How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 81: How to Get a Forced Promotion (2)

Chapter 81: How to Get a Forced Promotion (2)

It seemed like days in Ashveil never changed. I woke up just like any other day and went about my chores like a good lower-class citizen (better than being an almost-homeless adventurer). I walked down the main street kicking little stones as if they were small problems, the newspaper tucked under my arm, my collar half done up giving me that "don’t care what people think" look.

The newsstand was open before the sun even had a chance to warm the cobblestones properly. The shelves creaked under the weight of the editions, and a new stack of papers still smelling of fresh ink trembled in one corner. Marlow wasn’t there at that hour—probably off preaching morals at some merchants’ meeting worried about taxes. After all, that’s all he’d been good at since winning the contest.

But instead of him, I was greeted by a scrawny little kid I hadn’t seen in a while. He was the one responsible for grabbing a few papers and trying to sell them around Ashveil, yelling the headline at passersby. I noticed he had more pimples than mustache when he shot me a suspicious look.

"Who are you?" he grumbled.

"I’m me." I went straight to my table at the back, slapping the newspaper against my leg to knock off the dust. "Any mail? Death threats? Veiled bribes? I want the full package today."

"I can’t read." He dropped the bundle without ceremony. "But someone said a cow got stolen."

"Incredible. Top-tier investigation. I’ll send it to the violent crimes section."

He didn’t laugh. I didn’t expect him to. Didn’t even know if he had the IQ to get the joke.

I spent the morning in that numbing back-and-forth of every day: reading letters with questionable handwriting, trying to translate the ramblings of old folks furious about the price of salt, editing sentences that looked like they’d been spat out by a drunk with a love of commas. It was... comfortable. And I hated it.

Until I noticed the movement in the street.

Gradually, the voices got louder. More excited. People crowded around the main square, elbowing children who were trying to get closer. When I stood and looked out the window, I felt that familiar nausea of knowing nothing good was about to happen.

A striped tent was being set up—poorly, to be honest. The patched-up fabric flapped in the wind like sails about to tear. A wooden arch painted gold (or what was left of the paint) bravely tried to announce in giant letters: "THE GREAT CIRCUS OF WONDERS AND MARVELS."

I knew who it was. Of course I did.

I sighed so deeply even the chair seemed to feel it.

Mordrek.

He’d warned me he’d come.

I just hadn’t prepared for it actually happening.

I left the newsroom after throwing the approved letters on the apprentice’s desk like confetti.

Outside, the town buzzed with anticipation. The square had turned into an anthill of mothers with babies on their hips, street vendors burning sugar until it turned to cement trying to make popcorn, teenagers trying to look bored while they ogled the circus dancers adjusting their skirts.

The mayor was there too. Of course he was. Hat crooked over his greasy forehead, mustache quivering with excitement as he talked too loudly to anyone pretending to listen. He looked like a domesticated pig trying to imitate a noble horse—and with every one of his laughs, a bit more of my faith in humanity flung itself off the bell tower.

I leaned against a post and watched.

The show began.

If you could call it that.

It was a festival of cheap tricks.

Jugglers who dropped things more than they caught them. Colored smoke leaking from cracked tubes. A "wild beast tamer" with two skinny dogs painted with charcoal stripes. And Mordrek.

Ah, Mordrek.

He emerged in the center like a cheap prophet, arms raised, ragged cape billowing in wind that didn’t even exist. He spoke in that grandiloquent tone that sounded like it was apologizing to the language for misusing it. Introduced each act with pompous phrases, promised wonders never seen, laughed at his own jokes.

And, of course, the audience... loved it.

Especially the mayor, who laughed like a pig choking on moonshine. Clapped until his hands were red, shouted "Bravo!" like he’d seen the sun rise twice.

And me?

Arms crossed.

Watching it all with the same expression you give when you find mold in your food.

It was depressing.

And, somehow, perfect for Ashveil.

The show lasted longer than my patience. The sky turned orange. Then gray. People started to drift away, dragging sleepy children and coughing on the dust kicked up by the tents being rolled up and tied with rope. The mayor said goodbye to Mordrek with a hug so awkward I felt like suing for emotional damages just for witnessing it.

I stayed.

Waited.

Until the last gawker left.

Until the sounds turned to echoes.

Then I approached the side of the tent, where he was storing props like he was packing away a toy circus—old crates, extinguished torches, cracked masks.

Mordrek was crouched down, stacking things carelessly. Talking to himself. Probably rehearsing new lines or arguing with the voices in his own head.

"Nice show," I said, not hiding the venom. "You really elevated the city’s cultural level."

He froze.

Then slowly turned.

The smile spread on his lips as naturally as a cat watching a mouse trip.

"Dante!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms as if to hug me. "I thought you’d miss the GRAND FINALE!"

"I saw it all. Including the grand finale where the dog almost bit the wrong kid."

He shrugged, still smiling.

"Improvisation! The crowd loves authenticity!"

"Authenticity? You sold painted rocks as magic gems."

"Art." He raised a finger. "It’s a matter of perspective."

He dropped the boxes and stood up fully, brushing off his hands—only to send more dust into the air.

Mordrek sighed.

"Go on. Say what you want, Dante."

I stared at him.

"Because I need to talk to you."

He raised an eyebrow, smile fading a bit.

"About...?"

"A lot of things."

"I see journalism has made you even friendlier."

"You haven’t seen half of it."

Mordrek scratched his chin.

"You know, Dante... sometimes you make me think."

"About what?"

"About how nice it would be if you knew how to relax."

"If I’d relaxed, you would’ve kidnapped me. Twice."

He looked at me. Long. Thoughtful.

Then he sighed.

"Fine. Let’s talk. But not here."

I nodded.

The sky was already black as unconfessed sin.

And I knew that night was going to be long.

We sat on old crates behind the canvas that served as the grand "stage" of Mordrek’s show—if you were generous enough to call that muddy space a stage. The smell of burnt kerosene still lingered in the air, mixed with damp straw and the dying laughter of an easily impressed crowd. The torches flickered like they were coughing.

Mordrek adjusted his torn cape like it was some noble robe, giving me that look that suggested he thought he was worth more than the entire circus admission price.

"So," he began, in that affected voice of his, "you want to talk about serious matters."

"No. I want to see if you can form complete sentences without trying to rhyme or spit colored smoke."

He smiled, teeth showing like poorly buried bones.

"Always so poetic. Tell me, Dante. How’s life?"

I raised an eyebrow.

"You really want to know?"

He made a theatrical gesture with his hand.

"Enlighten me."

I sighed, crossing my arms.

"Well. I got arrested for helping an unconscious girl. Apparently that’s a crime now."

"Ah yes. First-degree rescue. Heavy sentence."

"Then I had to share a cell with a narcissistic idiot."

He put a hand to his chest, mock offended.

"Hey, charming idiot. Get it right."

"I don’t think ’charm’ covers previous kidnapping attempts."

He slapped the crate, pretending to laugh.

"Ah, the good old days!"

"For you, maybe. I almost died."

"But you didn’t." He raised a finger. "I call that partial success."

"Success is me not tearing your head off with my shackles."

"Details, details."

"Anyway," I continued, ignoring his shit-eating grin, "we escaped. You were even useful. Got in the way more than you helped, but it worked."

"I attract enemies. It’s a strategy."

"Yeah. Social repulsion as martial art. Impressive."

He snapped his fingers.

"So you left. For what?"

"To find out there was even more filth waiting. Smuggling. Corruption. People vanishing without a trace. All tied to Malderra."

"Ah, Malderra." He said it like he was tasting sour wine. "The city that buys its own narrative wholesale."

"You’d know. You tried selling me yours."

He tilted his head.

"And you? The big-time reporter now? Saving Ashveil one pamphlet at a time?"

I gave a crooked smile.

"Not exactly. I invested in my career. Stole raw material, did dirty work, almost got killed, had my name erased from an article that went viral, and now I work for the same bastard who stole it."

Mordrek gave slow, mocking applause.

"Inspiring arc. It should be a play in my circus."

"And you? Still kidnapping kids or did you upgrade to adults?"

He put a hand to his heart, feigning shock.

"I don’t kidnap. I recruit. It’s different."

"Sure. Half price if they’re under twelve."

He smiled again, but this time less broadly.

"I’m keeping an eye on your editor."

My expression tightened.

"Marlow?"

"Yeah. He’s going to dance, Dante."

"I’m already buying tickets."

Mordrek shook his head.

"It’s going to be ugly. I’m not talking bar brawls. I’m talking people vanishing, editions confiscated, offices burned down. I’ve seen it. In other cities."

"And you ran away, I suppose."

"I adapted." He stretched his legs. "I survive."

"And you came to warn me?"

"No. I came to sell tickets to my circus."

I snorted.

"Generous."

"Dante, listen." He lowered his tone. "I heard things. About that so-called ’president of the council’ in Malderra: Silven Dorne. The prince of official letterheads. He doesn’t just sign contest certificates. He decides who lives to write the next one."

I went quiet for a second.

"Go on."

"He’s coming."

"I know. I intercepted a letter from him the other day."

"He’s not coming just to hand out awards. He’s coming to clean up." Mordrek clicked his tongue. "Remove friction. Make sure the right papers tell the right story."

I took a deep breath, the smell of burnt canvas around us.

"And you? Going to sell tickets to the public execution?"

"No." He leaned forward, conspiratorial. "I can help you."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Help? You barely help yourself."

"I know roughly how to get to him."

"Roughly?"

"He’s not going to walk in the front door. He’ll send emissaries, check security. I have contacts. I know which roads, which dates. We could intercept."

I thought about it.

The idea was good. Too good to have come from him.

"Why tell me this?"

"Because if I help you screw him over, I survive. If he cleans you up, he cleans up anyone around you. Including my circus. My ’loyal audience.’" He did air quotes. "Get it?"

I stayed silent.

He looked at me like he was begging for recognition—or at least a discount on his future death sentence.

"So?" he asked. "Do we have another deal?"

"I’ll think about it."

"Oh, Dante..." He smiled, cynical, raising his hands theatrically. "You know you can’t reach him without me."

I stared at him. Long. Steady.

"Maybe." I sighed. "But I’m not going to trust you completely."

"Neither will I."

"Good. Then we’re off to a great start."

He stood up, brushing the dust from his legs.

"So do we have a deal?"

"We do." I crossed my arms. "But if you try kidnapping me again, I’ll burn your entire circus to the ground."

"Fair." He raised his hands. "It was only once, and you almost liked it."

"Go to hell, Mordrek."

He laughed.

And there, sitting among crates, dead torches, and the hollow carcass of a failing circus, we sealed the kind of pact only desperate idiots would make.

But somehow, it was the only chance I had.