How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly) Chapter 12: How to Sell Items to a Mad Man

My right leg dragged like it belonged to soone else. My left shoulder popped every three steps. I probably looked like a failed attempt at animating a scarecrow with budget magic.

And even so, I went to town.

Because, you see, when you defeat a giant acid-spitting spider that tries to roast you alive, you earn the right to try and monetize that. I had rare minerals — so still carrying that lovely aroma of death and smoke — and an improvised pouch made from torn cloth and blind hope.

Ashveil in the morning sohow looked even more depressing than at night. People walked around with that aimless urgency, like fleeing their own lives was just part of the day's schedule. I crossed the main street and felt the stares instantly.

So whispered. Others muttered. A small boy pointed and asked if I was a curse. His mother pulled him close and made the sign of the cross with a wooden spoon.

Ah, the warmth of community.

"Ugh, what an ugly thing."

"Look at that face... looks like it crawled out of a drain."

"Do you think it bites?"

I didn't answer. Not out of restraint, but because my jaw was killing .

I kept walking until I ca across a small tent, set apart from the others. Made of thick cloth full of patches, the fabric was a greenish shade — like it had been dyed with mold and tears. A strong sll of vinegar and rotting onions hung in the air, which honestly made think I'd found the right place.

Behind the counter stood an old man.

Long white beard, yellowed at the ends. Filthy clothes with stains whose origin I didn't dare guess. He seed to be organizing sothing with his fingers — feeling vials, tapping stones, sniffing suspicious powders.

"Yeah... can I help you?" he grumbled without even looking up.

"You don't seem bothered by my face," I ventured.

"If I could see your face, maybe I would be."

My eyebrow arched on instinct — then I understood. His eyes were completely white. Clouded.

"Now that stink, son... I could sll that from a mile off. You fall into a pit of dead cheese or just have really bad luck?"

I took a deep breath. Tried to laugh. It ca out more like a cough.

"Let's just say I fought a spider the size of a wagon and lived to tell the tale."

"Poor wagon."

I didn't get the joke, but I could tell it was a joke.

"I don't even know you. What's your na, old man?" I asked, opening my cloth bag like I was revealing the secrets of the universe — or maybe just the black market.

"They call Olven," he replied, still not facing .

I pulled out a chunk of Silvarite and laid it on the worm-eaten wooden counter. The old man didn't blink. Actually, maybe he did — but considering he was blind, any eye movent was purely decorative.

"Look here, old man. A rare mineral fragnt. But how are you gonna recognize it if you're blind?"

"If I had a silver coin for every ti soone told that joke, I'd be rich by now."

Then Olven reached out with his bony hand, the fingertips calloused like they'd touched more stone than human skin. He ran them slowly over the fragnt. Made a low sound in his throat. Slled the air just above the stone. Then picked up a tiny hamr and gently tapped it twice.

"Silvarite. Unrefined. Outer filant layer's worn down — probably extracted forcefully with a rough tool. Still holds heat. Two days, maybe three of burn. This one's worth... seven silvers, maybe eight."

"You... figured all that out just by touch?"

"Of course not." He smirked. "Also by sound and sll. What, you think every blind man's an idiot?"

"I do."

"Then stop."

I pulled out the second item — a Hive Crystal. Carefully, I placed it on a cloth to avoid unpleasant surprises. The last thing I wanted was a blast of ancient voices going off in my face.

"This one, then... bet you have no clue what it is."

He frowned. Leaned in. His fingers hovered over the cloth without touching it, and then...

"Hive Crystal. Reacts to blood contact. Can store intention and emotion. Unstable.I'm impressed you managed to pick it up without blowing yourself up."

"I'm tougher than I look, old man. How much is it worth?"

"In a real city? Around forty silvers. Here? Fifteen... if you sell it like an idiot."

"You calling an idiot?"

"Only if you sell it to ."

I sighed again, this ti more out of resignation. I still had the Ferrolu in my bag, but decided to save that one for last. Just in case the old man had so kind of radar.

So I packed everything away — except the Silvarite. I pulled out the rest of the fragnts from the bag. If this were a more epic mont, maybe I would've stacked them on the counter like I was presenting legendary artifacts.

In practice, it just looked like I was dumping radioactive coal onto a retired blacksmith's desk.

"This is all Silvarite," I muttered, pretending to have so pride. "Freshly mined."

Olven, the Blind Oracle of Minerals, cracked his knuckles and felt each piece like he was evaluating ancient sigils with mystical wisdom... or maybe just guessing how many potatoes were in front of him.

"Six good fragnts. Two average. One you clearly smashed with your own ass."He sniffed, tapped, gave three light slaps, and sighed. "Seven silvers and three coppers. And I'm being generous."

"Fine." I held out my hand.

"You want coins... or would you rather trade for sothing useful? Clothes, tools... a bath?"

"Coins," I replied quickly. "But... since you brought it up, where can I find a clothing store around here? A thrift shop, a bazaar, anything that doesn't involve lice with backstories?"

Olven laughed. For real. His belly actually shook.

"You? Walk into a store? Kid, half the village thinks you're a divine warning, and the other half wants to bury you just to be safe. If you try walking into a shop, they'll beat you with a broom. But lucky for you," he went on, snapping his fingers and pointing toward the back of the tent, "Old Olven also sells rags for lost souls and hideous creatures. And look at that — you qualify for both."

"You got anything that fits ?"

"I've got a leather coat that's survived three owners and two weddings. Reinforced pants with tal strips — perfect for keeping warm and keeping your dignity. And, get this, I've got an actual pickaxe. No rust. No angry spirits stuck to it. Interested?"

"Depends," I said, scratching my chin. "Does it shine?"

"No, but it doesn't break when you touch a rock with it."

"Then it's above average."

We closed the deal like true n: with mutual distrust and no paperwork.

I paid five silvers for a full set: reinforced pants, leather coat with inner pockets (which is just a fancy way of saying 'doesn't sll like piss'), mismatched boots, and of course, a respectable — or at least intact — pickaxe.

I headed to a corner of the tent to get changed, trying my best not to look like a beast shedding its skin. Olven, obviously, didn't see a thing. But I hoped he couldn't sll anything either.

I ditched the old junk. Put on the new clothes carefully. First the pants — loose, but adjustable. Then, a cloth sash with a "generic warrior" pattern that I wrapped around my waist just for flair. The shirt was dark, slightly torn at the collar — which imdiately beca a style choice. The coat... well, the coat was ugly, but I could roll up the sleeves and pretend I ant it that way.

In the end, the result actually surprised . I looked at myself in the side of the tent, in the reflection of a half-polished tal plate. The silhouette was that of a rising adventurer. A bit crooked. Still slly. But better.

I no longer looked like soone who'd crawled out of a well. Now I looked like soone who'd fallen into one... and survived in style.

"Well, old man," I said, adjusting the collar that didn't even exist, "I actually look like a person now."

"You look like a premium hobo, but sure," Olven grumbled. "One day at a ti."

"Now tell ," I went on, strapping the new pickaxe to my back with more pride than I probably should've, "where does soone in this village go to learn about runes? Magic, symbols, the pretty things that go boom?"

"Runes?" he muttered, like I'd just asked for sothing truly exotic, like a hot bath. "Only one place: the newsman's house."

"The newsman?"

"Yeah. Grumpy old geezer. Na's Gideon Marlow. Hoards everything worth having: books, runes, knowledge... and anger. But he won't teach you anything for free. If you want his attention, you'll have to impress him. Like, show up with a headline."

"A headline..." I repeated under my breath.

And then I smiled.

Because of course I already had one.

"Old man, I am the damn headline. I killed a spider the size of a wagon!"

"Hope the wagon's okay," Olven muttered.

Still didn't get the joke.

But with my chest puffed and the confidence of soone who hadn't fully processed their trauma yet, I marched toward the newsman's house. My boots creaked. My clothes were warm. My pickaxe clinked against my back.

I didn't look like a hero. But honestly? At least now, I looked like soone who could be one. Even if just from a distance.

Now I just had to figure out how to impress a grumpy old man who only cares about himself.