How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly) Chapter 33: How to Dress Like a Hero and Still Smell Like Tr

The sun had started to creep into Ashveil with that washed-out late-morning light—the kind of brightness that doesn’t warm a damn thing but still serves to remind you the world keeps spinning, even when you’re about to make so highly questionable decisions in another city.

Sitting on the creaky chair in Marlow’s office, I extended my hand like I was asking for the keys to an empire. In reality, I just wanted a few coins and a halfway decent coat.

Grumbling curses in dialects not even the gods could decipher, Marlow vanished down a hallway and ca back minutes later with a neatly folded cloth bundle and a worn leather pouch—heavy enough to be more than decorative. He tossed both at with the grace of a man feeding a prize pig.

"Don’t ask for shoes. I’ve only got flip-flops."

"You definitely have more sha than fashion sense," I muttered, already getting up to change clothes.

I went upstairs to the guest room with the kind of anxious anticipation you get before seeing a version of yourself in the mirror that might not imdiately provoke public disgust.

And, my friends... what a transformation.

The coat was simple, but clean. Dark fabric reinforced at the shoulders, with dull copper clasps and neatly stitched seams. The shirt underneath was gray linen, hole-free—a statistical miracle in my wardrobe. The pants? They had shape. That’s right: shape. Not too baggy, not stitched so tight you’d think a drunk tailor cursed them into existence.

And the most shocking part: the shoes. Okay, borrowed and a size too big, but intact. No holes, no moldy stench, no newspaper jamd in as makeshift insoles.

I looked at my reflection in the dirty windowpane. For the first ti in weeks, I almost looked like a person.

"If I saw myself walking down the street," I murmured, adjusting the collar with so light narcissistic pleasure, "I might not even cross to the other side."

I walked down the stairs with an utterly ridiculous air of dignity. Marlow gave a once-over with an expression that was part regret, part mild astonishnt. Thalia, leaning against the counter with a teacup in hand, raised an eyebrow.

"Wow," she said. "You’re... presentable."

"I know. Terrifying, isn’t it?"

"I’d say unsettling."

"Thank you. That’s exactly the effect I was going for."

Marlow snorted and tossed the coin pouch at .

"That’s for travel, food, and—if we’re lucky—bribes. Don’t waste it on booze, gambling, or poetry."

"So basically, you’re banning from living."

"Exactly."

Thalia, now with arms crossed and an unreadable expression, let out a sigh.

"Let’s go before he decides he also deserves a silver ring and a noble’s brooch."

"Great idea!" I replied. "But let’s take it one step at a ti."

And so, with the dignity of a thief dressed as a diplomat, I left Marlow’s house to face the world. For the first ti since this whole ss began, I was clean, clothed, and—almost criminally—optimistic.

Which, of course, ant disaster was all but guaranteed.

The sky over Ashveil was a lazy gray as we stepped out Marlow’s back door. There was no wagon. No fancy carriage. Instead... there was an animal.

"This is a joke," I muttered, squinting.

Marlow was petting the neck of a scrawny, furry creature with the look of sothing that had given up on life about two wars ago.

"His na’s Storm," the old man said, completely devoid of irony.

"You nad this abomination Storm?"

"Strong as one. Or at least, slls like one."

Thalia circled around and adjusted the saddlebags, which held a few blankets, stale bread, dried fruit, and a bowl I sincerely prayed was ant for water and not one of Marlow’s "elixirs."

"Works for ," she said, mounting with ease. "Better than walking the whole way."

"Of course," I replied. "Because obviously you should be the one riding like a lady while I get to walk around looking like a broke bodyguard. Nothing suspicious about that."

She smiled.

Marlow just grumbled and tightened one of the leather straps on the makeshift saddle.

"Don’t kill the mule. She’s worth more than the two of you put together."

"Do you really think we’ve got what it takes to kill a mule, Gideon?" I asked. "This animal’s gonna self-destruct any minute now."

I gave the saddlebags one last quick glance. Papers, docunts, supplies, and a miniature map—badly folded, poorly scribbled. That was it. Our journey would begin just like that: on a retired horse, with makeshift luggage and forcibly manufactured optimism.

I stepped back a bit, adjusting the collar of my new shirt.

"Alright then," I announced. "You two get things ready. I need to make one stop before we leave."

Marlow crossed his arms.

"Don’t take too long!"

I waved with two fingers, not bothering to answer.

And so, with light steps and a heavier heart than I’d ever admit, I made my way through the narrow alleys toward the shop of that sharp-nosed bastard, Olven—the only man in town who sold sound ore and still made you feel like an idiot for not knowing the difference between silvarite echo and calderite hum.

Olven’s shop had always been more of a stall, from what I rembered—an old wound in the city: small, slightly crooked, wedged between two buildings so big they looked like they were about to accidentally crush it. But this ti, a sign hung from a single nail, swinging like a warning: "If you don’t know what you’re buying, don’t co in."

I stepped inside the tent, and—impressively—a bell rang, followed by a sll that hit in the face with the gentleness of a flash flood: mold, burnt oil, and heated ore.

There he was.

Olven, sitting behind the counter, fingers bandaged, face tilted slightly in my direction—like he’d heard breathing a block away.

"Hm. Soone slling like cheap cologne, new leather, and freshly pressed arrogance. Must be... the half-orc, Dante."

I smiled.

"The one and only. Freshly bathed, no less."

He wrinkled his nose.

"I noticed. Orc stench turned into human mildew. Looks like you’ve found so self-worth."

"That’s the issue. I’ve always had self-worth. Maybe it was just hiding under all the stink."

He shifted in his chair, the wrinkled skin on his face stretching into sothing that might’ve been a smile. Or a grimace. With Olven, it was hard to tell.

"You here to return the pickaxe?"

"Nope. It saved my life. Multiple tis. I’m here to sell so junk I found on a... let’s say, mildly lethal excursion."

"Excursion," he repeated, spitting the word like a thorn. "You an one of those holes where skeletons get up and runes bleed tears of blood?"

"Sothing like that. But this ti I had help from a weird little creature."

I began emptying the bag onto the counter. Olven didn’t touch anything right away. First, he tilted his head, took a long sniff of the air, then clicked his tongue like a human sonar ping.

He laughed. That dry, hollow laugh that sounded like it ca from the bottom of a well.

He grabbed the coin pouch hidden behind the counter and counted the pieces with the precision of soone who sees with his brain.

"You’ve been ssing with big stuff, haven’t you?"

"Just enough to know it’s all going to go horribly wrong."

"Ah, so it is going to go horribly wrong."

I pocketed the coins and gave the shop one last look.

"If I don’t die, I’ll co back to buy more useless junk disguised as relics."

"If you don’t die," he replied.

I walked out with a slight smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Gold in my pocket, clothes that didn’t reek of abandonnt, and a trip lined up with a pretty girl.

It was only a matter of ti before it all fell apart.

Well, now I just had one more problem to deal with.