How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 80: How to Get a Forced Promotion (1)

Chapter 80: How to Get a Forced Promotion (1)

The day wasn’t over yet, though I really wished it was. I walked up the streets to Lina’s tavern, passing stalls being dismantled, vendors complaining about the cold that came with the afternoon.

I didn’t talk to anyone. Not even the mangy dog that insisted on following me for a few minutes before deciding I wasn’t worth the effort.

When I got to the tavern, I shoved the door harder than needed. The creak echoed through the hall, empty at this hour, with tables still dirty with glasses no one had cleared. The smell of old beer and cold grease hit me like a soft punch. The innkeeper was gone, so were the patrons.

Lina wasn’t at the counter. Maybe sleeping. Maybe pretending I didn’t exist — which I couldn’t blame her for doing.

I went straight for the side door, the one leading to the cellar. I stopped in front of it just long enough to let out a heavy sigh, as if the wood were my confessor. Then I turned the handle and went down.

The darkness down there was comfortable. Honest. It didn’t hide the smell of mold, the damp soaking the walls, the creak of the bottom step threatening to break under anyone over seventy kilos.

Brelgrik was there.

Sitting on the same bench against the wall, his thin body wrapped in a patched cloak Lina had given him months ago, but which he wore like it was royal garb.

Legs crossed, spine bent at an unnatural angle, shaved head with old runes visible on his skin like scars carved by a drunk, vengeful sculptor.

His eyes were open. But they didn’t really see me. They seemed to stare at something in the air only he could see.

"Good afternoon, your majesty." My voice came out hoarse, tired, but full of that sarcasm as natural to me as breathing.

He blinked, slowly, and only then seemed to notice I was there. A crooked smile spread over his cracked lips.

"The herald of truth returns." He spoke like it was a solemn announcement in a decaying court. "Have you brought news from the kingdom above?"

"I have." I answered, dragging one of the empty crates to sit in front of him. "And they’re not good."

He laughed, a short, ugly sound that ended in a cough.

"The best ones never are."

I threw the folded paper on the ground between us. The sheets opened to show the scandalous headline, the text crammed tight to fit all the sordid details Marlow deemed worthy of print.

Brelgrik looked at the paper. His eyes narrowed. Then they moved across the lines as if trying to chew them, but unable to swallow anything.

"Reading isn’t something I do well anymore." He admitted, unashamed. "The mind remembers the shape of letters, but not the sounds."

I ran a hand over my face. Sighed.

"All right. I’ll read it for you."

I picked up the paper. Settled my back against the cold wall. And began.

I spoke about the smuggling network, the forged seals, the names omitted out of "editorial caution." About how the local guard pretended not to see. About contracts linking Antoril to the capital and, by extension, to Malderra.

I read every line, but explained it in my own words, because I knew what was printed was cheap makeup. And I didn’t have the patience to sell that to him.

When I finished, I tossed the paper aside. It lay on the floor, breathing like a still-warm body.

Silence in the cellar stretched until it hurt.

Brelgrik didn’t speak right away. He looked at the ceiling with those hollow eyes, blinking like he had to remember where he was.

Then his voice came out lower, more serious than I expected:

"This will draw attention."

"That’s the idea." I said, trying to sound confident, but just sounding tired.

"Not the good kind." He corrected. "It’ll draw eyes that prefer things quiet. That believe silence is order."

I scratched my scruffy beard, feeling the roughness on my fingers.

"How long until someone comes?"

He laughed. A short, dry sound.

"They already did." He said, like it was obvious. "The difference is now they’ll come faster. With less ceremony."

I looked at the floor, where the paper trembled in the cold draft coming through the door crack.

"What do you think they’ll do?"

He looked at me. Direct. Unflinching.

"Malderra doesn’t usually let those who disrupt business go unpunished."

The way he said "Malderra" wasn’t the name of a city. It was a sentence. A force. A concept too dirty to be cleaned.

I swallowed hard.

"And the mayor?" I asked, because I had to. "He was there, right? He was mentioned."

Brelgrik shook his head.

"Messing with the mayor would be... scandalous." His eyes gleamed with that lucidity that always showed up when least expected. "He’s useful. Predictable. Easy to blackmail. You don’t kill a guard dog that knows who to bite."

"Then who?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"The messenger. Always the messenger. Cut the tongue that speaks. Or better yet — replace it with one that says what they want."

I took a deep breath, the cold air of the cellar burning my lungs.

I kept staring at him, at the way he stayed so still, like a broken statue with a will of its own.

And suddenly, I wasn’t there anymore.

I was somewhere else.

In the other life.

In an office crammed with papers, with flickering fluorescent lights, busted air conditioning, a phone that wouldn’t stop ringing. I remembered the stories I tried to publish. The veiled threats that came by email. The editor smiling while telling me he’d "clean up" my text so it wouldn’t cause problems.

I remembered the reporter they tried to kill. The intern who vanished after refusing a shady "freelance." The security guard who died in a "random" robbery a week after he opened his mouth.

Nothing new.

Just the same game with different names.

Only the language of the threats changed.

I looked back at Brelgrik. He was watching me with those eyes that looked like dark caves with too many echoes.

"They’ll try to silence you, Dante." he said, low, almost whispered. "Or they’ll give your spot to someone else. Someone who knows how to smile while lying."

I sighed. Long. Deep.

And a thought bit hard at me.

If they wanted so badly to keep Gideon in control, to use him as the trustworthy face to tell the right lies...

I just needed to make sure he got all the attention.

Not me.

Him.

Let him shine like a beacon, so all the warships aimed at him.

While I kept digging.

While I screwed everything from underneath.

I looked at Brelgrik and smiled. An ugly smile. A smile that wasn’t happy. But it was decided.

Because if there was one thing I knew how to do — it was survive.

And sometimes, surviving meant sacrificing more than pride.

It meant sacrificing someone who thought they’d already won.

It was cold in that cellar, the crumpled paper at my feet, the smell of mold filling my nose and the dark thoughts lining up like a disciplined army behind my eyes.

After talking with Brelgrik, I didn’t go straight to Lina’s room. Didn’t bother brushing the damp cellar dust off my hands. Didn’t even care to say goodbye.

I closed the door behind me quietly and crossed the silent kitchen, the floorboards creaking like they complained about the weight of my decisions.

The tavern was dark, empty, like a body with no pulse. That was better. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t want to explain anything. Didn’t want to feel the dull shame of having sold myself to Gideon Marlow for a handful of ink on paper.

So I left.

I walked without hurry, hands shoved in the pockets of the coat I’d grabbed in a rush — the same coat Lina had lent me weeks ago, patched with red threads that looked like they bled under the lamplight.

I walked to the edge of the city. Followed the muddy, root-choked trail until I found a familiar clearing, where the twisted trees seemed to whisper secrets too old to be understood.

There, I sat on the ground.

The damp earth stained my pants, but I didn’t care. I crossed my arms over my knees, rested my forehead on them and closed my eyes.

I didn’t fall asleep quickly. I’m not the type who sleeps easy. I spent a good while just listening to the wind hitting the trunks, branches rubbing together like old men fighting over an inheritance.

The moon filtered light through the leaves, cold and too honest for the city.

When I finally slept, I dreamed of fire. Of newspapers burning. Of my name written in ash.

I woke to birds singing that didn’t know where they were. The sun was already trying to rise, spreading pale light that warmed nothing. My back ached like I’d been beaten.

I stretched, my neck cracking like a dry branch.

I stood slowly, brushed the dirt from the coat, slapped my pants. And put on my best clothes — the ones Thalia had given me, an uncomfortable reminder that nothing I wore was really mine.

The black pants, the white linen shirt with the clean collar, the gray vest that made me look like a hired bodyguard. Even wrinkled, it was still more elegant than anything I’d owned before.

I walked back to the city.

Ashveil was waking up lazily. Markets lifted their stalls with the sound of abused wood, carts dragged supplies, vendors shouted prices no one believed. I passed them without looking.

Marlow’s house was small, a cube pretending at modesty so it wouldn’t attract attention. I went in without knocking.

Inside, Gideon Marlow was already sitting in his leather chair, the desk arranged with obsessive precision. He was drinking real coffee, steaming, fragrant, served in a fine cup that clashed with the rest of the room — his ego’s throne.

He didn’t greet me immediately. Just raised his eyes when I closed the door behind me.

"Dante." He said in a flat voice. "Punctual."

I just raised an eyebrow.

He gestured at a pile of papers on a side table.

"It’ll be a quiet day today. I need you to review these letters. Reader responses, some notes from rural reporters, one or two commercial ads. Sort the trash from anything useful."

I blinked, not hiding my boredom.

"That’s it?"

He lifted his chin.

"I’m not asking you to set the city on fire. Just separate what’s worth something from what isn’t."

I snorted, but went to the table.

The papers were ridiculous. Invites for local bakery promotions, letters complaining about rising taxes, a farmer writing about a two-headed cow that sounded like a tavern rumor. I finished the work in fifteen minutes. Maybe less.

The sorted pile was perfect, stacked with a speed that made Marlow himself raise an eyebrow.

"Done?"

"I can read, boss. Surprise?"

He didn’t laugh.

"I have other commitments today." He said, standing with the cup still in hand. "A press conference in the village of Erdas. Small matter, but I need to show my face."

I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall.

"Going alone?"

"I don’t need a babysitter." He adjusted his coat. "I don’t foresee any dangers."

"Oh, you don’t?" I thought, almost laughing. I wanted to ask if he’d written his own epitaph. But I stayed silent. Let him leave without wishing him good luck.

When the door closed, silence swallowed the office.

Then I started.

I rifled through drawers, rummaged through cabinets, opened old archive boxes. Read old correspondence. Sifted through receipts, notes, yellowed letters that smelled of old paper.

Nothing.

Or rather: nothing useful.

It was all meticulous cleaning. Marlow didn’t leave loose ends. No compromising names, no shady contracts, nothing that tied him directly to the powerful people paying for silence.

The day dragged on, the light shifting tones through the small windows. The sun’s accumulated warmth turned to damp cold as night crept in.

I felt like a rat trapped in an apothecary cabinet — sniffing poison but never finding the damn bottle.

Until I heard the creak of the delivery hatch.

A letter slid inside, hitting the floor with a hollow sound.

I picked it up. The envelope was thick, stamped with Malderra’s seal — a stylized flower crest, as elegant as it was threatening.

I read the addressee:

For Gideon Marlow.

I opened it without hesitation.

It was an invitation. No. A warning.

The president of the Malderra contest council would be visiting him in person.

I leaned back in the chair, feeling my heart thump heavily in my chest.

And I smiled.

Wide. Slow. Ugly.

Because suddenly it all made sense.

Because if Marlow was going to be the face of this story, if he was going to sign every word as his, then he could carry the weight.

I’d make sure he was the one to shine.

The one to draw all the eyes.

While I...

I’d keep digging underneath.

And in that moment, in the cold office lit only by the flickering candle in the corner, I understood:

I’d just found myself a new adventure.

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