How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 83: How to Get a Forced Promotion (4)

Chapter 83: How to Get a Forced Promotion (4)

I watched Silven Dorne watching me, and it struck me that this was the first time all night I felt genuinely seen—not just glanced at, or measured as a problem to be solved, but actually seen. He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move for a weapon.

I could practically hear Mordrek’s voice in my head: Careful, Dante. He doesn’t scare because he knows the price of fear.

I shifted just enough to stay balanced, one boot heel digging into the dirt of the path. The forest around us was so quiet I could hear the horse breathing, hear the lantern’s flame gutter in the wind. The guards were at a polite distance, feigning disinterest but with their hands resting on sword hilts. They wouldn’t move unless he ordered them to.

Silven finally spoke, voice low and even, the sort of tone you’d use to explain to a child why you were burning down their house.

"So," he said. "You have my attention. That is... difficult to achieve. Congratulations."

I tilted my head.

"I’ll try not to faint from gratitude."

His mouth curved a fraction. Not a smile. An adjustment.

"Flippancy is your armor, I see. That’s fine. Let’s skip the opening insults. Why did you bother intercepting me in the dark, Mister Dante?"

I let the silence hang for a moment, letting my breath settle.

"I’m here," I said slowly, "because you’re going to kill my boss."

Silven made a polite, small sound in his throat. It was neither agreement nor denial.

"I see."

He shifted his weight, cloak brushing the grass at the edge of the path.

"You’re very direct. That’s not common in Ashveil. Usually I have to listen to a great deal of moralizing first."

"I’m not here to moralize," I replied. "I know who Marlow is. I know what he’s done. Hell, I know what he’s doing. He’s a greedy, lying bastard who stole my work. But I don’t want him dead."

Silven exhaled softly.

"Why not? He’s inconvenient. That’s the word we use in Malderra for men like him. Inconvenient. And inconvenient men get replaced. Preferably in a way that doesn’t disturb the public too much."

I snorted.

"You mean quietly."

He inclined his head.

"I do. You’re not a fool, despite your presentation. I appreciate that."

I took a single step closer. Not enough to threaten. Enough to talk man to man.

"So you’re here to do it. To make it official."

He didn’t look away.

"I’m here to ensure that when Ashveil’s story is told, it is told correctly. If that means removing certain players, then yes. Though I do prefer when they remove themselves. It’s neater. Less paperwork."

I barked a short laugh.

"Always the paperwork."

He spread his hands slightly.

"That is civilization."

We stood in the darkness, two silhouettes defined by the glow of a single lantern. His horse stamped once, impatient, but otherwise the world seemed content to hold its breath.

I rubbed at my jaw, feeling the stubble catch under my fingernails.

"Look," I said at last. "You don’t have to kill him."

Silven’s eyebrows rose a millimeter.

"No?"

I nodded.

"Replace him. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Control the narrative. Make sure the right words get printed. Make sure Ashveil behaves."

He waited. Didn’t interrupt.

"I’ll take his place," I said, voice steady.

Silven blinked once.

It wasn’t shock. More like curiosity.

"Will you now."

"Yes."

Silven exhaled through his nose, considering.

"You, the half-orc garimpeiro turned would-be journalist. The man who threatens emissaries in the dark. You propose to be my replacement for Marlow?"

I nodded again.

"That’s exactly what I’m proposing."

He hummed.

"That is audacious."

I shrugged.

"It’s honest."

He studied me for what felt like a year, eyes picking apart everything he saw. The torn coat. The mud. The scars on my knuckles.

"And why," he asked finally, voice patient as death, "would I consider that? Why would I trust you to be any better than him?"

I let my breath out.

And then I spoke.

I told him everything.

I told him about the mines, about the debts that were supposed to keep me in the dark, breaking rocks until my lungs gave out. I told him about buying my freedom with fire and blood, about being smarter than the overseers expected. About learning to read because I couldn’t stand not knowing what they were writing about me.

I told him about Ashveil, and the rotten underbelly no one wanted to scrape clean. About the forgeries, the memory seals, the smuggling of stolen magic. About the dead-eyed kids marked for "apprenticeship" who vanished down alleys and didn’t come out.

I told him about Marlow, and how I gave him the biggest story the city had seen in a decade, only to watch him slap his own name on it like a fat bureaucrat stamping an execution order.

I told him how I still showed up the next day for work. Because if I didn’t, there was no one left to keep writing.

And when I finished, Silven was silent.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t look impressed.

But he was listening.

Really listening.

"I’m educated," I said, voice rough. "I know the trade. I know the politics. I know how to make people talk. I know how to listen. And I know Ashveil better than Marlow ever will. I’m not some outsider you need to keep on a leash. I’m from the dirt under this city’s fingernails."

Silven’s fingers drummed once against the horse’s reins.

"You speak well," he said eventually. "Better than most men with twice your education."

"Because I earned mine," I shot back.

He nodded.

"That you did."

Silven looked off into the trees for a moment, thoughtful. The wind made his cloak ripple like something alive.

"But," he continued at last, voice cool as riverwater, "there is still a problem."

I felt my jaw tighten.

"Of course there is."

He turned back to me.

"Marlow is a problem because he knows too much. Because he is willing to sell that knowledge to the highest bidder. You? You’re a problem because you care. That is more dangerous."

I didn’t move.

He took a slow step forward.

"You think you can be controlled because you hate Marlow. Because you want his place. But I see you, Mister Dante. I see the edges of you, sharp and unfinished. You would write what you shouldn’t. Print what you shouldn’t. Stir up what you should bury. You are not a man who can be owned."

I opened my mouth to reply but he raised a hand.

"No. Don’t argue. I’m telling you the truth you need to hear."

He lowered the hand, eyes flat as slate.

"I can’t use you. You will not obey. So I will end you here, tonight. You will be one more anonymous tragedy on a dangerous road."

The guards shifted slightly. They didn’t draw, not yet, but the sound of leather creaked in the silence.

I felt my blood go cold.

For a moment, I truly thought that was it.

But then I smiled.

Because I had one last card.

"Brelgrik," I said quietly.

It was like dropping a stone in a silent pond.

Silven’s face didn’t move immediately.

But his eyes did.

A flicker. A microsecond of something like fear.

He covered it well.

But not well enough.

"Excuse me?" he said, voice perfectly calm.

I leaned in slightly.

"I know him. I talk to him. And I know what he remembers. What you people did to him. To Malderra’s so-called ’royal line’. The deals you made. The blood you spilled to make sure no one remembered he existed."

Silven didn’t move.

But the color in his face shifted a fraction.

I kept going.

"I have a letter," I lied. "Sealed. Hidden. Set to be delivered if I die. It names names. Dates. Describes every crime you tried to bury. And you know what? Even in a shit-hole like Ashveil, people love a good scandal. Especially if it makes Malderra look weak."

Silven didn’t speak.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves overhead.

I could hear the guards breathing.

I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

Finally, slowly, Silven exhaled.

He didn’t look at me.

He looked past me, into the dark trees.

Thinking.

Calculating.

When his gaze came back to mine, it was flat.

Unimpressed.

But different.

Resigned.

He raised one gloved hand slowly.

And extended it.

"Fine," he said. Voice low. Steady. Heavy as the grave. "Let’s make a deal."

I didn’t take his hand immediately. I let the silence sit between us like a drawn blade, making sure he understood I wasn’t begging. Then I nodded once, slow and deliberate.

"I’ll take Marlow’s place," I said quietly, voice rough with the weight of it. "I’ll print what you want. When you want. Every single time. I’ll turn Ashveil’s press into your personal mouthpiece if that’s what it takes. I don’t care about the principles. I don’t care about the truth. I just want his seat. His power. That’s the deal I’m offering you. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Then, we make the deal.