How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 43: How to NOT negotiate with the devil (1)

The clothes were laid out on the bed. Neatly folded. And way more stylish than I cared to admit.

Black pants made from sturdy fabric. A white linen shirt with a modest collar. A dark gray vest that looked like it had walked out of a tailor’s shop for aspiring spies. And, of course, a short cloak with a bronze feather-shaped clasp — definitely Thalia’s touch. She had taste. The problem was: she knew it.

"It’ll fit you," she’d said earlier, dropping the bundle like someone who had no intention of arguing.

"And if it doesn’t?"

"Then we’ll learn to sew together."

Now there I was, alone in the room, trying not to get emotional over clean clothes.

I started changing, relieved to finally retire the torn shirt still stained with dry blood and a suspicious patch of monster goo on the sleeve. The pants had also seen better days — and judging by the smell, probably lived through them with previous owners.

Once I had the new outfit on and caught my reflection in the cracked mirror beside the bookshelf, something made me stop.

It wasn’t vanity. It was... unfamiliarity.

The face was still mine, sure. Crooked nose, scar by the eyebrow, same eyes that looked like they’d fought their own shadow — and lost. But the body... that had changed. Shoulders broader. Chest firmer. Arms no longer belonged to a boy who dug holes, but to someone who’d stopped running — and started fighting back.

"I think I’m getting handsome," I murmured. The reflection smirked back, mockingly.

And then the door opened.

Thalia.

She froze in the doorway. Her eyes landed on my abdomen, shot up to my face — and then whipped away like they’d been yanked from her skull.

"Why are you naked?!"

"I’m getting dressed!"

"With the door open?!"

"I didn’t hear you coming!"

She was already gone, slamming the door behind her like that would erase the image from her memory. Outside, a muffled voice muttered something like "dear gods, this wasn’t supposed to happen." I stood there, still buttoning up the vest, unsure whether to laugh or apologize.

A few minutes later, I opened the door — vest in place, hair finger-combed (my magic stone comb only exploded things, unfortunately), and walking like a man ready to march through Antoril and ask dangerous questions to everyone.

"Shall we?" I asked, hand already on the corridor knob.

Thalia shoved me back with one finger to the chest.

"You’re not going out like that."

"Like what?"

"Like... you. That face of ’walking curse’ is gonna attract more attention than an upside-down comet."

"I’m clean. Well-dressed. I even combed my hair."

"Yes. And you still look like a criminal cosplaying as a librarian."

"That was... disturbingly specific."

"It’s my gift."

I sighed. Looked at the door. At her. At the world outside full of questions waiting to be picked apart.

"So what do we do?"

She crossed her arms. Smiled, victorious.

"We disguise you better."

The alley was narrow, damp, and smelled like wet stone and crushed mint. One of those passages that doesn’t show up on any map — not even the good ones passed around by smugglers and couriers. Antoril had that kind of poisonous charm: the richer the surface looked, the filthier it was underneath.

"You know what I like most about Antoril?" Thalia whispered with a slight smile. "Even the alleys are polite. This one even has a name."

"What is it?"

’Northern Wind Merchant Transit,’ she said, pointing. "It’s written right there on the sign."

"That’s not a sign. That’s a moldy piece of wood with a spelling mistake."

"Poetic, isn’t it?" freёwebnoѵel.com

We turned a corner and stopped in front of a moss-green iron door, its hinges groaning in embarrassment as they opened. A man let us in without asking questions — though his eyes lingered a little too long on my face.

The place had no name. Just a symbol carved into the stone wall: a spiral with an eye at its center.

Inside, the world changed tone. The sound of the street vanished, swallowed by thick walls and dark tapestries. The hallway was narrow, lit by lanterns mounted directly into the stone. A woman passed us with a veil over her face and a book in her arms. Farther ahead, a shirtless man carried a box sealed with cracked stamps. Everyone pretended not to see anyone else.

"This is where Soren receives people?" I murmured.

"He prefers places where walls don’t listen. Or echo."

The alley smelled of mildew, sweaty stone, and broken promises. Narrow enough that my shoulder brushed against webs I’d rather pretend were just old dust. That’s Antoril for you: the prettier it looked on the outside, the more it stank underneath. Like a noble lady with her feet soaking in a bucket of sewage.

"You know what I really love about this city?" Thalia whispered again, that smile of hers always hiding an ace somewhere.

"The rats with a sense of direction?"

"The alleys have names. This one, for example, is called ’Northern Wind Merchant Transit.’"

"That’s not a name. That’s a poetic lie rotting on a board."

"Dramatic. I like that about you."

The door we were looking for looked like it belonged to a forgotten cellar: moss-green iron, peeling paint, crooked frame. Next to it, the symbol — a spiral with an eye in the middle — was carved into the stone. The kind of thing that whispered "secret" instead of "welcome."

A man let us in without a word, but gave me one of those long stares. The kind that weighs your jaw and guesses how many fights it’s survived.

The hallway inside was stuffy, draped in dark fabrics and lit by wax-dripping iron sconces. We passed a veiled woman and a shirtless man hauling a box stuffed with broken-seal papers. No one spoke. No one pretended to notice. But everyone knew everything.

At the end, a door with a copper latch. Behind it: a small room, half office, half hideout. An old desk. Tilted shelves. A single heavy curtain blocking what was likely a back exit — or a planned escape.

No windows. Just that thick curtain hiding what might be another door. A dark wooden desk — well cared for but scarred by ink and old paper. Two high-backed chairs. A single chandelier hanging above it all, casting a warm glow that made the room smell like expensive wax and old smoke.

The perfect room for someone who tells the truth carefully — and keeps the lies tucked up their sleeve.

And there he was.

Soren Veil.