How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 50: How to Outdrink a Liar and Outtalk the Truth (5)

Thalia stood up so fast the chair toppled backward.

I looked at my hand. It didn’t hurt.

And that was the strange part.

I hadn’t given it everything I had. Not even close. And still, it felt like I’d hit him with a sledgehammer.

Some people stopped talking. Others pretended they hadn’t seen anything. But a guy at the next table stood up, frowning — maybe a friend of the old man. Another, further back, started moving toward us with the posture of someone who wanted revenge or just needed an excuse.

And that’s when I understood.

It had started.

I didn’t want to fight.

Really.

But sometimes the world takes the choice out of your hand — and puts a clenched fist in it instead.

The first one came fast. Big guy, short neck, dockworker’s face. Shirt unbuttoned to the belly, reeking of old beer. Thought being big meant he could intimidate.

He was wrong.

He came in with a heavy swing, straight for my shoulder. Tried to push me. Didn’t understand that people like me don’t push — we enter.

I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, spun my body, and used his weight against him. His head hit the edge of the table with a dull thud. He didn’t scream. Just dropped, like an old lamppost.

The second one came on reflex. Probably a friend of the first, or just too bored.

He had a bottle. Classic.

I tried to warn him with my eyes. "Don’t." But he was already coming.

I leaned to the side, the bottle whooshed past, shattered against the wall behind me. Before he could even understand what had happened, my knee met his ribs.

Three cracks. One short grunt. And the floor.

The third thought he was clever. Came from behind, tried to grab me by the neck.

But by now I was hearing everything. His breathing. The sound of his boots. The shift of air behind me.

I ducked, grabbed his shirt, and threw him over my shoulder. His body slammed into the bar hard. The apron guy yelled — more for the broken glasses than the fight.

The fourth hesitated. Skinny. Nervous. Had a hidden knife. I saw the tip of the hilt as he stepped forward.

I pointed at him. Firm.

"No."

He stopped. The tension drained from his shoulders. He backed off, like someone realizing fighting a wild animal wasn’t worth it.

The whole fight lasted less than a minute. Maybe forty seconds.

But the silence that followed felt like a funeral.

I looked around. Some were trying to pretend nothing had happened. Others watched like they’d just seen a magic trick with blood at the end.

Thalia was still there. Frozen.

The old judge had already been dragged away by someone. Gone. The others were either on the ground or staggering out. And me... I just took a deep breath.

Didn’t hurt. No scratch. No impact.

And that was still strange.

The strength was there. Hidden. Like a muscle that only remembers what it is when forced to remember.

I adjusted my collar. Grabbed my side bag. And walked over to her.

Thalia shot me a look.

"Brilliant" she said, dry. "Now the whole city’s gonna know we were here."

"Better that than them knowing you got groped by a retired judge with sweaty hands."

"You didn’t have to..."

"I had to."

And it wasn’t just for her. It was for me too.

Because sometimes, we act before we even know why — and only later realize we were defending more than someone’s body.

We were defending a boundary.

A territory.

The version of ourselves that doesn’t just stand by and watch.

We walked out like two civilized people.

Or almost.

Thalia fixed her hair, ran a hand over her dress, lifted her chin. I cracked my shoulders, tucked away my angry-dog expression, and opened the bar door like it was the entrance to a tea salon. No yelling. No commotion. Just stares. Lots of stares.

Some angry.

Some respectful.

Most just afraid.

We stepped onto the sidewalk like we’d just paid the bill and left a tip. Walked about twenty steps in silence before she exploded.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. For what?"

"For turning a subtle information-gathering mission into a tavern brawl from a cheap fantasy show."

"You’re exaggerating. I barely used any force."

"You threw a man into the bar."

"I threw a problem."

She huffed, crossing her arms as she walked. Her heels made a rhythmic sound against the cobblestone, almost drowning out the contained anger.

"We were supposed to stay under the radar."

"And we did. Now everyone’s going to talk about the man who broke three guys’ faces in under a minute. They’ll forget about the charming lady asking dangerous questions."

She paused for half a second. Just half.

Because she knew I had a point.

"Still..." she continued, "it was unnecessary chaos."

"Thalia."

"What?"

"I saw the way he touched you."

She stayed silent for a moment. Swallowed whatever retort she had ready. Then said:

"I could handle it."

"I know. But now you don’t have to prove that to anyone. They’re the ones who’ll think twice before touching you again."

We walked a bit more. The neighborhood was getting darker, emptier. The bar was far behind, but the conversation still weighed on our shoulders.

Until I was the one to pull the next thread.

"So... what did you get in there? You talked to the so-called magistrate and the drunk fan club. Anything useful?"

She took a deep breath, then spoke in a more neutral tone.

"A few names. Two shady export contracts. And a suspicion that the city hall is shielding an auction of old land plots in the northern sector."

"And?"

"And that’s it."

"Nothing about symbols, marks, pacts, rituals, or people with eyes too hollow to be healthy?"

"No. And you?"

"Well..."

"Ha! You got more?" she asked, flashing a toothless smile. The kind that only shows up when the truth stings.

I nodded. Slightly. Without bragging.

"The guy behind the counter knew the mark. Gave me the name of a woman directly linked to it. Street performer. Shows up in an alley behind the old Andros chapel. Marks people. Disappears."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared ahead, eyes fixed on the stone road, as if calculating how many inches of her pride had just evaporated.

"Congratulations," she finally said. Sincere... but not happy.

"Thanks," I replied, in the same tone you use to accept a crown of thorns. "Wanna deal with it tonight?" freёnovelkiss.com

"Of course I do. We’re here, the night’s alive, and the trail’s hot. You think I’m going to sleep with that hanging over my head?"

"I figured maybe you’d want to... I don’t know. Process the night, reorganize your thoughts, assess the risks—"

"I want to deal with it. Now."

I sighed.

Yeah. She wanted to.