First Report to the Queen: Stabilization and Palace Politics

The next ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠morning. Second floor of the Royal Palace. The Queen's private office.

The atmosphere had changed since my last visit. The secretary handed me an entry pass bearing my name — a tablet inlaid with gilded lettering: Royal Psychologist Kang Do-hyun.

"Her Majesty is waiting for you."

A maid opened the door.

Queen Elena.

Golden hair spilled down from beneath her crown. Violet eyes. Today, a navy dress with an off-the-shoulder cut. Her collarbones caught the light. And if my gaze followed those collarbones down to the valley of her cleavage— enough. This was her office.

I'd taken in nothing but her shoulder line and collarbones, and my cock was already assuming the position. ...Fuck. What kind of degenerate shows up to deliver a report with lust coiling in his gut? Hold it in. Press it down, hard. Get an erection in front of the Queen, and my career as Royal Psychologist ends that very day. Honestly, they should just engrave Loser on my pass in gold leaf.

"So you've come."

Elena rose from her seat. Dispensing with royal protocol, she crossed the room to me herself. That was a first.

"Kang Do-hyun, Royal Psychologist. Reporting my return from the front."

I moved to kneel, but Elena raised a hand to stop me.

"There's no need for that. Sit."

She gestured toward the sofa. Not the work desk — the sofa. Tea was waiting on the reception table. Cookies, even.

This wasn't protocol. It was hospitality.

"I've heard the reports."

Elena lifted her teacup. Violet eyes looked straight into mine.

"Return-to-combat rates up thirty percent. Psychological treatment for fifty knights. Support in sweeping out enemy spies. Instruction of the Knights in mental fortification."

She set the cup down.

"Without you, it could have ended very badly."

The weight packed into that single sentence was enormous. For the Queen herself to say it could have ended very badly — it meant the true power behind the kingdom had acknowledged my worth.

"You give me too much credit, Your Majesty."

"It isn't flattery. I read Medic Marta's report myself. The knights at the front might have broken without your treatment."

Elena looked into my eyes. Deeply. This woman had eyes that could read a person. A queen more capable than her king — the woman who actually ran the kingdom.

"Let me speak plainly. The conservative lords tried to slash the front-line support budget. Their reasoning was that the Knights' fighting strength had declined. 'Why pour money into knights who can't even fight?'"

Elena's violet eyes went cold.

"But your results turned that logic on its head. A thirty percent rise in return-to-combat rates — a result proven in numbers. The conservatives shut their mouths."

Politics. While I'd been sweating on the front lines, a budget war had been raging in the capital. And my results had become the Queen's political weapon.

She hadn't summoned me out of gratitude. She was looking at me as an asset.

...Fuck. And what really gets me is that knowing it doesn't feel bad. I'm being used as a tool — but it feels exactly the same as being recognized.

"There is something I would entrust to you as Royal Psychologist."

Elena placed a stack of documents on the table.

"Establishing a mental health management system for the Knights as a whole. Stress management for the palace officials. And..."

She stopped. A brief silence.

"...My regular consultations."

Our eyes met. Something flickered behind the Queen's eyes. Not the eyes of a ruler — the eyes of someone exhausted.

"Do you need counseling as well, Your Majesty?"

"...A queen is human too."

Short. But heavy.

I closed the office door behind me and stepped out into the corridor.

That one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠line just now. A queen is human too. Spoken from a ruler's mouth, it lay heavy across my mind. To unpack it, I needed to re-inspect my tools first.

Today's report had made it plain that my precision ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was coming loose — so first, I would sort out the exact meaning of the stabilization notification the system had flashed yesterday at dawn.

[Mind Interference], Level 3.

The first awakening from Level 2 to Level 3 had come not long ago, and that was merely the "door opened" stage. What followed — thirteen days deployed to the Knights with Karin, Eva, and Sophie, above all the multi-cast [Suggestion] fieldwork in the later shared-room sessions, the triple embodiment, the afterglow of that final night — piled the "bitch-bonding" threshold high enough that the system flashed another notification yesterday at dawn.

This wasn't a new level. It was stabilization within Level 3. Full precision hadn't been available right after entering Level 3. Across thirteen days of live use, the system had judged that "this human can handle Level 3 abilities safely" and released the locks. No new skills — full precision unlocked for the existing three, plus the newly unlocked Resonance.

"...No new skills."

At first, I was disappointed. I'd counted on at least one intuitive new ability.

"...But I understood immediately. A drastic rise in the existing three skills' precision means... combined operation moves onto an entirely different tier."

At Level 2, casting [Suggestion] and [Emotion Manipulation] at the same time blurred one of them. At Level 3, both ran in parallel at full precision. Stack deep-layer access from [Memory Reading] on top of that...

"...The system didn't assign a name, so I'll name them. This combined technique. The first name: Brainwashing — mental access one layer deeper than the existing [Suggestion]. The second name: Common Sense Alteration — the end state Brainwashing arrives at... redefining the layers of the target's mind built on their sense of self."

"...The names don't matter. Only function does. I'm not presenting at a conference, and I'm not writing a textbook. Registering them in my private glossary is enough."

"...I need operational metrics too. The rate at which a target's altered common sense takes root — I'll have to quantify that myself, since the system won't show it. I'll fix one scale in my head and manage it from zero to one hundred. Eighty or above marks 'the stage where the target spontaneously redefines their own narrative.'"

"...Never thought I'd end up applying the survey codes I wrote in psych grad school to grown women of another world. Feels like getting my license revoked — except this world doesn't have a licensing system."

"...Another layer peels off the constant of my conscience. On the very day of my stabilization, no less. Fucking lovely. And the real kicker is that I feel it peeling and my hands don't stop."

If Level 2 [Suggestion] was "nudging the direction of a thought," the Level 3 combination was "rewriting what someone takes for granted." Not an official system name — my own pet label. Two names for one act.

For example.

[Suggestion]: "This man seems like a decent person." It works on emotion.

Common Sense Alteration: "There is no need to be on guard around this man." It works on the cognitive framework itself.

See the difference? [Suggestion] touches emotion, but the target can still ask herself, why do I feel this way? Common Sense Alteration means that question never arises in the first place. Because it has become obvious.

But the limits were unmistakable.

I borrowed an empty room in the palace and ran tests. The subject: a palace guard.

Test one.

Common Sense Alteration: "It's fine to run in the corridors."

The guard started jogging up and down his post. When another guard demanded to know what the hell he was doing: "Ah — just getting my exercise in."

Result: success. Anything trivial that didn't seriously violate his existing values took root immediately.

Test two.

Common Sense Alteration: "It's fine to sleep on duty."

The guard yawned. But he didn't sleep. "I am drowsy, but... no. I'm on duty."

Result: partial success. It collided with his ingrained sense of duty. Repeated exposure required for full settlement.

Goddamn. Perfect.

Test three.

Common Sense Alteration: "It's fine to disrespect the Queen."

The guard faltered. His eyes blinked. And then... "No, that's..." A look of pure confusion.

Result: failure. Loyalty to the Queen sat at the core of this world's value system. A single attempt couldn't rewrite it.

Conclusion.

"Common sense that runs against a target's existing values is difficult to plant. A gradual approach is required."

Now — apply this to the Queen?

The goal: Queen Elena opening her heart to me.

The stages had to be divided.

Stage one."It's okay to relax in front of this man."

The Queen spends all day at maximum tension. She never shows weakness to anyone. I would plant the common sense that only in front of me could she rest.

Stage two."It's safe to open up to this man."

Secrets, worries, weaknesses. Make her feel that what the Queen could tell no one, she could tell me.

Stage three."I grow anxious when this man is not beside me."

Dependence. The strongest chain in psychology. Once she reached this point, I'd won half the battle.

Stage four."This man's arms are the safest place in the world."

Consent to physical intimacy. Touch, embrace, and then...

Planting "I love Elena" outright was impossible. The Queen's pride, the royal family's dignity, her status as a married woman — three layers of core values standing in the way. But peeled off one layer at a time, slowly, each with a reasonable excuse attached...

It was possible.

If Marisa had crossed over in five sessions, Elena would take at least ten. No — more than that.

But the reward was beyond comparison.

...Fuck, my heart is pounding. To think drafting a roadmap for stripping the Queen's heart bare would get me worked up like this. I know. I know there's nothing normal about it. But apparently knowing isn't enough to stop me.

Now, the political state of the palace.

In the two days since my return, I'd gathered intelligence inside the walls. The informant network I'd asked Marisa to build, the chatter of the palace maids, the official briefing from the secretary. Pieced together, it looked like this.

One. The conservative lords' revolt against the taxes.

Front-line support was devouring forty percent of the kingdom's finances. Five conservative lords had formed a bloc to resist the tax increase, led by Count Marga. His logic: "War is the crown's affair, not the fiefs'." Fuck — if the demons break through, their fiefs get smashed to rubble too, and these gentlemen see nothing but the profit right in front of their noses.

Two. The King's incompetence.

King Calandel. Reportedly passable in the early years of his reign. But seven years ago he began shoveling state affairs onto the Queen. And now? He doesn't leave the concubines' quarters. Three concubines, the one he summons most often being twenty-eight-year-old Mireille — rumors say for political reasons. A king who, with a thirty-eight-year-old queen, spends his time only among his concubines. That's not simple infidelity. It's dereliction of the crown itself.

Now I understood why Elena had said "a queen is human too." This woman had been abandoned by her husband and carried the kingdom alone.

Three. The stalemate on the southern front.

Not open war with the demons, but small-scale infiltrations that never stopped. The front I'd served on was part of it. Marta, Erika, and Karin were still holding the line there. The stalemate had dragged on for over a year now, and the people's war-weariness was piling up with it.

Four. The daughter, Lizette.

Nineteen years old. The princess. Elena and Calandel's daughter — and by all accounts she despises her father. Rumor holds that she hasn't called him Father since he abandoned her mother. A rebellious phase? No. This was righteous anger. I hadn't met her yet.

Those four were the core problems of the palace. And all four of them looped back to "Queen Elena."

Conservative lords? The Queen handles them.

An incompetent King? The Queen governs in his place.

The southern front? The Queen manages it.

Her daughter's rebellion? The Queen shoulders it.

The kingdom sat on this woman's shoulders. And there was no one — no one at all — bracing those shoulders from behind.

My opening.

...It terrified me how cleanly the crack showed. Standing before an exhausted woman, I calculated infiltration routes before comfort. God, what a disgustingly efficient brain. Truly.

The Queen's "regular consultations" began.

First session. The Queen's office. Twice a week, at four in the afternoon.

Elena came out in working attire. Not a dress — a simple blouse and skirt. The crown was off as well. Whether she'd dressed down for the sake of a "consultation," or whether she considered me informal enough to merit it, I couldn't tell.

With the crown off and her seated there in a blouse, she was more dangerous, not less. ...My cock was lifting its head of its own accord beneath the table. Fuck — what kind of counselor gets hard before the session even starts? Clench the thighs and push it down, come on. The guy who came here to loosen his patient's tension is the stiffest one in the room. Pathetic. Genuinely pathetic.

"Sit."

We sat facing each other. One table between us.

"Your Majesty, before we begin, may I ask you one thing?"

"Ask."

"Do you sleep well at night, Your Majesty?"

Elena faltered. Her violet eyes wavered for an instant. That reaction. I had run hundreds of these sessions. That reaction was... the reaction of someone who doesn't sleep.

"...Why do you ask?"

"You have dark circles beneath your eyes, Your Majesty. Concealed with makeup, but the left side has smudged a little."

Elena's hand rose to cover the spot under her eye before she knew she'd moved. The Queen's dignity.

"...Impressive. You saw what even my maids miss."

"Occupational habit."

Elena sighed. Quietly.

"I've been short on sleep lately. There's so much work."

A lie. No — half truth, half deflection. She wasn't short on sleep because of the workload; sleep simply refused to come. The depth of those dark circles belonged to someone who couldn't sleep, not someone who was busy. I knew the difference. Marta's eyes had looked much the same.

But I couldn't dig in the first session. This woman's pride ran deep. The harder you pushed, the higher the wall went.

"Sleep matters, Your Majesty. Your health is the kingdom's health."

"I know. I'm aware."

A formulaic reply. Within the expected range. Today's target was Common Sense Alteration, stage one. "It's okay to relax in front of this man."

As the session rolled on, I laid the alteration in, smooth and natural.

Softly. Like silk.

"In this room alone, it's fine to not be the Queen."

A subtle shift in cognition. Elena's shoulders came down by the width of a finger joint. A loosening she never noticed in herself.

When the session ended, Elena spoke.

"This is a first for me. Time like this."

"Time like what?"

"Time when I don't have to decide anything."

Violet eyes turned toward the window. The sunset had come in, threading orange through her golden hair.

"Come again."

"Twice a week, as you said."

"...Yes. Twice a week."

Her face said she wanted to say more. She swallowed it. The Queen's dignity.

...She would never know, for the rest of her life, that the centimeter her shoulders had just dropped was my handiwork. That was the filthiest part of this trade. Never being caught. Fuck — and therefore, never having a reason to stop.

Just before I stepped through the door, Elena called me back.

"Kang Do-hyun. About the black tablet you sent from the front."

A maid brought over a black envelope. The royal archivist's preliminary investigation report.

In their place, thirteen consecutive entries of an old royal inventory had been scraped away with a blade. Only the catalog numbers remained — item names, receiving officials, storage locations, all of it gouged out.

And along the edge of the first blank space, someone had left a single line in ink.

"The original is locked in my personal vault. Only you, I, and three knights know this matter exists."

"And who erased the records?"

"No one, according to the records. Which is exactly what makes it a problem."

The Royal Palace had a King. It had a Queen.

And yet someone, since long ago, had been keeping record of a seat without a crown.