How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly) Chapter 13: How to deal with an artist

The newsman's house was easy to find.

It was the only building in the village that looked like it was trying to pretend it didn't live in the sa rundown neighborhood as the rest. The windows were aligned, the roof didn't have any visible holes, and the door — well, the door was still in one piece. And in Ashveil, that alone was worthy of an architecture award.

I climbed the little stone steps like I was about to be announced at a royal court. Puffed out my chest, adjusted the coat that still slled like fernted cheese, and knocked firmly on the door. Three solid knocks.

From inside, a deep, impatient voice answered:

"It's open. Just co in."

I entered.

And was imdiately hit by a wave of old paper, dry ink, and coffee that had clearly given up on life at least two days ago. It was the aroma of wisdom... and soone who refuses to open a window.

The room looked like a mash-up of a library, a news office, and the bedroom of a hoarder with organized OCD. Stacks of newspapers leaned in wobbly columns, dark wooden filing cabinets stuffed to their limits, shelves covered in books with illegible titles, many with tags hanging by string. And in the brightest corner of the room, a globe spinning slowly for no apparent reason.

There was a wide desk in front of the only decent armchair in the place. And behind it — the man.

Gideon Marlow.

Graying hair tied into a short ponytail. Glasses hanging off the tip of his nose. A steaming mug in one hand and a piece of parchnt in the other. He didn't even look up at for the first few seconds.

I stepped in hesitantly. The floor creaked slightly, like the wood itself was judging my presence.

"Good morning..." I began.

He snorted.

"Say what you want before I decide you ca to steal paper."

The worst part was... I actually had considered stealing so paper.

"I'm a new adventurer in town," I said, trying to sound confident, even though my voice still carried the tone of soone who just survived a chemical fire. "Went through a few intense experiences and—"

He finally looked up. And looked at . All of .

The pause lasted long enough to make want to pass out.

"You?" he said. "An adventurer?"

"Yes."

"You look like you lost a fight with a furnace."

"I won," I shot back. "The furnace is dead. It was a spider."

He squinted, like he was trying to read the way you read a bad newspaper: with suspicion and passive-aggressive anger.

"Go on," he said, slamming the mug down on the table.

So I told him all about my adventures and misadventures — at least the part about the spider.

"So... you killed a spider," Gideon repeated, scratching his chin with the end of a quill, staring at like I was a poorly formatted article.

"Not just a spider," I said, chest puffed like a rooster with overconfidence issues. "It was the size of a wagon. Had acid fangs. And hairy legs. Lots of hair."

He raised one eyebrow. Just one. Apparently the only one that bothered showing up for work.

"And you killed it with fire, traps, and above-average intelligence?"

"Exactly. I'm above average."

Silence.

Too long for my taste.

Gideon took another sip from his mug, looked up at the ceiling, and sighed like an art critic reviewing a toddler's drawing.

"Interesting," he said, in the sa tone used to praise a child who almost aid at the toilet. "It has potential. But the story's a ss. Terrible structure. Low emotional engagent. No comrcial hook. And the ending? Weak. You lived. What an anticlimax."

"But I almost died. That should count for sothing."

"'Almost' doesn't sell. Truth is, when the hero dies at the end, it gives the story weight. aning. That's what inspires people!"

I found that incredibly confusing. I looked around. Tried to co up with sothing spicier. Sothing worthy of a front page.

Then I decided to go for it.

"Actually," I said, dropping my voice a bit into sothing more conspiratorial, "that wasn't the only spider." Gideon stopped writing. "There are more. Lots more. And sothing's happening in the tunnels. Sothing... dark. The village... could be in danger."

There. Served him the headline on a silver platter. A ready-made apocalypse al.

Gideon... sighed.

Long. Deep. The kind that makes your mustache twitch.

"You think I'm the kind of man who prints cheap alarmism, boy?"

"You're not? I thought the people liked it."

"People like it because they're dumb. I'm not." He stood with the dramatic slowness of a professor about to sketch a war plan on a chalkboard. "This newspaper, The Ashveil Gazette, is not a leaflet for cowards. It's art. It's culture. It's... legacy."

He pointed to a shelf behind him, where rusty trophies, yellowed seals, and a handmade diploma stood proudly.

"You see that?" he said, eyes glowing with fervor. "Honorable ntion in 'Third Best Underground Village Newspaper of the Western Quadrant,' last edition! And this year, we're going all the way. My goal is simple: destroy the other regional papers. One by one. Beco the biggest weekly on the continent!"

"Wait a sec," I said, trying not to laugh. "You're at war with other newspapers?"

"More than that. A war of narrative."

He began pacing back and forth like an inspired general, murmuring the nas of villages like they were rival empires.

"Stonebrook? Sentintal garbage. All they talk about is weddings and missing pigs. Oakre? So disorganized they print headlines upside down. But Ashveil... oh, Ashveil will dominate."

I watched him in silence for a mont. The man was genuinely possessed. Obsessed. Inspired. A true typographic lunatic.

It made want to laugh.

This man was a classic artist.

Not because it was funny — it was pathetic, actually.

I was in a magical world, with monsters that explode, caves that talk, minerals that store emotion... and here I was, watching soone care deeply about "structured," "profound," "emotionally resonant narratives capable of moving the hearts of regional contest judges."

Goddammit. I hate artists.

They're the kind of people who walk around convinced that pretty words are more valuable than useful actions. That mastering poetic language, or being able to quote three dead authors who wrote about wind and silence, makes them superior to those who actually keep the world running.

Artists. Writers. Poets. Playwrights. Literary critics. Pseudo-intellectuals who turn reality into a stage and cast themselves as the lead role.

In my past life, I t plenty of them.They all had one thing in common: they thought they were saving the world with taphors.

They wanted to "give voice to the silenced," "illuminate the human soul," "revolutionize contemporary thought" — all while refusing to do the dishes or learn how a spreadsheet works.

Artists love to pretend their pain is nobler than everyone else's. That their art matters more than food. That their "work" deserves immortality, even if no one knows what the hell it's supposed to an.

And the worst part?They believe it.

There's no ego bigger than soone who thinks their imagination should be treated as a UNESCO world heritage site.

"Right," I said. "So I just need to bring you sothing that grabs attention?"

"'Just bring'?" he repeated, stopping and staring at with completely unnecessary intensity. "Of course you won't 'just bring' sothing to grab attention. Bring a story that can win awards. Sothing elegant. Profound. Impactful. Dante! I can see the potential in your words, but they need refining. I know you're capable of giving sothing that makes judges cry into their teacups."

Hm...

"I see," I said, blank-faced.

Artists, man.

I left the old man's house with the distinct feeling I'd just lost ti, sanity, and possibly part of my faith in human communication.

"Journalism contests," I muttered to myself as I stepped down those three cursed porch steps.

It was pathetic. Not the funny kind of pathetic that makes you want to pat soone on the back and say "chin up, champ."The kind of pathetic that makes you question whether literacy was ever a good idea.

Well, considering this was a dieval magical world, maybe most people were illiterate.

I was already ready to leave and reevaluate my life in silent despair when I heard a sound coming from the back of the house. A bucket being dragged. A wet rag against wood.

I approached quietly, just enough to peek around the side of the building.

And there she was.

The newsman's daughter.Golden-blond hair tied in a simple ponytail. Light-colored clothes, stained with soap. Gloves on her arms, rag in hand. She was scrubbing the back porch floor with the efficiency of soone who'd already accepted boredom as a philosophy of life.

For a mont, our eyes t.

It was quick. Subtle. But real.

She looked at like soone recognizing sothing... or soone. Not exactly surprised, not scared either. Just... curious. Like I was so exotic creature she hadn't classified yet. A strange specin, but harmless.

Then ca the old man's voice from inside the house:

"Thalia! Bring the publishing calendar!"

She looked away imdiately, answered with a quick "coming!" and vanished through the back door like she'd activated a stealth ability.

I stood there, wondering what the hell had just happened.

And then I started thinking: what kind of girl was she?

Either she was just like her father — which ant that to win her over, I'd need to wear long skirts, round glasses, carry a bag made of recycled avocado fiber, and pretend I enjoy music where nobody sings and all the instrunts sound like pots being banged together.

Or — and here's where hope lives — she was the opposite.

Daughters of n obsessed with ideals usually go one of two ways: they either beco identical copies with slightly different hair, or they go full rebellion and fall for exactly the kind of guy their dad would hate (which, let's be honest, is most of them).

And let's be even more honest...

I'm exactly the kind of guy any father would hate.

I smirked — that crooked kind of smile you make when misfortune starts looking like opportunity.

Maybe my life in this cursed village was about to heat up.

And not because of any newspaper contest.

After that intellectual circus worthy of a sad poetry festival, I decided I desperately needed sothing more down to earth.

Sothing warr. Friendlier. With less ink sll and more ferntation.

Lina.

The redhead from the tavern.

She was, so far, one of the few things in Ashveil that didn't look at like I'd crawled out of a failed summoning ritual.

I walked through the village streets with a kind of improvised confidence, adjusting the coat Olven had sold like it was so kind of social armor.

On the way, a few villagers still whispered.

But at least now, I looked more like a scruffy adventurer than a walking curse.

The tavern ca into view, its chimney releasing lazy smoke and its windows glowing from within.

A muffled sound of clinking glasses, laughter, and normal life seeped through the wooden cracks.

I was already prepping my arsenal of corny lines — maybe a half-assed complint, or so throwaway observation about how different she looked under lantern light. Classic, cheap, and sotis effective.

But that night, I wasn't going to find Lina.

I was going to find a piece of information.

And that information was going to change the course of my entire night.