How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 49: How to Outdrink a Liar and Outtalk the Truth (4)

The bar smelled of old wood, cheap liquor, and muffled conversations that sounded too rehearsed to be honest.

Pipe smoke drifted through the air like it was looking for distracted ears, and the candles scattered across the tables cast trembling shadows that seemed to whisper stories no one dared say out loud.

I leaned against the counter, elbow planted over a stain I chose not to investigate, and in front of me, the young man began to speak — not like someone remembering, but like someone reliving.

"Once. Over a year ago. Strange guy. Tall, shaved head. Pale skin, but with a heavy accent. Wore the symbol on a buckle, like a family crest. But when someone asked, he laughed. Said it was nothing. Three weeks later, he vanished. No one’s seen him since."

"Name?"

"He went by Jorren. But I doubt that was real."

"And did he talk to anyone in here?"

"Not much. But always with the same two people:

an old man who played cards in the back — died last winter — and a blonde woman, black eye, said she was a street performer. She still shows up from time to time."

"You remember anything she said?"

"No.

But she always started the conversation with the same line."

"What line?"

He looked at me. And said, with the quietest voice of the night:

"How many of us fit in just one name?"

Outwardly, I stayed still. Inside, my mind had already opened drawers I didn’t even remember locking.

Lines like that aren’t just lines. They’re traps. Hooks. Tests. In closed circles, magical sects, or underground orders, verbal codes are used to tell insiders from spies. And that phrase... it had the exact shape of a symbolic key.

"How many of us fit in just one name?"

That wasn’t about identity. It was about multiplicity. Fragmentation. A way to say that whoever carries the mark might not be a single person anymore — but a vessel. A container. Or a file.

And the worst part? It sounded like the kind of question you don’t answer with words. You answer it with a gesture. With recognition.

It wasn’t just bait. It was a passage seal. A ritual packed in syntax.

I felt the back of my neck itch.

And that wasn’t common.

I thought about everything I’d heard over the years — about people who were marked, about symbols that carried more than appearances, about words that, once spoken, woke something up.

Not outside.

Inside.

And then the obvious, but no less disturbing question came:

If someone said that line to me on the street... and I replied?

What part of me would be doing the replying?

Because sometimes, the mark doesn’t show up on skin. Sometimes it waits. Sleeping.

I swallowed hard. Quietly. Because my face still needed to look relaxed. The kid was watching me — with that calm, trained look of someone who already knew the phrase would stir something.

And he was waiting for a reaction.

But I didn’t give him one.

Not the one he expected.

I just blinked slowly. Nodded. Slightly.

Like someone who recognizes the weight — and accepts the risk.

"No one talks about it anymore?"

"Not in here.

’Cause some folks swear... if you say it enough, the mark shows up."

"And you believe that?"

He shrugged.

But didn’t answer.

Just looked down at the cloth in his hands. Squeezed it.

And let it fall.

Trust, in the end, is always a gamble.

But sometimes, it’s the only way to stay sane in the game.

And I was still playing.

"That woman. The performer.

Would you know where to find her?"

He hesitated. Bit his lip.

Then said:

"Maybe.

But only if you answer something first."

"Go ahead."

"What is it you really want with that mark?"

I stared at him.

And smiled.

"Depends.

You want the honest truth or the useful lie?"

He exhaled through his nose. Almost a laugh.

"Give me the lie. Easier to sleep after."

He wiped down a clean glass. Third time he did it — like the motion could distract his tongue from what it wanted to say.

"You asked about the woman, right? That... street performer."

I nodded. Slowly. Keeping the pace steady.

"Blonde. Black eye. Yeah, that’s her."

"Yeah.

They said she had a fake leg.

Walked like she was hearing music no one else could hear."

"And you saw her?"

"Two times. Never forgot her."

"Why?"

"Because every time she showed up, someone disappeared a few days later."

I said nothing — the kind of silence that acts like bait.

He kept going:

"First time was the summer before last. She was playing flute outside the abandoned orphanage. Had a red scarf tied around her waist, and her eyes... well, they looked like they were seeing the city from somewhere else. Like she wasn’t playing for the people passing by — but for someone who hadn’t arrived yet."

"And what happened?"

"An old custom official — the kind who knew too much — vanished that same week. He’d been here the day before. Stared at her from across the room. Didn’t say a word. Then... nothing."

"And the second time?"

"Last fall. She showed up during the Fisherman’s Festival. Painted symbols on signs, sang strange verses in the crowd. Most folks thought it was performance art. But anyone really paying attention... noticed the verses didn’t rhyme. They were instructions."

"Instructions for who?"

He looked at me. Not with suspicion anymore — just exhaustion.

"For the marked ones, I think."

"Where is she now?"

"She vanishes. But always comes back to the same spot —an alley behind the old Andros chapel. Near the poor quarter, between the market stalls that don’t sell and the homes where no one sleeps. There’s a wall there with a circular serpent painted on it. If she’s around... she’ll show up there."

"When?"

"No one knows. She comes like bad wind. Out of nowhere. Just know this — she never shows up the same way twice."

I leaned on the counter, a gesture of quiet, thanks.

"But be careful," he added, staring into the bottom of his glass. "That woman... she’s not just a knot in this story. She’s the kind of loop that tightens around your neck if you pull the wrong way."

I smiled. But my eyes didn’t.

"I tend to pull gently."

He grabbed another napkin — just to keep his hands busy.

"If you’re going, go by day. And don’t go alone."

There was something in his tone that reeled me back in.

I was still near the corner of the bar, digesting the whole exchange with the aproned bartender, when I noticed a shift in the atmosphere. Not a scream. Not a fight.

Just... silence, circling around a laugh that was too loud, too male, and too sure of itself.

I looked up and saw Thalia.

She had her back to me, trying to keep her composure. That Magistrate Rhenmar — or whoever he really was — was now standing far too close. One hand on the back of her chair. Then, slipping onto her shoulder. Then... lower.

"Sir," she said firmly, still polite, voice tight. "I asked you to stop."

He chuckled.

"I’m just admiring the dress. It was made to attract compliments, wasn’t it?"

His hand slid further.

"You’re drunk," she murmured. "Has to be."

She tried to shift, but the chair was narrow and he’d angled himself to block her in — like a fat dog guarding a gate.

She turned her face away, visibly uncomfortable. Still holding her poise. Almost no one noticed.

I did.

I stood up. No rush.

Let the chair scrape the floor loud enough to be heard. Crossed the room like I was measuring the space between reason and damage.

He saw me coming. Didn’t move.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, stopping behind him.

Thalia looked at me. Not with relief. With fury. The kind reserved for someone you hate needing — but hate the other guy more.

"He’s not listening," she said.

The man scoffed. Turned just slightly to glance at me — but kept his hand on her.

"I’m a friend of the owner, boy. Mind your drink."

"I am the drink. And you’re getting me warm."

He narrowed his eyes. His face red from alcohol and ego.

"You her bodyguard, is that it? Figures. A woman like that always needs an ornament."

His hand gripped her arm, like he wanted to prove a point.

And that’s when something clicked.

It wasn’t anger. It was something colder. More... surgical.

I did what had to be done.

No warning. No shouting.

Just a punch.

Right to the side of the face.Not full power — just enough to knock him down.

Or so I thought.

The sound was ugly.A wet crack — bone against tooth — and the old man flew off his chair like he’d been hit by a ghost truck.

He hit the ground with a dull moan.Blood on his chin.His lip already swelling.One cheek slightly caved in.