The Power of Suggestion
The morning after leaving Irene's room. The fatigue on my shoulders feels strangely light. Last night, I completely erased one of her nightmares. In exchange, I barely slept myself, but oddly enough, my body feels clear and refreshed.
Two things to handle today. First, the report on Luke. A card to play with the Queen. Second, Day 1 of targeting Rosa. The herb shop in the commoner district.
What a fucking fantastic morning.
The Queen's office. Elena set down her teacup and looked at me. Today, a somber ink-blue dress. High neckline, long sleeves. A design that prizes propriety. But even the fabric can't hide the outline of her D-cup breasts. Violet eyes. Golden curls. Thirty-five years old. The Queen.
"I've come to report on Irene's condition, Your Highness."
"Yes. How is she?"
"The nightmares have stopped. She said she slept well for the first time last night."
Elena's eyes widened slightly. The fingers toying with her teacup froze.
"In just five days, what the court physicians couldn't fix in two months?"
"I identified and resolved the psychological cause. It was beyond the reach of medicine."
The corner of the Queen's mouth curved up. A moment where her favor rose without me even using Suggestion. This is the ideal situation. Points rack up just by standing here.
Time to play the Luke card.
"Your Highness, there's one more thing to report. It may be unpleasant."
Elena's expression sharpened. She set the teacup down fully.
"Speak."
"One cause of Irene's nightmares was inappropriate contact from a night patrol guard two months ago."
The air in the office froze. Her violet eyes narrowed. Not the soft gaze from moments ago. The eyes of a ruler. Eyes where anger slowly boiled.
"...What did you say?"
"Brown hair, scar under his left eye. He threatened, 'Scream and I'll send you to the orphanage.'"
I relayed the info secured through memory reading exactly as is. The source blurred as "learned during counseling." No burden on Irene to testify.
Elena's hand clenched into a fist on the desk. Her knuckles whitened.
"Luke. That bastard."
She knew the name. The Queen calling a guard knight by name on the spot meant she had the palace staff firmly in hand.
"Even knowing Irene was my maid. The nerve."
Her voice lowered. The lower it went, the more dangerous it became.
Here, I don't use Suggestion. Her genuine rage is more useful. Artificial manipulation would feel off.
"You called Irene your 'precious child,' Your Highness."
Something flashed in the Queen's eyes. A reaction to me remembering her words precisely. This man remembers what I say. That realization adds "trust" to her favor. It layers on the feeling of being understood.
"...I'll have him arrested immediately. I'll order the Knight Commander."
Elena rang the bell. A maid hurried in, dispatched with urgent orders to the Knight Commander. Luke was prison-bound by tonight. No more seeing that face in the palace halls come tomorrow morning.
After the maid left, Elena looked at me again. Complex eyes blending anger and gratitude.
"...Thank you. Without you, Irene would have suffered alone for months more."
"It was only my duty, Your Highness."
"That's undue modesty. If it were 'only duty,' why did no one find it in two months?"
Her sharp tone softened a touch. The Queen's eyes swept over me once more. This time, appraising a "new talent." The Luke incident was readjusting my value in her mind.
"I'll give you your next assignment later. Rest today. Take a day."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Tell Irene I'll handle it. No need to worry. You can say it in your name."
"Understood."
I left the office. In the corridor, I clenched my fist inwardly. Triple hit. Treating Irene built functional favor, reporting Luke added emotional favor, and remembering "precious child" planted emotional bonds. Three layers of favor stacked in one meeting. Just as planned.
The Queen's second request would come naturally from her side. But before that, the prey I'd been fucking dying to hunt. Rosa.
Afternoon. Capital's south side, commoner district herb alley. A narrow lane. Low signs on both sides. Herb shops, tailors, bakeries. People sparse. The drowsy hour after morning market, before evening bustle.
At the alley's end, one small shop. Wooden sign. Herb illustration. A single line below.
Rosa's Herb Shop
A small iron bell above the door. The handle polished smooth from familiar hands. Over ten years of wear. I pushed the door open.
Tinkle.
A sharp, bitter scent hit my face. Dried herbs, roots, bark. Bundles hung upside down from the ceiling. Glass jars and wooden tubs on shelves. Small labels naming herbs on the walls. The shop's interior dim. One lantern near the counter.
A woman behind the counter. Rosa. Thirty-five. Long brown hair tied in a ponytail down her back. Black eyes. Expressionless. Long brown dress. Dark apron over it. Scissors and small notepad tucked in the apron pocket.
Rosa's hands placed a bundle of herbs on the scale. She nudged the weights with her finger to balance it. Expert motions. Eyes on the scale. She knew I'd entered but didn't look up.
Finally seeing her up close. This woman. Back when I first arrived in the capital at Lv.1, I caught a single glimpse through a window from afar. I just noted "level up first." Her defenses looked too solid then; no confidence I could pierce them with my skills.
Now I'm Lv.2. And fucking ready.
First impression of this shop from that window view: a "fortress." A small stronghold. More people leaving than entering. Customers buy quick and bolt. A space maintained that way for ten years. Today, I step inside the fortress for the first time.
"What can I get you?"
Rosa's voice. Eyes still on the scale. Cool, detached. A voice that doesn't remember customers by face. No greeting, no name asked. Nothing like Marisa's "Welcome~" or Irene's trembling tone. This woman does "business." She doesn't sell kindness. She sells herbs. Ten years. Maintaining that blank face for a decade isn't simple.
"Herbs good for sleep. And something for headaches."
"Lavender grass. And willow bark."
Instant reply. Rosa finished weighing and answered after a beat. Ten years as a herb shop owner. Translates customer needs into two words. No questions. No "When do you sleep?" or "Where does it hurt?" consultations. Customers seeking counseling come to the wrong place. Herb quality is top-tier. That's the shop's whole deal.
Kindness isn't service. Herbs are.
Rosa finally looked up. Black eyes. Looking at me. Or rather, at "one customer." Not me as an individual—just estimating price range and quantity. Sales eyes.
"How much?"
"A week's worth of lavender. Willow bark, same amount as that bundle on the scale."
"That one's for another customer."
"Same amount then."
"Fine."
Rosa pulled dried lavender stems from the shelf behind the counter. A handful. Tied them smoothly with string, weighed them. I watched her movements. Hands. Long, sturdy joints. Nails clipped short. Fingertips faintly stained with herb juice. Hands shaped by ten years of handling herbs. Worlds apart from Marisa's soft hands or Irene's trembling ones.
And beneath the apron. Voluptuous. Hidden under the long dress and apron, yet the volume presses through the fabric. D-cup. Same size as Marisa. But she doesn't flaunt it like Marisa. She conceals it. Breasts hidden for ten years.
Waist cinched too. The dress falls straight, no defined seam, but it shows when she turns slightly to grab the bundle. Ten years hauling herb crates. A firm body. Healthy allure.
Why hide it? Simple answer. She believes her body hinders business. Hates customers eyeing her face or chest. Wants judgment solely on herb quality. Pride.
Deeper down, probably other reasons. Show it, and it gets tangled. Tangled leads to something starting. She's rejected starts ruthlessly for ten years.
But why so fiercely? Not just "men suck"—it's rejecting connection itself. The grammar of someone burned bad once.
That's enough for now. Day 1—no memory reading to dig her past. Thick defenses instinctually rebel against it. Later, after cracks form.
"Four silver coins."
"Yes."
"One lavender stem under your pillow. Boil the willow bark."
"Got it."
Rosa set the two bundles on the counter. Price first, then usage in one line. No haggling. No coquettish "How much?" Instead, her professional pride ties to customers using herbs right.
I pulled coins from my pouch. Four silvers. Here's the point.
Rosa extended her hand. Palm up. Coin-receiving hand. I placed the coins on her palm. Not just placed. Angled so fingertips brushed. 0.5 seconds. My fingers lightly touched her palm's inner side. Very brief. No prolonged press—she'd alert instantly. Short. Natural. "Accidental graze" level.
In that contact instant, I planted a light Suggestion. This customer's face sticks in your mind. One sentence. That's it. Not a strong command. A subtle seed.
Rosa tilted her head faintly. Tiny motion. Like something itched deep in her brain, but no clue why. Less than 0.5 seconds. Back to blank. Unaware. Of course. She doesn't know Suggestion exists. The "don't know why" is key.
"Thanks."
"Yes."
Short exchange. Rosa's eyes already shifted to the next task. Herbs on the scale. A merchant's focus moves to the next customer.
I picked up the two bundles. Turned to leave. Paused at the door. Didn't look back. That's a point too. Day 1—no looking back. Can't exceed "customer leaving the shop." She needs to remember me, not see me remembering her.
Opened the door. Tinkle. No voice from Rosa behind as I left. No "Come again." She doesn't say that. Hasn't for ten years.
Closed the door.
Walking the alley. Three seconds later. What’s Rosa doing in the shop? Not imagination—certainty. Rosa, eyes back on the scale, pauses her fingers after about three seconds. Where were the weights? No, not that.
...That customer just now. His face is sticking.
She won't know why. Young man who bought lavender. Nothing standout in clothes, not chatty. Ordinary customer. Why does his face linger?
Rosa will shake her head once. Nothing big. Then back to the scale. But the planted Suggestion won't erase. All day, that face will faintly hover in a corner of her mind.
That's Day 1.
I keep my pace. Left at alley's end leads to the main street. Sat on a roadside bench, caught my breath. What a fucking intriguing woman.
Marisa remembered me Day 1 as the "lonely male guest." Asked my name at the door. That's Marisa. Warmth first.
Irene looked at me with scared eyes from first contact. Favor, wariness—all on her face. That's Irene. Transparency first.
Rosa is neither. She didn't see "me" as an individual. Processed as "one customer." Her brain doesn't individualize customers. Ten years, thousands seen—all compressed into one "customer" blob stored in her head.
Approach for her must differ completely from Marisa or Irene. No frontal assault. "I love you" straight shots bounce off her armor. No smiling approach either. She's rejected smiles for ten years.
So what? Conditioning. Four days. Visit once daily. Plant 0.5% each time. Buy herbs each visit. Slip in Suggestion bits. Her defenses weaken 0.5% per day. Unaware. Four days stack to 2%. Day 5, she crumbles herself.
Marisa with softness, Irene with protection. Rosa with conditioning. True use of Suggestion Lv.2. Not one-shot collapse, but eroding walls over four days unnoticed. Only way for prickly women. In clinical psych terms, "gradual exposure."
Phobia patients seize up shown the fear object at once. Start at 10% stimulus, ramp to 20%, 30%, 40%. Five weeks dilutes the fear. I compress to five days. With the Suggestion cheat key.
Difference: Rosa isn't a "phobia patient." Her fear doesn't register as fear. She believes "I'm fine, no need for men." That's the wall itself. Don't hit the wall direct. Speak to the desire hidden beneath.
I stood from the bench. Herbs clutched to my chest.
"Tomorrow."
Muttered to myself. Second visit. Day 2. The day Rosa recognizes me as the "face I remember" customer. Without knowing why.