Chapter 17 — The Herb Shopkeeper's Rules (1)

Morning. Sunlight filters through the windows of my palace annex quarters. The night I spent in Irene's room lingers in my mind as a warm afterglow.

Luke was arrested last night. The queen consort's orders were carried out immediately, and rumors are already circulating that one knight has vanished from the corridors.

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

"Mr. Do-hyun. I've brought your meal."

It's Irene. The maid who trembled until yesterday now enters calmly, tray in hand.

"Where are you headed today?"

"The commoner district."

"For herbs?"

"My head's throbbing a bit. Need to buy some headache powder."

Irene leaves. Before closing the door, she glances back once. The woman who trembled until yesterday is the one turning back first today.

My head doesn't actually hurt. It's an excuse. The real purpose is something else.

Yesterday, in a small shop in the herb alley of the commoner district, a woman I brushed past briefly. Rosa. 35 years old, widow, ten-year shopkeeper. Long brown hair tied back, beige apron. In the dim shop hung with dried herbs from the ceiling, she barely lifted her head for customers—precise, cold black eyes. Those eyes haven't left my mind since yesterday.

One rule I've confirmed about Mental Interference since coming to this world: The calmer and more rigid a person's mind, the harder the thread takes hold.

Someone like Marisa, with her wide emotional swings, ignited quickly. Irene's fear itself became the pathway. The queen consort's deep desires let me step right in.

Rosa is different. Yesterday in the shop, I tossed a single light thread her way—just a test. "Want to respond a bit more kindly." Minimal level. 0.1% intensity. It didn't stick. Bounced off perfectly.

Not resistance, exactly. More like there was no surface for the thread to catch on in the first place. A dry emotional plane honed by ten years of shopkeeping. Too smooth to grip.

"...This'll take a while."

I mutter to myself and open my notebook, adding one more line to yesterday's observations.

That's why I brought the notebook today too. A sheaf of parchment. For experiment logs.

For now, drop by lightly again, linger a bit longer than yesterday, feel out the texture of conversation. There must be some tiny crease somewhere on that emotional plane. Even a ten-year shopkeeper is human.

No concrete plan yet. Today, I'm just heading out for headache powder. The rest, improvise on site.

Afternoon. Herb alley in the commoner district. Same path as yesterday. Same signboard. Second visit.

Tinkle.

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠push open the door. Bitter herbal scent. Dim interior. Same lantern light. Bundles of dried herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling. A single ray of sunlight from the window illuminates dust motes in the air, drifting slowly within the beam.

Rosa is behind the counter. Beige apron. Brown hair tied back. Doesn't even look up, just adjusts the small scale with her fingertips.

"Welcome. What can I get you?"

Her eyes flick briefly to the bell's chime. Businesslike tone. Same blank expression as yesterday. No "Oh, the customer from yesterday" recognition. No regular patron pleasantries.

Good. Baseline matches yesterday. Start from here.

"One packet of headache powder, please."

"Willow bark works well. Two silver coins."

Rosa turns to the shelves. Grabs a handful of dried bark fragments from a small wooden box on the upper shelf. Into the bag, onto the scale. Needle stops precisely at one mark. Ten years' fingertips.

In the meantime, I scan the shop. Herb bundles from the ceiling, small wooden labels hanging below each. Letters too far to read clearly. Old ledger on the counter. Single small chair in the corner. Not built for lingering customers.

Rosa turns back, sets the packet on the counter.

"Two silver coins."

I pull out coins. Pause as I go to set them down with a clink—Earth habit of tossing them casually. Wonder how it lands here.

Rosa's eyes flick briefly to the coins. "...Just place them on the counter. No need ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to hand them directly."

I give a slight smile. "Got it."

Clink. Two coins.

Rosa sweeps them up with one hand. No two hands, no thanks. Precisely businesslike. Precisely dry.

Here, I toss a light thread. Mental Interference Lv.2. Line of sight. To the back of her head. Very faint.

Thread reaches near the nape of her neck. And slips. Doesn't catch. Same sensation as yesterday. Like tossing thread onto a smooth glass plane.

"...Hoo."

I nearly let a sigh slip. Suppress it. Ten-year shopkeeper's prickly barrier is tougher than expected. Charging straight on like this, I'd grind away weeks without a single thread sticking.

Need to change angles.

I dawdle a bit in front of the counter, packet in hand. Rosa's already shifted to send-off mode, ledger open. Clear "hurry up and go" vibe. Classic ten-year shopkeeper "business done, next."

Then the door opens.

Tinkle.

A small, wizened old woman enters, leaning on a cane. Voice raspy.

"Miss Rosa. Give me some of that. Can't sleep at night."

"One packet of sedative herb. One silver coin."

Rosa nods curtly. Steps out from behind the counter, heads to the ceiling bundles. Passes beside me. Faint dust of dried grass on her apron hem. Herb scent and body warmth brush past briefly.

Reaches up under one bundle, plucks a handful of dried leaves. Pale gray-green. Handwritten label on the small wooden tag: Sedative Herb.

"How much sleep are you getting these days, Granny?"

Rosa asks while bagging the leaves. Tone softer than with me. Neighborly grandma chat.

"Three hours. Tossing and turning even then."

"Two spoonfuls of sedative herb. Steep in hot water, drink before bed. Don't overdo it or you'll be groggy in the morning—exactly two."

"Wasn't it one before?"

"You have strong resistance, Granny. Sturdy mind. One spoonful doesn't loosen your guard enough. Needs two to relax."

I lean half against the counter, listening. Guard doesn't loosen. That one word from Rosa's voice lodges precisely in my ear.

Sturdy minds need two spoonfuls to drop their guard.

Clinical psych grad student's brain spins half a beat ahead. Earth methods to boost hypnosis susceptibility: Breathing induction. Monotonous stimuli. Mild sedatives.

Sedatives slightly lower prefrontal defense output, reducing resistance to suggestion. Standard pre-hypnosis prep in therapy rooms.

Sedative herb. Calms the mind. Lowers guard. Even for "sturdy minds" like Granny, two spoonfuls loosen it.

"...."

A shiver runs down my back. The good kind.

"Thanks, Miss Rosa."

Granny takes the packet, turns slowly. One coin on the counter. Rosa gently supports her elbow, escorts her to the door.

Is this woman's prickliness just for me? With Granny, it's practically granddaughterly.

Door closes. Tinkle.

Rosa returns behind the counter. Glances at me. Lingering customer.

"...Sir? Need anything else?"

Business tone. Back instantly. This is her tone with me.

I speak up. As naturally as possible. Awkward otherworld accent.

"Actually, I've been having trouble sleeping lately too. Headaches seem connected."

"Sleep too?"

"Yeah. New room maybe—tossing at night. That sedative herb, could I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠get a packet too?"

Rosa's eyes meet mine. 0.5 seconds. Evaluating gaze. Weighing if I'm lying or genuine insomniac—ten-year pro eyes.

"...Sleeplessness does cause headaches."

Logic clicks in her head. Headache patient with insomnia naturally buys sedative. Fits neatly in shopkeeper categories.

"One more silver coin."

"Sure."

Rosa heads back to the bundles. Same one as Granny's, handful more. Into my bag. Scale at one mark. Precise.

And I seize the chance once more. Natural question within shopkeeper categories.

"But I don't think my mind's as sturdy as Granny's. One spoonful enough?"

Rosa ties the bag while answering. "Varies by person. Start with one. Some hit hard even then. Steep in a hot cup, sip half before bed, check how you feel next day. Two from the start and your head'll throb worse."

"Got it."

"Insomnia isn't always strong resistance—anyone tosses in new surroundings. Sedative herb just lowers that guard. Lends a bit of your body's old 'safe' feeling. That's it."

"Lowers the guard."

I repeat it, mulling. Rosa doesn't find the awkward echo odd. Just assumes foreign customer memorizing herb names.

"Yes. Lowers guard. Nothing more, nothing less. Not addictive, so no worries."

Packets on counter. Headache one, sedative herb one.

"Three silver total."

I set coins down carefully. No toss this time. Rosa sweeps with one hand.

"Thank you. Come again."

Usual dry tone. Prickly as ever. Zero warmth.

But to me, this dryness is the most valuable intel right now. She's handed me a key unwittingly, with her own words.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

"Sure."

Push door. Tinkle.

Alley corner. Lean against wall, catch breath. Tuck two packets into bag. Headache one's incidental; real harvest is sedative herb.

Precisely, Rosa's own explanation of it. Lowers guard. Earth terms: prefrontal defense output drop. Critical thinking buffer. Hypnosis susceptibility boost.

Exact reason mild sedatives are used in clinical hypnosis.

If that smooth glass emotional surface loosens even by one cup of this herb...

A thread might catch.

Pull notebook, ink one line.

That's it. Nothing confirmed yet. One hypothesis. And one task for today.

Test on myself first. See how it affects this body, how loose the mind gets, how well self-Mental Interference sticks in that state.

Not Earth. This body might not react as expected. Self-test before others. Clinical basics.

Palace annex. Evening. Boil water in small brass kettle. One lantern. Door locked. Told Irene no interruptions for an hour.

Open packet. Pale gray-green dried leaves. Rub one between fingers. Bitter scent rises. Faint earth under the herbs. Leaves soft.

One spoonful into ceramic cup. First time, so one as Rosa said. Pour hot water. Color steeps slowly. Water turns pale green. Aroma rises.

Wait. About 3 minutes. Sip half cup.

Bitter. Back of tongue first, faint herbal sweet lingers on palate. Heavier than Earth green tea.

Second sip. Third. Half gone.

Lean back in chair. Close eyes.

30 seconds. No change.

60 seconds. Shoulders drop slightly. Could be evening fatigue.

90 seconds. Nape loosens. Specifically, the unconscious "scanning surroundings for threats" fades one layer.

Mind clear. Thoughts flow normally. Logic sharp. Just the background "is this room safe?" process tones down. Exactly that much.

Body mildly sleepy. Right at "bedtime" threshold. Not strong. Willpower keeps me alert.

Consciousness sharper than usual even. Tension gone, thoughts expand a layer.

"...Guard relaxation. Spot-on term."

Mutter slips out. Rosa's words exactly.

Test small self-Mental Interference in this state. 0.1% faint thread.

Normally, even trying on self, I'd notice and shrug it off instantly. Near-zero success.

Thread to inner nape. Sticks.

Sip remaining tea. Sweet. Bitter base, faint sweet overlaid.

Objectively same tea. Subjectively sweet.

Aware, dispel it. Sweet fades to original bitter.

"...Stuck, then released."

Self-inflicted, so releasable. Key: Tiny thread that normally wouldn't stick, did.

Sensation: Two-three times easier than usual. Can't quantify precisely. Wide margin.

Direction clear.

Open eyes. Notebook again.

Set pen down. That's enough for now.

Pre-dose hypothesis viable as tool. How, who, when—decide later.

Evening me, mildly hazy from one cup herb, long-term plans now risk clouded judgment. Clinical basics. Defer big calls under sedative influence.

Place two packets side by side under lantern. Willow bark ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and sedative herb.

"...Rosa. You had no idea what you were handing me."

Mutter. No reply. Ceiling beams sway faintly in lantern shadows.

A faint itch in my chest. Her job-friendly handful of herbs converts on my notebook page to a tool to lower her own guard.

I'm the converter. Aware, hands don't stop.

Prickly ten-year shopkeeper's glass-smooth emotional surface. Yesterday's thread slipping perfectly away.

Today in the shop, soft wrist angle supporting Granny's elbow to the door.

Two sides in one woman.

"Back tomorrow."

Mutter. No concrete plan yet. See her face once more, feel conversation texture again, spot on-site how to slip in one cup of herb.

Pre-plan might not fit her categories. Improvise. In the moment.

Extinguish lantern. Room darkens.

Sedative herb afterglow lingers thin at nape. Sleep coming faster than usual.

First time in this world I've met a target needing slow, step-by-step approach.

Getting interesting.