Chapter Thirteen: Psychological Suggestion

Tang Tianjie’s face darkened. He had been hoping for a boss encounter, expecting something like a Licker, Tyrant, Deathclaw, or Tank. Even letting his imagination take flight, the worst he’d pictured was a Demonwing Dragon or a Dread Emperor Armored Beast. Who could have guessed that the boss would be a floating corpse sphere in the sky, larger than a building, composed of thousands upon thousands of zombies?

“That’s the abyssal maw that devours life—we’ll be eaten…” Yori Takanashi squatted down with a swish, pressing both hands against her head in a defensive crouch.

Being a chuunibyou who had broken human limits didn’t mean she was immune to fear. Confronted with a boss like this, of course she was scared.

“Li Changxin, don’t go.”

Unexpectedly, the guide Mu Bai actually tried to stop someone who was itching to give it a try.

“Why?” Li Changxin’s excited features turned instantly cold. Veins stood out on her forehead, and blood vessels throbbed beneath her skin.

“Soul pollution or personality collapse—these consequences are not worth the benefits of killing a boss, not even if it’s a Garden of Eden boss.” Mu Bai, his dark face expressionless, spoke coolly. He had activated the precious gene “Primary Spiritual Sense” in his gene system and could sense the girl’s unstable mind.

Her pale cheeks trembled slightly, as if full of hatred. Bloodshot eyes met Mu Bai’s for over ten seconds before Li Changxin finally lowered her head. “Fine, I won’t go.”

In truth, soul pollution wasn’t as terrifying as Mu Bai described, but if it deepened, it could lead to a shift in alignment.

Mu Bai, lawful good to his core, didn't want to see a girl fall from grace into the chaotic evil camp because of soul pollution.

“So, the two girls won’t be going? Xu Han, Wang Dongwei, and Zhu Xiaoyong aren’t going either?”

Chu Qingfeng frowned. A boss of this caliber would be no easy feat. The fewer people there were, the lower the chance of victory. Of nine newcomers, only four remained. How could they win? As a psychologist, he immediately decided to put his plan into action.

Every newcomer had a destiny talent, himself included.

The two girls were out of the question. Among the men, Tang Tianjie was a lucky one who had broken human limits—anything could happen to someone so fortunate, so Chu Qingfeng didn’t dare target him. Yan Luo and mortician Xu Han possessed formidable mental resistance.

That left the failed transcender, Wang Dongwei; the overweight homebody, Zhu Xiaoyong; and the emo outcast, Li Zang’ai.

They each had “psychological loopholes.”

Chu Qingfeng stepped in front of Wang Dongwei.

“In terms of physical strength, you weren’t any weaker than the others when killing zombies earlier. In fact, dragging two burdens along with you, your will and fighting power are admirable. I can see you’re not afraid of zombies. With a guide to protect you, even facing a boss made of zombies, you won’t die. So why refuse?”

“I’ve been watching you on the road,” Chu Qingfeng said, removing his gold-rimmed glasses. His pitch-black pupils radiated an unspoken pressure. “Except when facing Yori Takanashi, that chuunibyou girl who thinks differently, your gaze always shifts away when meeting others’ eyes. You can’t look people in the eye.”

“I—”

Sweat began to bead on Wang Dongwei’s forehead.

“In psychology, this is a sign of inner inferiority and lack of confidence. No need to argue—victors prove their strength with action. The defeated can only use excuses to prove their weakness.” Chu Qingfeng’s words were like daggers, stabbing at the softest part of his heart.

Beside them, Tang Tianjie curled his lips with a mocking smile, clearly enjoying the show.

“You’re not afraid to challenge the boss—you’re afraid of—”

“Failure!”

“But let me tell you, the most abject failure isn’t the one who tries and fails, again and again. It’s the one who is so afraid of not succeeding that he’d rather die than try. The most frightening thing isn’t failure—it’s giving up.”

Sweat rolled down Wang Dongwei’s cheeks. The man’s dark pupils were like a whirlpool—no matter how he tried to look away, he felt himself being sucked in.

Raising his hand, Chu Qingfeng rested it on the defeated man’s shoulder.

“Napoleon Hill’s PMA Golden Rule: whether a person succeeds depends on their mindset.”

“Peter Drucker once said, success is simply getting up one more time than you fall.”

“Adler’s compensation theory in psychology: a weakness is simply an undernourished strength.”

“The Duke of Wellington lost every battle against Napoleon, yet he won at Waterloo—and the empire Napoleon had won countless victories to build was destroyed.”

The power of suggestion: it’s the simplest, most typical conditioned reflex. Usually, suggestion works through subtle, abstract means to influence another’s mind and behavior. This time, for a lifelong loser, Chu Qingfeng wielded a heavy hand.

He ripped the bandage off the wound, raw and bloody.

Then, using the psychology of suggestion, he invoked examples from success theory, management, and even Wellington, to ignite in the other man a burning desire for success and a refusal to accept defeat. Especially with all eyes on him—if he ran away now, Wang Dongwei would never be able to face himself or others again.

He had been driven into a corner—a point of no return.

Otherwise, he would collapse, mentally and emotionally.

Patting Wang Dongwei’s shoulder, the psychologist smiled at the sweat-drenched, swaying man who seemed about to collapse.

“Think about it.”

“What if you succeed?”

Turning away, he approached Zhu Xiaoyong, the overweight homebody.

His gaze turned icy as he looked down at the fat man still sprawled on the ground.

Sweat began to bead on Zhu Xiaoyong’s brow. Hesitating, he struggled to his feet—no easy feat with over three hundred pounds to lift.

“Why get up? Stay on the ground.”

Chu Qingfeng still hadn’t put his glasses back on; his dark eyes gleamed with a strange, almost demonic light.

“Isn’t it nice to just lie there? Do you know what you reminded me of, looking at you just now? A pile of shit. Your yellowish shirt, brown pants, layers of fat all stacked on the ground—doesn’t it look just like a pile of shit?”

“Go on, pose like you did before and entertain the others.”

“You’ve got no self-respect anyway. Making others laugh is probably your greatest value in this world, isn’t it?”

The chill in Chu Qingfeng’s voice was biting.

“You claim that no one in the real world is good enough for you, but the truth is, no one in the real world even notices you. No one wants to talk to you, no one cares whether you live or die. You have no friends, no dreams, no goals.”

“You’re ugly, no one likes you, so you hide away at home, wallowing in self-pity. Broke, you eat junk food until you became this bloated mess. Look at yourself—dare you meet your own eyes in a mirror? It would take a blind girl to look at you in real life, so you bury yourself in anime, numbing yourself. Anime is all you have.”

“If those anime girls came to life and saw a fat slob like you calling them ‘wife,’ wouldn’t they be disgusted?”

“You’re nothing but a blight on the air you breathe, and you know it.”

Zhu Xiaoyong’s whole body quivered. He pressed his lips together, face ashen, tears pouring from his eyes in hot streams.

Chu Qingfeng cast a final look at the silently weeping fat man, as if to carve the black light of his gaze deep into Zhu’s soul.

“All human suffering, in essence, is anger at one’s own incompetence.”

“If you don’t change this cowardly attitude, you’ll always be a dead, fat, worthless shut-in.”

He walked over to Li Zang’ai.

“So-called emo outcasts—they’re at the bottom of the hierarchy of social aesthetics and values. In the public discourse, the mainstream uses them as the ultimate ‘other’ to define itself, shaping a shared value system and emotional identity, even a sense of class solidarity, by denigrating them.”

“In some ways, you’re even more valuable than the fat shut-in.”

“Because by looking down on you, everyone else quickly finds common ground. You’re like Kong Yiji, bringing a breath of amusement to others.”

“Who’s Kong Yiji?” Li Zang’ai stared, bewildered.

Chu Qingfeng: “…”

“What the hell are you trying to say? Cut the crap—I was going to fight the boss anyway!” Truth be told, Li Zang’ai hadn’t understood a word about Kong Yiji, but instinct told him it wasn’t a compliment.

“Get lost!” The emo outcast’s face was twisted with menace and violence, his whole body exuding danger and aggression.

Chu Qingfeng: “…”

“I wasn’t trying to say anything, just to encourage you. Good luck! You’re truly remarkable—like a firefly at night, so dazzling. I’ve never seen someone so flamboyantly unique.” The psychologist spoke solemnly, locking eyes with the outcast. A dark glimmer flashed through his pupils.