Rude? It's Chivalry (1)
It was a tragedy all too common for writers.
Getting isekai'd into a webnovel? Also commonplace. And into a villain who falls to ruin due to poverty, no less? Yeah, that tracks for a writer.
The problem was...
"I only read three chapters of that thing..."
For Ellie's sake.
She'd clicked on it in some community forum because it was infamous as the "[Novel That Sparked a Hulk-Smashing Controversy by Chapter 3]." That was it.
She wasn't into those romance fantasies where the heroine seduces other races for world peace and all that fluffy stuff...
"Haah..."
A dry sigh escaped her cracked lips.
In the fractured mirror, a handsome young man with hollow eyes stared back. His features were sharp and clear, his hair a fresh black. The kind of face that might draw an "ooh" from passersby.
Even as a third-rate villain in a romance fantasy, he was strikingly good-looking.
Kyle Crowley, the youngest son of a baron in the southern borderlands of the Belpheloze Empire.
The one who falls into depravity from poverty.
That was the name of the villain she'd transmigrated into.
The Crowley barony was done for.
They were self-sufficient in food, but tax collection rights had been seized by creditors.
The debt they had now? Tens of millions of gold. Enough to live off for a thousand years without working. Compound interest was a terrifying beast.
Any chance of paying it off through honest labor had long since passed.
The debt doubled every day, and she had no magical talent or swordsmanship aptitude.
By the genre's rules, in a romance fantasy, if you weren't highborn or gifted in sword or magic, you got culled. In this godforsaken world, there was only one way for her to make money.
Modern knowledge from a modern soul.
'I've lived enjoying the fruits of civilization.'
Memories of making natural soap and shampoo in a one-day class with her girlfriend were still fresh. They'd broken up just a week ago. Anyway.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"Young master, stop talking nonsense and go dig up some potatoes. Do you plan to skip lunch...?"
Lost in her happy delusions, a pretty maid approached with arms crossed.
A chic silver-haired maid with blue eyes.
Oh yeah, genre conventions like this? Love it.
"Hey, Ellie, don't be salty."
"...?"
Ellie's chic expression crumpled.
A loyal maid who'd sworn to serve the family until her death, out of gratitude to Kyle's mother. She could follow him down a yellow brick road.
"I'll sell soap and treat you right."
"Have you finally lost your mind?"
In romance fantasies, the commoner heroine building wealth by selling soap was a cliché... Everyone has a plan that sounds good.
Until they get slapped.
A few days since transmigrating, and she'd accomplished zilch.
Of course. What could a writer chasing deadlines even do right away?
Still, she'd put in effort.
-Young master, what is this fragrant clay...?-
-Ah, this is called soap...
-Soap? We have shampoo, body wash, rinse. Sadly, not in our family. We're dirt poor. But it might clean off hand grime, so good job.-
She'd forgotten this was a romance fantasy world.
Screw historical accuracy—plausibility gets tossed with "it's a romance fantasy, duh." Pure gold genre.
Even carriages ran on magic engines. Who'd guess "carriage" meant car? There were brands like FerXari, BenX, LamXorghini.
After that bitter defeat...
What was she doing now?
Scratch—
Reading.
Ellie, mid-cleaning, shot her a venomous glare.
"The young master... reading? Don't talk nonsense. You hate printed text. Why not stick to playing with clay?"
That stung a bit, but after days glued to books, her glare softened.
A giant leap forward.
She hadn't been a total wastrel.
Anyway.
The books were ancient histories of the Belpheloze Empire and a few biographies. Stranger in a strange land, they had a fresh appeal.
'If only there were genre novels, it'd be perfect.'
Curious what fantasies creators here cooked up.
Deep into reading, a lightbulb popped overhead.
"Got it. Plan B."
"What cloud-chasing nonsense is that?"
Ellie, balancing the accounts beside her, sighed deeply. Lately, when he read, he seemed fervent and sane... Figures.
"Pack up. We're going to a bookstore."
"Pardon...?"
She grabbed the flustered Ellie's hand and plunged into a smogless blue sky over endless mountains and fields, straight to the bustling shopping street.
"Elligation. Guide me. Destination: bookstore."
"Reading lately and now a hobby? Picking an expensive taste unfit for our finances."
Ellie grumbled but led the way smoothly.
Elligation: solid performance. Reason for the bookstore? Simple: gauge the world's cultural level.
Modern knowledge sucking? Time for Plan B.
Obviously, writing.
What else could a writer do but write?
Market research for that led boldly to the shopping district's bookstore. At the new releases corner, reunion with a novel, expectations high...
"...Bullshit, this is a novel?"
It was a disaster.
Literary quality was abysmal.
Imperial literature? All nobles flexing knowledge in verbose, boring info-dumps.
The novel in hand, The Woman with the Sword, was no different.
"Take my sword! Clang—!"
The blade snapped, and Fontman, the thirteenth squire of Alphonse, third knight-retainer of the Ruthar barony, knelt.
Swordsmanship's pinnacle isn't mere bodily craving.
Suppressing survival instinct for unconditional devotion to one's lord... this girl will show it...
Every paragraph dragged like that. Breath caught in her throat. Theme? Insane.
Chivalry's romance and thrill boiled down to "devotion to lord." End? Hero revives house, then executed for her lord. Best ending? Romance lit?
Primitive. No wonder no genre novels—just history and bios.
She wouldn't write it that way.
"Amid these yam-fests, splash one bowl of cider... Ngh..."
First, blast the hype houses...
Huh?
Eyes flashed.
Kyle Crowley hailed from 21st-century Korea, born in an era of rampant high-tech, surviving on dopamine blasts from short-form and webnovels.
This was opportunity.
Japanese manga like Blexch, Onexs, Naxto. Famous Korean webnovels. All in her head.
What, different audience?
Her mind held The Old Man and the Sea, Don Quixote, world classics too.
If imperial lit was primitive? She'd write and spread it!
Become culture's pioneer, Kyle Crowley!!
'Just write it. Tailor to their tastes, infuse modern webnovel dopamine...?'
Victory lap.
Her skills that hooked dopamine addicts? Melting these dull imperials' brains was child's play.
Medieval rubes' lame fun couldn't withstand massive "fun."
They'd crumble.
Nobles too. Heads preaching etiquette and lit, bodies craving fun.
She'd shatter romance lit.
'They're hooked.'
Masterpiece radar pinged hard.
Intoxicated by genius insight, a familiar voice called from behind.
"Young master—!"
"Hey, Ellie. Volume down."
"Pardon...?"
"It carries fine without."
Ellie stared in horror. Her reactions made teasing fun. Following her potato-digging nag, Kyle chatted.
"Ellie, I'll treat you right."
"No weird talk. Handle potatoes."
"Yeah, yeah."
* * *
Potatoes, water, pinch of salt. Bland stew barely sated hunger for two.
She sat at the desk.
Crude paper stack, luxury ink absent—charcoal stick instead. Humble start, grand end.
Kyle Crowley.
Writing begins.
Tap, tap—
Charcoal hit desk as she pondered. Popular hook first.
'Pen name unknown yet, so mass-appeal material. Themes mandatory.'
Nobles had face. Pure trash fun? Giggle solo, done.
Themes let recommenders defend: wrap hack in nobility. Add "self-sacrifice," pitch as sublime fantasy.
-Skip the smut, hero's sacrifice slaps. Drop episode 19.-
Like that.
'Sword and sorcery world... Ah! That one!'
Scrawled big on paper back.
Base: classic Don Quixote from past life. No rip-off. Add reincarnation twist, concept polish.
Not just mad geezer—lone hero faking madness to save world.
Loony charging village windmill? Reincarnated hero. It's ancient ruin shard.
'Curse binding Don Quixote, can't reveal truth? Nice add.'
No. Reject. Nobility turns coercive.
Scratch, scratch, scratch—
Charcoal flew. Paper tore, smudged—undeterred.
All focus on words. Infuse hero's anguish per sentence. Mix side characters' misconceptions.
Solitary pain endured.
[Don Quixote charged for the justice he believed in, no matter the world's mockery.]
Nobility: world misunderstands? Fine.
[Call me mad, point fingers. If this world knows peace. If my goddess Dulcinea smiles. I—]
Complete. Her Don Quixote.
The Reincarnated Holy Knight Decided to Pretend to be Crazy.
[Anytime, any time, a hundred times.
I'll play the mad knight.]
Don Quixote races to finale. Sancho, journey-long baffled, beholding his back:
[Don Quixote—! I can't understand your life. Filled with irrationality and dishonor, I just can't!]
[Irrational? Dishonor?]
Highlight. Hero's chuuni whisper:
[Rude? It's chivalry.]
Done.
"...Perfect. Submit chapter one like this."
A smile spread.
"Ahh..."
She could already see it. Don Quixote—.
Readers of The Reincarnated Holy Knight Decided to Pretend to be Crazy, trapped in addictive fun, craving her novel endlessly, blind to other lit.
-Th-this fun... it's too much! I'll break, I'll shatter...!-
-If we hadn't read this... would we be different? Grown from better lit. I hate this novel.-
Primitive romance readers' reactions.
Heh heh heh.
She clutched the finished manuscript and left the room.