Preparation 2

SP didn't rush into the town, his steps measured and deliberate as he clung to his ordinary traveler's guise, skirting the outskirts along a narrow side trail that wound like a forgotten vein through the land. The air carried the faint, earthy whisper of fallen leaves underfoot, each crunch a reminder to tread lightly, to blend rather than stand out in this web of watchful eyes.

Ahead, he spotted a townsman alone at the wood's edge, gathering firewood—not chopping fresh wood—he didn't see any axes, that's always appreciated—but carefully selecting from piles of fallen branches, bundling them for hearth and home, his movements efficient, born of routine in a world where warmth was a hard-won comfort.

Confirming the man was solitary, SP eased closer, weaving a Charisma spell upon himself—making his presence warmer, more approachable, a gentle investment in first impressions that could turn suspicion into openness, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

His footsteps rustled softly over leaves and twigs, a gentle "shush-shush" that announced his approach without aggression. The townsman spun around, his stance alert, eyes narrowing with that instinctive wariness SP had come to expect. The man was sturdy, broad-shouldered from labor, his face framed by a thick beard, skin roughened by sun and wind, carrying the weathered strength of someone who endured rather than yielded.

It caught SP off guard—this wasn't the gaunt, malnourished figure he'd anticipated from tales of medieval hardship. Thinking back over the past days, he realized most villagers he'd glimpsed shared this robustness, their builds solid, expressions steady, far from the "starving peasants" he'd imagined in ancient times.

He mulled it over: this territory fell under the countess's domain, and in the hamlets he'd passed, people appeared well-fed, their moods stable, with no widespread signs of hunger gnawing at their edges.

A quiet curiosity bloomed— was this the mark of a wise ruler, the countess governing with a fair hand that nurtured her people? Or was it simply the norm here, and he the one burdened by outdated assumptions from his own world's histories?

Either way, the observation was worth noting. Any social structure that defied expectations often concealed systemic secrets, layers waiting to be unraveled like a hidden map beneath the surface. In a realm as layered as this, such anomalies could be the key to deeper truths, and SP filed it away, his scholarly instincts sharpening like a quill to paper, ready to trace the patterns emerging around him.

The man let out a low, guttural grumble, laced with the raw alertness of a beast on edge. Though the language was foreign, SP's comprehend languages spell flowed like a gentle current, stripping away the barriers of sound and tone, allowing him to grasp the intent crystal clear: "Who are you?"

SP raised his hands slowly, palms outward in a universal gesture of peace, signaling he meant no harm. As he did, he subtly amplified the charisma spell, a quiet weave of energy making him like an old friend from lost memory, like a traveler with stories worth sharing rather than secrets to hide. Yet, his gaze darted nervously to the surrounding grass, scanning for any rustle or stir—bracing for unwanted company drawn by the spell's pull.

After all… this magic had left him with "scars" of its own, the kind that lingered in the mind like shadows in a forgotten corner.

He could still recall that first disastrous attempt in the real world, the memory sharp as a thorn. Eager to boost the effect, he'd tripled the rose essential oil and, in a moment of misguided inspiration, doused himself with a hormone-infused cologne called "Primal Essence." The label's ingredients were a mystery—he suspected some "pheromone boost" from pigs or dogs, a cheap trick for allure that backfired spectacularly.

The mishap unfolded before he'd even crossed the street from his apartment complex. A pack of stray Chihuahuas—where they'd come from, he'd never know—lunged at his legs with frenzied enthusiasm, humping away in a whirlwind of yaps and tiny paws, their leashes snapped and trailing like forgotten promises. No matter how he shooed or shouted, they clung on, driven by some unnatural compulsion.

Even with help from their owners, prying them off felt like wrestling chaos itself. He rushed home, scrubbing with half a bottle of body wash, but the mental stain remained—a hilarious horror that haunted him, a lesson in the unpredictable ripple of magic gone awry.

From then on, charisma spells came with a knot of wariness, especially in the wilds—where small creatures, insects, or even a deranged squirrel might turn into uninvited admirers.

He pushed the thought aside, steadying his focus as he ramped up the spell's output, all while keeping a vigilant eye on the undergrowth. With a wry twist of his lips, he muttered under his breath, "Let's hope he's not into men that way…"

"I'm your cousin!"

SP said it with a surge, ramping up the charisma spell's intensity, channeling energy into his tone and gestures like a river breaking its banks. The amplified casting was draining his mental reserves fast, forcing him to quicken his pace and rhythm to avoid crumbling at the edge.

"…Cousin?" The man blinked, his brows furrowing as his thoughts reshuffled, a flicker of confusion crossing his weathered face.

Not good.

SP's heart tightened—he could see the man's wariness creeping back, no time to waste. Shifting tactics on the fly, he layered in a rapid induction hypnosis, blending it with the charm, pitching his voice higher, infusing it with urgency: "Yes, cousin—brother, how could you forget me?"

The spell's waves pressed in sync, overwhelming the man's logical defenses with emotional weight.

"We played together as kids… don't you remember? Then my family moved away, following a new lord to distant lands."

His words cascaded like a torrent, each one tuned to rhythm and frequency—spell oscillations matching the hypnotic thought interupt-frequency, the comprehend languages spell translating intent straight into the man's mind. Not convincing him outright, but flooding the gaps before doubt could form.

"…You forgot? We were supposed to meet today."

He locked eyes, monitoring every twitch of muscle, every shift in gaze. The drain was mounting, his breath ragged, sweat beading on his forehead, the charm's threads fraying at the edges. And the mosquitoes—drawn by the spell's allure—swarmed thicker, a buzzing haze that tested his focus.

Yet the man's expression softened, his gaze turning distant, murmuring in echo: "You're… my cousin?"

"Right, uncle—wait, no." SP fumbled, catching the slip mid-breath.

"You're my uncle?"

"No, no—I'm your cousin." SP corrected swiftly, his voice steady despite the strain, as if fearing the man might snap awake.

"…Cousin, yes, cousin."

A beat of silence, then a slow, genuine smile spread across the man's face. He opened his arms wide, like welcoming a long-lost kin: "It's been ages… I thought I'd never see you again."

SP exhaled deeply, relief washing over him like a cool breeze. Then, with a wry grimace, he swatted at the persistent mosquitoes, their whine a pesky reminder that he needs a electric mosquito swatter now more than ever!

The new "cousin" still had his arms spread wide, a big, warm smile lighting up his face, clearly aiming for a heartfelt hug like long-lost family reuniting after years apart.

But SP shifted back just a tiny step, so smooth it looked like he was only fixing his stance. He has no intention of handing himself over to this fake emotional setup he'd whipped up on the spot. And besides, this wasn't even his real body—why risk the real thing when a trick of light could handle it?

He never fully trusted his hypnosis skills. SP didn't even see it as proper ability; its uses were way too limited. It needed the right moment, the right mindset from the target, and folks whose brains were flexible enough to bend—so called "suggestible subjects" like minds that could be reshaped without much fight.

He always considered it "unstable mind tweaks," nothing like alchemy, which was all tidy systems, controlled energy, and repeatable clear results one could count on.

But right now, he had to swallow the irony of looking down on it academically—hypnosis was like an old spell adapted for modern messes: low energy drain, high risks, hard to measure, but in tight spots, it was often the only way out.

And at this moment, SP knew full well: even if the guy seemed trusting and relaxed, there was no guarantee that the planted memory of "you're my cousin" had stuck deep in his core thoughts. Too many unknowns, too many ways it could snap back. What if the man lunged for that hug, only to grab at thin air and realize he'd been talking to a ghost image all along? It's hard to think incidents like that would not trigger a subconscious fix-up—a sudden "wait, who is this?" moment that would spiral out of control.

So he kept his cool on the outside, feeding a steady stream of charisma spell to keep things smooth, and switched the topic with a gentle tone:

"Cousin, can we head back to town now? I'm pretty worn out. The roads haven't been safe lately, and I've been traveling a long time. I just need a spot to rest."

He wasn't lying—he really was tired, and he did need a base. A place where he could quietly cast some basic spells, study the local customs, and slip into the social setup. If he pulled it off in this town, he'd have a solid "cousin" label that people would buy, no more relying on quick charms and off-the-cuff acts.

This wasn't the time for side issues. Every second off track could bring the whole fake setup crashing down.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit longer," the cousin said in a slow, easy drawl, "I've got to pick up all this firewood and take it back first."

SP bit back his frustration without a word. He'd pushed himself to the limit just to get this man to buy into the idea that he was a "long-lost distant cousin." Not only it was difficult but also he hated messing with people's minds by force. His skills were just patched-together basics, and getting this far was already more than he'd hoped for.

As the "cousin" bundled up a load of firewood, SP spotted him heading straight toward the illusion of his white horse, arms full. SP went on high alert right away. His spell could fool the eyes, but if real stuff touched the fake image, the whole thing would fall apart.

Without missing a beat, he quickly shifted his light-based double behind a big tree, swapping places with his real body in a flash. Then he stepped out casually from behind the trunk: "Cousin, let me give you a hand!"

While the man bent down to grab more wood, SP smoothly switched the real white horse with the illusion spot, pumping in extra magic to hold it steady as he took the bundle. The moves flowed like water, no slips at all.

His current "body" was made light on purpose—a simple form built just for getting around in this world, stripped down to the basics. That's why his summoned white horse wasn't set up for heavy stuff either. To save on power reserve, he'd cut back on its strength, trading toughness for speed and low drain.

As for his senses, that comes his mentor's warnings about all those cases. If you didn't connect enough with the realm you are in, it would push back on its own. That's why he'd added pain senses, nerve reactions, and even let in annoyances like bug bites and saddle rubs to this body. After all, fitting in was key for any traveler—especially one jumping between realms like him.

Right now, standing there, he felt a mix of annoyance and a grin creeping up. Who would've thought his clever illusion spells, which had survived bandit ambushes and close calls without a hitch, almost got busted by this simple farmer's "waste nothing, load up what you can" way of life.

Apparently honest living always wins in the ways you least expect.

So he slowed his pace, helping the cousin gather the scattered branches one by one, stacking them onto his eye-catching white horse.

The man glanced at the pure-white animal, looking pleased but saying nothing, just quietly picking up two more bundles and piling them on, then slinging a few onto his own back.

SP's mouth twitched a little. This straightforward thinking—making the most of every bit without waste—was almost impressive in its no-nonsense way.

Actually, SP had meant to get rid of that white horse right from the start.

Sure, the big chunk of mental effort went into summoning the white horse in the first place, while keeping it around barely sipped at his reserves in comparison—but the real snag was never about power levels; it was always about keeping things logical.

An outsider rolling into the edge of town, on a horse with fur so white it almost bounced back the sunlight—in any tight-knit little community short on outsiders and supplies, that was like waving a flag to draw every eye. SP knew too well that even if his spell held firm, something that flashy was bound to stir things up too much in the local setup.

Better to cancel summon the horse before suspicions kicked in, keeping his fake story quiet and out of the spotlight.

But he never saw it coming—the cousin's dead-simple "might as well haul the firewood" habit turned his plan into a total mess.

You couldn't just let a horse pop out of existence in front of the guy, could you?

So, he had no choice but to roll with it, holding the illusion together while crossing his fingers that the people in this town—even the nosy ones—wouldn't get hung up on an outsider having a horse.

After all, this place sat on a bit of a main path, so maybe folks were too busy fretting over food stocks and firewood piles to dig deep into a white horse… probably.

As they made their way along the muddy stone path toward town, SP led the horse loaded down with firewood, trailing quietly behind the man. The setting sun cast long shadows of them both, and the air carried a faint smell of wood chips and damp bark.

In that long, quiet walk, SP's mind drifted back to the modern world. He thought of those deal-makers in glass office towers, who never touched magic or spells but could stir up desires and fears in thousands with just surveys, clever words, and behavior guides. They didn't need hypnosis, essential oils, or burning mental energy—they got way better trust and obedience than what he had now.

By comparison, his spot felt downright pitiful. He had to lean on charisma spells and Instant hypnosis hacks, building trust inch by inch, all just to crash in this town for a bit. Modern mind tricks seemed so sharp and easy, making his spells look clumsy and silly.

But he knew this place's setup wouldn't take to those "mondern psychology" models. No shared social rules everyone agreed on, no open info flowing free, no steady systems for long-term mind feedback. This land and its people were like iron hammered a hundred times—hard and shut tight against outsiders, no cracks to slip through.

He watched the silent, sturdy back ahead, a tangle of feelings rising inside. He badly needed a way in, something to crack open this rock-solid structure—maybe words, or beliefs, or even raw fear and wants. But if he couldn't find it, he'd be stuck playing this vague "cousin" role, between an too-noticeable white horse and stacks of firewood, draining his mind and illusions nonstop.