, his worn coat flapping in the breeze. Those eyes—always alive—were shining like he’d spent days planning this moment. Which, of course, he probably had.

"Yes, heroes!" he went on, ignoring the skeptical faces in the crowd. "They went on an important expedition! Investigating, discovering... risking everything for this town! And now they return victorious, alive, with stories that will spread through every mouth before sunset!"

He paced back and forth, stamping the syllables into the ground with worn boots, throwing his arms up. Half speech, half advertisement. He didn’t actually say what we’d done. He didn’t have to. It was all in the tone. All in the show.

"Who here doubts their courage?" Marlow spun on his heel, pointing right at me and Thalia. "Who thinks it’s easy to go out facing unnamed dangers? Look at their faces! Look at the exhaustion, the dust, the marks of the road! That’s not shame—that’s the medal of those who did what no one else would!"

And incredibly, it worked. The crowd quieted. Some looked down. Others even nodded, uncomfortable with the direct appeal. I could only stare at Marlow with that look of cynical resignation. I knew exactly what he was doing. Selling it. Packaging it. Crafting tomorrow’s headline right there, live.

"Important expedition." Yeah, right. So important he’d never told anyone what it was. Because he didn’t know. Didn’t need to. The label was enough.

And now, thanks to him, we were about to enter Ashveil as the main attraction—and if he had his way, it would sell papers better than anything else.

And for all my exhaustion and injuries, I couldn’t help but respect the brilliance of the move.

Marlow finally smiled as the noise died down. He adjusted his hat and turned to us, like a man handing over the stage.

"Welcome home," he murmured, just for the two of us, his voice dropping to something almost paternal. "Now, try to look like you deserve it."

And I took a deep breath. Because, like it or not, Marlow had just written our headline for us.

[PUBLIC REACTION]

→ Crowd Size: 38 (Growing)

→ Mood: Curious / Excited

→ System Alert: Charisma Check Passed – Heroic Entrance Activated

The system let me know, with its usual shameless cheer:

[HEROIC ENTRANCE – TRIGGERED]

→ +10 to Public Approval

→ +5 to Rumor Generation

→ +3 to Reputation: "Problem Solver (Unlicensed)"

I felt ridiculous.

But the crowd didn’t seem to agree.

An old woman shouted "They’re here!" and raised her arm like greeting a returning general. A kid even mimicked my pose in the saddle, straightening an imaginary coat. There were smiles. Whispers.

And, more importantly, familiar faces.

I saw Olven, the old man, in the doorway of his workshop, wiping soot from his hands on a rag with more holes than fabric. Somehow he seemed to be looking at me, even though he was blind.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

But the most complicated moment came right after.

Lina.

She was standing farther ahead, near the center. Wearing her usual apron, sleeves rolled up, a cloth tucked at her waist, and her red hair pulled back in a quick bun.

She had that proud posture—arms crossed, eyebrows arched. But her eyes gave it all away. Surprise. Worry. And, for a second, maybe... affection.

I swallowed hard.

But before I could think about waving or shouting some stupid joke, I felt it.

The reins of my horse tugged gently to the side. And there was Thalia.

She brought her mount close, so near our legs almost touched. And then—in a move that felt practically rehearsed—she extended her hand.

And held mine.

[RELATIONAL SYSTEM ALERT]

→ Thalia Veil – Emotional Status: Affection Elevated

→ Bond Formation: Active

→ Public Display: Hand-Holding Detected

→ Crowd Reaction: +20 Approval

A ragged little crowd let out a cheer. Some people clapped. A few old ladies actually sighed. I even heard a chorus of "awww."

My brain locked up.

There I was, dressed like a second-rate officer, on a borrowed horse... and holding hands with the daughter of one of the most influential men in this little town.

And Lina saw everything.

She was there. Her eyes tracked the movement in slow motion. I saw her jaw clench. The wet shine that wasn’t joy. The tightening of her crossed arms.

And then, like an experienced actress, she turned.

And vanished into the crowd.

Thalia’s hand still held mine. Firm. Almost possessive.

"Smile," she murmured low. "They’re watching."

I looked forward. Swallowed a curse.

I smiled.

[STATUS UPDATE]

→ Public Perception: Heroic Couple

→ Hidden Stat: "Interpersonal Disaster" +5

Ashveil swallowed us up in timid applause and thinly veiled curiosity. And all I wanted was to get off the horse, crawl into a hole, and ask the system if it had an invisibility spell in stock.

But no.

I was the hero of the day.

And the same idiot as always.

Thalia kept holding my hand tightly. Our reins crossed, our mounts nearly pressed together. She looked like she was smiling for the crowd, face a little flushed, cheeks set in that expression that said "see, everything’s fine now." But I saw the subtle tremor in her wrist. The quickened breath. She wasn’t that good of an actress.

[RELATIONAL SYSTEM ALERT]

→ Thalia Marlow – Emotional Status: Proud / Possessive

→ Public Display: Active

→ Risk of Emotional Escalation: Medium-High

Inside, I wanted to laugh. Because of course the system had to rub it in.

As we passed through the central square, the street widened, revealing the imposing—or at least pretentious—façade of Marlow’s house.

Gideon greeted us with a wide smile. Grand. Welcoming. And absolutely fake.

"Ah, finally!" he exclaimed, arms spread as if he meant to hug the entire town. "Our favorite adventurers! Come! Come!"

Behind him hovered the mayor of Ashveil. A short, stocky man with a mustache so oily it could light a lamp. His official robe looked two sizes too small. He was sweating like a pig on an altar.

"Ah... yes! Yes, welcome!" he stammered, wiping his brow with an embroidered kerchief. "Welcome back to... ah... our dear Ashveil!"

His voice wobbled like unset jelly. Marlow raised an eyebrow at him in a nearly imperceptible gesture that said: "Say it properly."

I just rolled my eyes. I got off the horse slowly, feeling every bone complain. Thalia dismounted with more grace, adjusting her dress while maintaining the pose. The escort spread out discreetly, two of the riders taking the reins and watching the still-murmuring crowd.

One of the older guards—the kind of man who’d arrested half the town for insubordination—cleared his throat loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. He pointed his spear at the mayor.

"Mayor." He spoke like delivering bad news. "It’s important to note that this ’expedition’ caused significant damage in the city of Antoril. Public property damage. Injuries. Explosions. Including the diplomatic reputation of this... village here." He waved vaguely toward Ashveil, as if it wasn’t even worth pointing to properly.

The mayor paled. Dabbed his neck with the cloth now. His voice came out a strained whisper.

"Yes... of course... all duly noted. And... regretted."

Marlow cleared his throat. A dry sound that cracked the air like a whip. Everyone went silent.

He stepped forward, looking from the guard to the mayor, then to me and Thalia. His eyes were velvet-wrapped blades. I knew him too well. He was savoring this. Because it wasn’t just our grand return—it was also his chance to remind the town who controlled the narrative here.

"Ashveil thanks them for returning," Marlow declared, voice strong and clear. "And will take responsibility for anything that needs to be clarified." He turned slightly to face the mayor, still smiling. "Isn’t that right?"

The mayor seemed to swallow his own tongue.

"Yes... of course... responsible... all under control..."

I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

[EVENT FLAG – SYSTEM UPDATE]

→ Ashveil Political Reputation: +10 (Fear/Respect)

→ Dante Reputation: +5 (Heroic / Dangerous)

→ Thalia Reputation: +5 (Brave / Reckless)

→ Marlow Reputation: +15 (Mastermind)

The system seemed to be enjoying this more than I was.

Marlow turned to us.

"You two. Inside. Now." His tone shifted from cordial to paternal authority in a second. "We need to talk. Immediately."

Thalia opened her mouth to say something. I nudged her lightly. Better not. When Marlow got like this, there was no arguing. It was like arguing with fate—only with more sarcasm.

The mayor wiped his sweat and followed us, his footsteps heavy as hammers on a coffin.

And so, escorted not by guards but by the weight of everything we’d done, we crossed the threshold. The door closed behind us with a final, solid thud.

Inside, the air was heavy. The smell of fresh paint and old newspaper mingled with the stubborn scent of burnt coffee.

Marlow turned, looking from one of us to the other with an unreadable expression.

"Now..." he said slowly. "Let’s talk seriously."

And the silence that settled was so thick it felt like it wanted to swallow the walls.