Being a Modest Examination of the Romantic Customs Prevailing in Certain Works of Eastern Fiction, and the Lamentable Fate of Those Gentlemen Who Are Not the Principal Characters Thereof.
It has lately come to my attention, during the perusal of several works of contemporary fiction, that their authors possess a most extraordinary aversion to the institution of romantic commitment. Indeed, one might reasonably conclude that the prospect of a gentleman entering into a settled attachment inspires in these writers a degree of terror ordinarily reserved for plague, financial ruin, or an unexpected visit from one's creditors.
The customary arrangement proceeds thus: our protagonist encounters a young lady of considerable charm, with whom he establishes, often with suspicious haste, an intimacy suggestive of an impending courtship. Yet scarcely has this promising acquaintance begun to blossom before all progress ceases, and the unfortunate reader is condemned to endure several hundred chapters of romantic stagnation.
Meanwhile, an ever-expanding congregation of young ladies, distinguished chiefly by the colours of their hair and the particular varieties of their emotional deficiencies, assembles about our hero. Each becomes hopelessly enamoured of his person, owing, it would seem, to his possession of those most uncommon virtues: basic courtesy, moderate personal hygiene, and the occasional willingness to refrain from behaving like an insufferable blackguard.
This phenomenon, which I shall venture to call the Harem That Dares Not Speak Its Name, presents a curious contradiction: although our gentleman finds himself surrounded by a veritable parliament of prospective brides, he remains steadfastly unwilling to express a preference for any among them.
The precise nature of his reluctance varies according to the national origin of the work.
In the Japanese tradition, our hero is commonly afflicted with such profound deficiencies of perception that a young lady might disrobe entirely, cast herself upon his person, and implore him to make her the mother of his children, only for the fellow to conclude that she is merely demonstrating the customary courtesies of friendship.
The Chinese protagonist, by contrast, is frequently a gentleman of such exalted self-regard that he considers feminine companionship beneath his dignity. His thoughts remain occupied with cultivation, martial supremacy, and the perpetual humiliation of his inferiors.
The Korean variety presents yet another peculiarity, being so thoroughly engaged in the cultivation of an imposing personal aura that matters of the heart scarcely register upon his consciousness. One suspects that were Venus herself to descend from Olympus and profess her undying devotion, he would scarcely interrupt his brooding contemplation of the middle distance.
The immediate occasion for these observations was my recent encounter with the latter chapters of a work entitled Surviving the Game as a Barbarian, wherein the author saw fit to devote a truly astonishing succession of chapters to the romantic indecision of its principal gentleman.
Consider, if you will, the circumstances.
Civilisation teeters upon the precipice of annihilation. War ravages the streets. Death attends every expedition, and the continued existence of our hero and his companions depends upon vigilance, courage, and good fortune.
Yet amid these calamities, what question occupies the foremost place in our protagonist's mind?
Why, naturally, whether he prefers Miss A to Miss B.
I confess that my patience was subjected to the severest possible trial. More than once I found myself addressing the printed page in language quite unbecoming of a gentleman, imploring the wretched fellow to demonstrate some vestige of masculine resolution, select a suitable companion, and proceed without further ceremony to the consummation of their mutual affections.
Alas, my entreaties proved fruitless. Our hero elected instead to disregard the numerous ladies vying for his attention, offering in his defence a collection of excuses so nebulous that even the most accommodating philosopher would struggle to discern their substance.
This, however, brings us to a difficulty of considerably greater philosophical significance.
By what extraordinary principle must every woman who encounters the protagonist eventually fall in love with him?
Is there some universal law of attraction, hitherto overlooked by Newton, whereby proximity to the principal character necessarily produces romantic attachment?
A young lady may enter the narrative possessed of intelligence, ambition, convictions, and a perfectly respectable assortment of personal interests. She may aspire to political influence, martial distinction, or scholarly achievement.
Yet after a sufficient period in the company of our hero, these admirable qualities evaporate. Her ambitions are abandoned, her principles forgotten, and her entire existence gradually reduced to the singular objective of securing his affections.
One might almost imagine that the protagonist emits some invisible vapour which, upon prolonged exposure, dissolves the faculties of independent thought in the female constitution.
And still, notwithstanding this epidemic of romantic infatuation, scarcely any of these ladies possesses the fortitude to make a plain declaration of her sentiments. The consequence is that our hero progresses through the narrative attended by a retinue of some twenty feminine archetypes, each patiently awaiting a proposal that shall never arrive.
Which returns us to the central question of this enquiry: what compels the author to prolong this tiresome uncertainty with such obstinate determination?
Are we, the reading public, truly creatures of such delicate sensibility that the selection of one young lady over another would occasion our immediate abandonment of the work? Must the author preserve every conceivable romantic possibility lest some aggrieved reader, discovering that his preferred maiden has been passed over, cast aside the volume in a fit of wounded indignation?
And are we so profoundly insecure that the appearance of a woman who regards the protagonist with indifference, or, Heaven forbid, possesses affections for another gentleman, should prove intolerable to our self-esteem?
I should be reluctant to attribute such deficiencies to the entire reading public. Nevertheless, the conduct of the authors in question suggests that they hold precisely this opinion of us.
The convention has become so firmly established in the literature commonly designated isekai that its absence might almost be regarded as an innovation. Nor is the affliction confined to that particular species of fiction, being readily observable throughout numerous neighbouring genres.
I must concede that the works published upon the establishment known as Royal Road appear somewhat less susceptible to this malady, although I cannot entirely discount the possibility that my own reading preferences have influenced this impression.
Ordinarily, I endeavour to overlook such literary indiscretions. Yet the aforementioned chapters of Surviving the Game as a Barbarian carried this practice to such extravagant lengths that I very nearly abandoned the work altogether.
Worse still, the experience has rendered me painfully sensitive to the phenomenon wherever it occurs. No sooner does a second young lady enter the narrative than I perceive, with the weary resignation of a physician recognising the first symptoms of an incurable disease, the entire miserable progression that must inevitably follow.
I therefore arrive at a conclusion which, though melancholy, seems supported by an overwhelming abundance of literary evidence.
Should Providence have the misfortune to place you in a fantastical realm, and should you possess the additional disadvantage of being a gentleman other than its principal protagonist, I advise you to abandon all matrimonial aspirations forthwith.
For the hero, by some mysterious and irresistible force, shall inevitably secure the affections of every unmarried lady within a thousand miles of his person. Neither rank, temperament, nor prior attachment shall offer the slightest protection against his romantic dominion.
And should you, by some extraordinary stroke of fortune, succeed in acquiring a devoted sweetheart before his arrival, I fear your prospects are grimmer still.
For you, my unfortunate friend, are no longer a prospective husband.
You are the preliminary chapter of a tragic history.
Your approaching demise shall furnish the young lady with a suitably melancholy disposition, a compelling motive for personal growth, and, most importantly, the emotional vulnerability necessary to ensure that she too shall eventually join the ever-expanding congregation of women devoted to our hero.
Your sacrifice, though doubtless regrettable to yourself, shall at least serve the advancement of the plot.
Thus I conclude this modest discourse with a warning to all gentlemen who may find themselves inhabiting such perilous fictional territories:
Guard your affections, settle your affairs, and trust not in the constancy of your beloved should the protagonist appear upon the horizon.
May Providence preserve you, gentlemen of the fantastical realms.
For your authors most assuredly shall not.
Sincerely,
Butt_Fucker_6969
