How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 77: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (4)

Chapter 77: How to Go Home as a Semi-Hero (4)

The street was nearly empty, except for one or two drunks arguing philosophy with the cobblestones. I kept my cloak pulled over my face, trying to pass as just another miserable nobody—the trick was to walk fast enough to look busy but slow enough not to draw attention. Antoril wasn’t the kind of city that asked questions, as long as you didn’t offer answers.

Lina’s tavern sat wedged in an alley that smelled of stale yeast, crushed garlic, and damp firewood. The lights were low—a sign the main room was closed to the public or, more likely, that she didn’t want to be bothered. The wooden sign swung in the cold wind, creaking like a warning for the curious to fuck off somewhere else.

But I wasn’t curious.

I was stubborn.

I didn’t go through the front door. I wasn’t stupid. I turned down the side, into an alley narrower than a bankrupt noble’s pride. The smell was worse there—mold and fish scraps tossed by someone who believed "organic waste" was an excuse for olfactory crimes.

I found the little service door. The hinges would screech if you treated them like an enemy, but I knew the trick. Pushed sideways, kind of up, kind of with my shoulder. It gave with a resigned sigh, silent. A talent I was proud of: opening doors that wanted to stay shut.

Inside, the kitchen was dark. Pans hanging, a table stained with something I hoped was wine, and the smell of old onion trying to murder any freshness in the air. I squeezed between the wall and a cupboard to avoid knocking anything over. Quiet as a thief—which was funny, since I was a terrible thief. But I knew how to survive.

I crept down the stone steps to the cellar. A creak here, another there, but nothing alarming. The trick was remembering where the wood was rotten and where it would still hold an idiot like me. When I reached the last step, I took a breath. The air was colder. Heavier. It smelled of things without names.

The cellar door was ajar. Faint light spilled out—a candle, maybe two. I pushed it open slowly, letting the minimal creak drag like a whisper. And there he was.

Sitting on an improvised bench. Thin legs stretched out. Bald head revealing runes carved like they’d been done with dull knives and anger. Ears once long and elegant, now torn, the tips burned. His skin was a sickly gray-green. And those eyes.

Those fucking eyes.

Eyes that had seen too much. Eyes that had forgotten enough to go mad but remembered just enough not to die.

Brelgrik.

Or, as he’d once admitted, Elvian Tyrholt. Former king of the White Houses of Malderra. Fallen. Exiled. Cursed to live with a mind in tatters.

He looked up when I came in. Didn’t speak immediately. Just examined me like he was cataloging threats. Or memories.

"You came back," he said in that voice like stone scraping stone. "I wondered if it would be today. Or never."

"And you still stink the same," I shot back, closing the door behind me. "Good to know some things don’t change."

He laughed. Low. Without humor.

"Change." Brelgrik flexed his bony fingers, tracing patterns in the air like he was summoning ghosts. "Change is for those with a future. I have... continuity."

I moved closer until I was about two meters away. Far enough to bolt if he snapped. Close enough to show I wasn’t afraid—even if that wasn’t entirely true.

"I need answers," I said. "And you still owe me some."

"I owe the whole world, Dante." His tone was almost resigned. "But you... you reek of them."

I frowned.

"Of who?"

He drew a deep breath. Like even that hurt.

"Malderra."

The word dropped like a stone in the cellar’s well. Echoed in the air. Gained weight.

"Malderra," he repeated. "City of painted faces and slit throats. They’ve noticed you, Dante. You asked questions you shouldn’t. Poked where the flesh still bleeds. Now you stink of their interest. Even if you don’t know it."

"I don’t have anything to do with Malderra," I growled. "I just want to shut down a smuggling ring, lock up a few idiots, and maybe not die in the process."

Brelgrik laughed. Not happy. Not sad. Just... laughed.

"You don’t understand." His eyes gleamed with that fleeting lucidity that always made me uncomfortable. "There’s no ’few idiots’ in Malderra. There’s no ’small crime.’ There is the whole. The plot. The web. You’re not fighting a smuggler. You’re fighting their dream. The dream I helped build. And that destroyed me."

I stayed silent. Swallowed. The cellar’s air felt heavier, like it was pulling breath from my lungs.

He went on:

"You tangled with people who’d rather rewrite history than admit guilt. People who’d kill you before even understanding why. And now... you brought it here. To me. To her."

He nodded toward the ceiling, the floor above. Where Lina slept.

The silence bit like an old dog.

I was about to answer. Say something—anything—when the cellar door creaked.

"Dante?" Her voice. Wary. "Is that you down there?"

I turned. Lina stood at the doorway. Hair messy. A short knife in her hand. Her expression said it all: she was tired of surprises. And I was the biggest one.

"Lina," I said, trying to sound calm. "Everything okay?"

"Okay?" She frowned, eyes darting from me to Brelgrik and back. "There’s a degenerate ex-elf king in my basement muttering about curses and conspiracies. You call that ’okay’?"

I sighed. Hated it when she was right.

"I can explain," I forced a half-smile. "Sort of."

Brelgrik coughed, drawing our attention. He lifted his gaze—clearer now. More focused. Like he was right on the edge of saying something important.

"Dante," he rasped. "Before she kicks you out or hugs you... listen. Malderra doesn’t forget. Ever. They turned me into this. They can turn you too. Don’t think the city sleeps just because you want it to. It dreams. And it dreams of blood."

Lina looked at me. I looked at her.

And I felt a chill crawl down my spine.

Because, for the first time, I didn’t have a smart-ass answer ready.

Either way, what held my attention at that moment was Lina. She was standing there, arms crossed, chin raised. Her brown eyes were like banked coals—no light, but hot enough to burn.

"So?" she snapped before I could even inhale.

I leaned back against the counter, letting out a long sigh. The air smelled of old onions and wet rust. An honest stink. Unlike Antoril’s politics.

"So..." I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "You want the short version or the full one with footnotes?"

She didn’t answer. Just arched an eyebrow. Which, in Lina-speak, translated to "keep talking or die."

"Right." I crossed my arms too, mimicking her. "We went to Antoril. To investigate some illegal trades. Found ancient seals circulating, forged documents. Big stuff. Probably ties Ashveil directly to big shots over there."

She didn’t blink. I kept going, half on autopilot:

"I had to pose as a bodyguard. Walked through hallways full of demon rats. Fought rune traps. Killed a golem that wanted to see if my head rolled pretty. — And, of course, spent a few hours in jail. Misunderstanding. Totally normal."

"Normal." Her voice was like glass shattering. "You need help."

"Already got it," I said, tapping my temple. "Lifetime subscription."

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even scoff. Just dropped her gaze, arms tightening around herself. Silence crept in between us like damp vines.

I tried to change the subject:

"And him?" I jerked my thumb over my shoulder toward the cellar. "How’s Brelgrik been? Much trouble?"

Lina shook her head, hair falling in her face.

"He stays down there. Barely eats. Talks to himself. Sometimes sings." Her voice trembled just a bit. "Keeps repeating names of people who’re probably dead. And he calls me queen. Just because I bring him soup."

I exhaled slowly. The mental image didn’t do much for my mood.

"He’s... complicated."

"No. He’s broken," she corrected, voice flat.

I shut my mouth. Not because I had no answer, but because nothing I could say would help.

The system pinged in my head:

[SOCIAL STATUS: Lina is upset.]

[Suggestion: Mitigate tension.]

[Apply skill: Charmcraft (current level: limited).]

I mentally closed the pop-up with a silent curse.

Tried again:

"Look, I know I should’ve sent word. Or come back sooner. But it was..."

"Hard?" she cut in, still not looking up. "Oh, sure. Must’ve been so hard." She finally lifted her eyes to mine—and I saw more exhaustion than anger in them. "So hard you didn’t even remember there are people here waiting to know you’re alive."

The squeeze in my chest hurt worse than any blade.

"Lina..."

"Oh, but I get it," she went on, her voice even colder. "You were busy with Miss Perfect Journalist, huh?" She spat the words like they tasted bad. "Thalia. Bet you two had a great time."

That hit like a rock to the gut.

"Uh... I don’t know if nearly dying several times counts as fun."

"Doesn’t it?" She took half a step forward. "Then tell me, Dante. You vanish for days, and when you finally open your mouth it’s to tell me you played hero for some pretty-haired reporter?"

"I didn’t get saved, I literally saved her."

Yeah. I really should’ve kept my mouth shut.

[SOCIAL STATUS: Conflict imminent.]

[System Suggestion: Charmcraft (Emotional De-escalation).]

[Apply strategy: Focused Attention or Physical Contact.]

My head throbbed. I saw the system offering options like a salesman pushing miracle cures for human problems. But not today.

I looked at her. Really looked. At the hollow eyes, the tired skin, the knife still in her hand like she hadn’t noticed she was holding it. And suddenly all the sarcasm died on my tongue.

"Lina..."

She bit her lip. Her hand trembled, the knife wavering slightly. Her face twisted into something ugly—anger, fear, sadness all tangled up.

"Don’t talk," she whispered, no conviction behind it. "Just... don’t lie."

The air turned heavier. Warmer. I could hear blood in my ears. Feel every heartbeat. And I realized there was no room left for irony. Or apologies.

So I dropped the verbal bullshit.

I took two long steps.

Grabbed her wrist—slow but firm—until the knife clattered to the floor. She didn’t resist. Just stared at me like she couldn’t believe it. Like she wanted to, but couldn’t let herself.

And I pulled her in.

Pulled until there was no distance. Until I felt her warmth against my chest. Until I could see every detail in her eyes, the trembling lashes, the uneven breaths.

And before she could protest again, before I could change my mind, I did what the system had been suggesting all along—but not as a tactic.

I kissed her.

A kiss full of anger. Fear. Unspoken apologies. A confession too big for words.

She resisted for a second. Half a second. A caught breath in her throat. Then her hand rose to my shoulder. Gripped. Like she was blaming me. Like she was letting herself. Like she was forgiving me—just enough for today.

The system went quiet.

And so did I.

Because sometimes, even I knew when to shut the fuck up.