Min-jun Kim "RantLord" adjusted his cracked phone screen; the late afternoon sun was glinting mockingly off the greasy pane of the suburban bistro window he sat beside. He wasn't here for the organic matcha latte or the artisanal sourdough, but for the Wi-Fi and the satisfying, clean click of his mechanical keyboard-a portable monstrosity he carried solely for maximum dramatic typing effect.
Today's target was Crimson Heart's Folly, the current champion of the trashy, trend-following, 'Generic Shojo Isekai Romance' genre. Its author, known only as 'Lady Lyra,' was currently enjoying her 100th consecutive week at the top of the serialization charts, purely, in Min-jun's professional estimation, on the backs of female readers whose over-the-top sympathy for the main princess and obsessive simping for the male characters-especially the cardboard cutout pretty face emo idiot who was supposed to be the Male Lead-blinded them to the gaping plot holes.
Fueled by righteous indignation and a lukewarm cup of bitter coffee, Min-jun's fingers flew with fury across the keyboard.
RantLord_69 (2 hours ago): @LadyLyraOfficial The latest chapter wasn't just bad; it was a crime against narrative structure. You took the only interesting antagonist, Prince Valen, and turned him into a simpering, love-struck lapdog who bakes cookies. Bakes cookies! The man conquered three kingdoms! This isn't character development; it's narrative castration, driven solely by the protagonist's insipid 'kindness' stat.
He paused, re-reading the critique. Satisfied with the severity, he continued-next upping the ante for the inevitable deluge of defensive fans.
RantLord_69 (Just Now): The whole plot hinges on the female lead, and she is being "too pure for this world," but she has the emotional depth of a puddle in a drought. You know what? This is exhausting. And the male lead-oh! God, he is just awful, a cardboard cutout pretty face with emo personality. And @LadyLyraOfficial, if I were you, I'd outsource the ending. I bet money that even the stupidest side character in your novel could write a more logical, satisfying conclusion than the cliché-ridden disaster you're currently aiming for.
He hit 'Send, ' a small, victorious smirk playing on his lips. The immediate influx of angry replies felt like a warm, familiar blanket. The hate was the reward. He leaned back in his chair, basking in his digital superiority, when a new message notification flashed. It wasn't from a fan; it was a direct reply from Lady Lyra herself.
@LadyLyraOfficial: Oh, RantLord, challenge accepted. You think you can do better? If you really think this world is so easy to fix, then why aren't you trying it?
Min-jun snorted. The audacity. He started furiously typing his retort, ready to detail his 14-point plan for fixing her entire series' lore.
RantLord_69: If I were you, Lady Lyra, I—
He trailed off, mid-sentence, looking up from his screen. He was seated at a small table on the sidewalk patio, partially obscured by a hedge, and had completely failed to notice the sudden, piercing sound of a compressed-air horn. A heavily laden delivery truck, bright yellow and bearing the logo of a national bakery chain, had clipped the curb, swerving sharply to avoid a distracted jaywalker.
There wasn't any time for Min-jun to consider the irony, the sudden wind that had picked up, or the bitter taste of his final cup of coffee. He just heard the screeching tires and saw the terrifying reflective gleam of the truck's front grill fill his entire field of vision.
The only thought that managed to fire through his dissolving consciousness, overriding survival instincts and existential dread alike, was a petty, indignant curse:
"Fuck, I should have finished typing."
Min-jun's eyes snapped open.
He wasn't pinned under a truck, nor was he floating in the sterile white of a hospital ceiling. He lay on a lumpy mattress, and the scent of damp wool and lingering, faintly exotic incense filled his nostrils. Blinking, he expected to see the cheap plaster of his apartment-or maybe the polished tile of a medical facility.
Instead, a beam of sunlight-golden and thick with dust motes-fell through a narrow window, illuminating a chamber that was sparse but undeniably ancient. The walls were made from dark, polished granite, inlaid with faint, dormant patterns in silver that hinted at forgotten magic. A robust fire crackled and spat in a massive hearth across the room.
He sat up abruptly, the sudden movement sending a surprising jab of pain through his shoulder. He moved, racked with distress.
"Agh, f-fuck. What happened to my body?"
He looked down at himself. His comfortable graphic tee and jeans were gone, replaced by a coarse faded gray linen shirt and loose, ill-fitting breeches. His fingers—which felt oddly slender—ran over the unfamiliar fabric.
A wave of dread washed over him. This wasn't a modern set or some sort of weird dream.
The door slammed open.
Standing in the frame was a man who commanded the attention of the entire room, even though the room was empty but for Min-jun. He was tall, powerfully built, with severe blond hair and fierce, blue eyes that could strip paint. On his head sat a simple, but clearly regal, gold circlet.
Min-jun's mouth fells open. He knew him in an instant. The male lead's father. King Roderic Valenhardt of Highhelm. That cold and aloof ruler of the Highhelm Empire from Crimson Heart's Folly.
The King's voice became a low, rumbling thunder, cutting through the quietness of the room. He spoke a foreign tongue, but Min-jun understood every sharp, contemptuous syllable.
"Have you no shame? Will you never stop disgracing me, you worthless bastard?"
Before even a defense could form in Min-jun's mind, before he could even comprehend the insult, a heavy hand swung out and delivered a stinging, humiliating slap directly across his cheek. The force snapped Min-jun's head back and sent him reeling, the pain echoing instantly through his entire skull.
With his eyes wide in shock and clutching his burning cheek, Min-jun's eyes met the King's, and the fragmented memories of the body that he was now inhabiting flooded his mind. The reality hit him with the physical force of a second metaphysical truck.
That stupid prince.
He wasn't an extra, a knight, or a nameless soldier. He was Prince Darian Valenhardt, the third royal heir, a character so universally loathed and devoid of meaningful narrative function that he existed purely as a punching bag and foil for the hero. Prince Darian Valenhardt, the "stupid prince of the empire," known throughout the fandom as little else than the minor joke villain, a pervert and a f***ing lowlife who peaked early and was destined for a swift, non-canonical, off-screen execution.