Haters Become Villains
Genre novels are lowbrow culture. Especially the kind serialized in cheap magazines like Half and Half. A brief respite, some light entertainment, a dash of dopamine. Pulp fiction is playtime for people short on time and leisure—like those endless Shorts flooding YouTube in my past life. Naturally, the content ends up straightforward, simple, and easy to grasp.
"Sion."
"Yes, young master."
"We're holding a fan letter reading session starting now."
"…Pardon?"
And of course, these 'easy' novels inevitably attract their share of haters. The result? A magic bag stuffed to the brim with fan letters.
"Sort the ones with reasonable critiques—plot holes, consistency, research—and set them aside. The baseless hate mail goes in another pile."
"…Understood."
Sion looked puzzled but didn't press for reasons. He started reading through them one by one. From the way he winced now and then, there must've been plenty of the baseless variety.
"Um, young master."
"What?"
"This one says, 'Isn't this plagiarism from Don Quixote?' Where should I put it?"
"Does it seem like plagiarism to you?"
"Not at all."
"Then toss it in the baseless hate pile."
"Got it."
The hate came in all flavors. Plagiarism accusations were downright polite by comparison. Plenty veered into outright personal attacks.
Once we'd gathered all the trash, we'd culled a decent number from the stack.
"Young master, are you planning to sue the readers who wrote these?"
"Nah. Something way more fun."
"More fun, sir?"
"Yeah."
The Conan the Barbarian series—my Conan Saga—features hordes of villains. Greedy, cowardly nobles. Thieves who steal keys. Brutish pirates. Smug civilized folk picking fights… All destined to get pummeled by the hero. Perfect for disposable side characters needing names.
And hey, perfect timing.
"Nothing more humiliating than the guy who calls a novel trash ending up as a trash villain in it, right?"
"…Yeah. That'd piss them off for sure."
"And it'd be hilarious."
"Yes, sir."
"Heh heh…"
Perfect. No more racking my brain flipping through name lists for extras. Fresh scapegoats delivered right to my door.
You, troll. Become fertilizer for the novel you trashed!
"Seems like magazines with fun new novels are popping up everywhere lately."
"Yeah. Most are just ripping off Conan the Barbarian, but there are some surprisingly fresh ones. Like, ahem, Barbarian at the Cliff's Edge—that one's a riot."
"Never heard of it. But check this out. One of the villains in this issue? Same name as you. Gave me a shock when I saw it."
"What."
The Conan Saga's popularity kept climbing steadily. Naming minor villains after anti-fans proved a masterstroke. Some freaked out and vanished. Others felt a weird thrill seeing their names in print—cursing all the way, but hooked enough to keep reading.
"Streets feel dustier these days, don't they? White puffs flying up with every step."
"That's not dust… It's pulp. Shredded paper scraps."
"What?"
Half and Half's flimsy pages tore so easily that the gutters overflowed with confetti-like tatters, blanketing the streets in white. Folks clutching their disposable rags—meant for one read, then trash or toilet paper—kept at it till they fell apart. Disaster.
"Ha-hat! I am Conan the Barbarian! Begone, foul fiend!"
"Ow! I wanna be Conan too!"
"Me three!"
"Too many Conans! Puhaha!"
The Conan Saga exploded among kids too. Half and Half was pocket change from allowance. Heroic fantasy lit a fire under boys' adventure spirits.
Sticks in hand, they strutted as barbarians.
"Ahh! Iron monster!"
"Run!"
"No! Barbarians don't run!"
Then the pint-sized barbarians met something odd: an old man on a donkey, helmet of paper and tin, dressed like a wandering knight from medieval tales.
Tension crackled between stick-wielding kids and donkey-riding geezer. Primitive barbarian meets medieval knight—timelines collide!
The old man spoke first.
"Kids—"
"Now! Gang up and attack!"
The moment he opened his mouth, the boys—lost in heroic role-play—swung their sticks. A cowardly ambush, but not one landed.
With a casual flick, the old man disarmed them. Sticks flew; kids stumbled back a step each.
Befuddled, staring at empty hands, they froze.
The old man asked in a gruff but kindly tone:
"Where's Kindersley Publishing?"
Once called Iron Blood of the Empire's nobility. Ditched his ducal duties on his son for knight-errant delusions. Madman Andy Carpenter Duke.
Driven mad by too much Don Quixote, now hunting its publisher.
The kids' response?
"Gaaaaah—!!!"
"Run!!! The iron monster's chasing us!!!"
They bolted without a backward glance.
Looked like the duke had a long road to Kindersley.
The prince showed up again, right on cue.
"Long time no see, Your Highness."
"Oh? Didn't we meet at our awards ceremony?"
"Ah, I devoured Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. Shame we couldn't chat more about it there."
"Hee hee, really? Coming from you, Mr. Homerus, that means the world."
Chatting with the prince felt routine now. Back then, cold sweat down my back, limbs shaking, mouth like sandpaper. Now? Just the dry mouth.
Progress.
"So, what brings you here?"
"Can't I visit without a reason? That hurts a little."
"Haha…"
She pouted, eyes narrowing like a sulky kid. What are we, exactly? Patron and protégé? Sounds about right—no meetups without business.
"Sorry if that came off rude."
"Hee hee, kidding. I do have business."
"Ah, what is it?"
"Ouch, sounding so eager to wrap this up… That stings too."
"Haha…"
Nope, not used to this at all. Cold sweat trickled down my back. Shirt going damp.
"Anyway, business first, chit-chat later?"
"Yep."
Twirling a lock of hair, she spoke curtly—then sobered, voice turning grave.
"That potion from the fanfic contest awards… I want more."
"The potion?"
"Yes. I need it."
She explained slowly, softly, why. My mind blanked; I shuddered.
A prince with a woman's soul, turned female by the potion. Wild tale from her own lips.
"So, more potion. And info on its creator."
"…Yes."
But it clicked fast. A potion manifesting soul-form in flesh? Peak fantasy. Gender swap? Par for the course.
"Plenty left. I'll hook you up."
"Phew… Thanks, writer."
"I'll talk to the maker first. No mention of you, Your Highness."
The third prince's secret femininity stayed buried. Had to.
"Please do. Writer."
"Of course, Your Highness."
"Ho ho, a man with a woman's soul drinks the potion and turns female?"
"Yeah. Wild, right?"
"Fascinating case study!"
I laid it out for the alchemist—omitting the prince part, naturally.
He clapped, hanging on every word.
Then, simple fix.
"Easy! Drink a stabilizer on top of the original. Locks in the body form!"
"Such a thing exists?"
"Standard lab safety precaution for mishaps. Point is, doable! I'll whip up a killer batch!"
"Uh, sure."
"Flavor preference? I recommend strawberry!"
"Whatever."
"Spinach it is—"
"Strawberry sounds good."
"Excellent choice!"