Prologue.
“It’s fun. There’s entertainment value. But, do things like this really sell?”
“You idiot, how would you know right now? We have to try it out first. But I have a feeling it’s going to be a hit.”
My older sister and I were arguing over a piece of chicken. Even as we talked, our eyes were fixed on the chicken legs in front of us.
Today’s menu was half and half.
We both liked spicy chicken, but there was only one spicy leg. We were silently competing to see who would grab it first.
Normally, I would have given in to my older sister, who was older, paid for the chicken, and had a stronger appetite than me. But not today. I confidently grabbed the greasy chicken leg with my gloved hand.
“Even if it’s a novel, why are 17-year-olds so obsessed with that kind of thing? Aren’t you embarrassed to write that kind of stuff, sis?”
“Hey, these days, that’s just how things are.”
My sister, who had been preparing for a civil service exam, suddenly decided to publish a romance novel.
I’m not sure how much income she had, but it seemed like she had her own business. Occasionally, she bought me clothes or shoes, and every Saturday, our chicken and beer day, she always insisted on paying.
In return, when she wrote a new piece or a bizarre episode, she demanded my feedback. I had to be very specific in my critique, as a vague “fun” or “not fun” would result in the menu changing from two Golden Olive chickens to something else.
Reluctantly, I meticulously read my sister’s novel, syllable by syllable, and poured out my complaints.
“Do people really read this kind of thing?”
The novel’s protagonist, Bishott, was a 17-year-old girl from a once prestigious noble family, who had fallen from grace. The setup was that she was incredibly beautiful, as befitting a protagonist.
The author described this in 12 idiomatic phrases and 5,500 characters from the very beginning.
All sorts of jewels and metaphors poured out like a waterfall.
“This? This is what’s popular these days?”
“Now you’re really nitpicking at everything that’s trending nowadays.”
After reading the lengthy explanation, the author then went on to explain in 11,000 characters why Bishott was so unhappy. Her parents were indifferent, her sister was jealous, and the academy’s villain harassed her.
The author insisted that it was necessary to engrave this unique and pitiful position in the readers’ minds, so that they could sympathize with the protagonist and follow the story. But to me, it was all just nonsense.
Finally, my sister introduced a character that she often talked about, the “poop carriage,” which appeared as a deus ex machina. I wondered if my lack of romantic fantasy sensibility was the reason why such a character was necessary.
Raphael Isaac.
A stalker character who obsesses over Bishott and forces his desires on her.
Bishott runs away from him to an academy where her family’s prestige cannot reach, but Raphael still pursues her.
“How should I kill that bastard?”
“Not just kill him, but torture him?”
I chuckled at my sister’s extreme choice of words. Then she hit my hand with a fried chicken leg and said, “Hey, how many of my novels have you read? That’s the point. The satisfaction of the readers comes from how brutally Raphael is killed. That’s what makes it entertaining.”
“Why not just use magic or something?”
“You idiot.”
My sister stopped tearing apart the chicken leg and ranted for a while. She said that it was important who killed Raphael, not just how he was killed. The candidates for the killer were the Crown Prince, the Duke of the North, the genius knight, the Witch of the Tower, and so on.
As my sister continued to explain while spitting out her frustration about the male leads, the chicken gradually cooled down. I decided to eat it before it got too cold. I pushed my sister, who was unpacking her bag of ideas, to the side.
***
“I wish you had listened to me back then.”
Regret always comes too late. Even though I knew it was spilled water, my stomach still felt uneasy.
My curly hair, which was usually messy, suddenly became smooth and shiny, making me feel awkward. I brushed it back.
“So, who’s going to kill me?”
The Crown Prince, the Duke of the North, the genius knight, and even the Witch of the Tower were candidates.
There were too many options.
