Preface
Recent contemplation has led to a stark realization: while the West's entertainment sphere deserves its reputation as a shuffling corpse animated by market forces, the East's literary landscape harbors equally concerning pathologies. Having extensively analyzed both spheres, one might argue the Eastern predicament proves even more troubling upon careful examination.
The Chinese Literary Epidemic
The Formulaic Framework
Chinese authors, with rare exceptions, betray their works through two unmistakable symptoms: nomenclature that broadcasts its origins with all the subtlety of a brass band, and promotional descriptions that read like mobile game advertisements crafted by an AI obsessed with hyperbole.
Consider this representative example:
"One will to create oceans. One will to summon the mulberry fields. One will to slaughter countless devils. One will to eradicate innumerable immortals. Only my will... is eternal."
—A Will Eternal by Er Gen
This grandiose positioning masks a more fundamental issue.
The Protagonist Paradigm
Despite adopting third-person perspectives, these narratives invariably collapse into solipsistic character studies. The protagonist—inevitably an "underdog"—ascends through a prescribed sequence of victories, accumulating respect, romantic interests, and familial reconciliation with mechanical precision. In more egregious cases, these characters exhibit nationalism that would make propaganda ministers blush.
The antagonists fare worse, existing as disposable narrative devices—single-use villains manufactured solely to validate the protagonist's journey. These cardboard adversaries attack allies and love interests with clockwork reliability, each defeat spawning more connected antagonists in an endless cycle of narrative artifice.
The Power Fantasy Predicament
These works rarely aspire to storytelling or thematic exploration. Instead, they function as vehicles for unrestrained power fantasy, granting their protagonists moral licenses as unlimited as their authors' lack of imagination. Characters embark on retributive massacres with casual disregard for concepts like mercy or restraint. Supporting characters exist purely as hype men, their dialogue crafted to emphasize the protagonist's inevitable triumph.
The Plagiarism Ecosystem
If Western markets demonstrate an inability to conclude established narratives (witness Spider-Man's eternal adolescence), Chinese writers exhibit an even more troubling pathology: wholesale appropriation of concepts, garnished with superficial variations, perpetuated until market exhaustion.
From plot structures to setting designs—even narrative devices like "systems"—originality proves scarce. The market resembles nothing so much as a literary Temu store, where authors seeking quick profit create cheap imitations of successful formulas.
The Philosophical Paradox
These works inevitably gravitate toward "Rule of the Jungle" philosophy. In worlds defined by scarcity, might makes right—yet the protagonist, originally victimized by this system, inevitably becomes its most enthusiastic enforcer. They maintain a veneer of morality to retain audience sympathy while engaging in actions that would make Machiavelli pause.
The philosophical contradiction reaches its apex in their conflict with "heaven" itself. Protagonists rail against universal laws and natural order, yet their actions and utter lack of remorse make these cosmic forces seem remarkably reasonable in their opposition.
Thus, Chinese web novels manifest as a perpetual philosophical contradiction—toxic entities fighting for "progress" within an equally toxic system, while denouncing the very forces that seemingly attempt to contain their destructive potential. This cycle continues for thousands of chapters, as endless as it is meaningless, embodying the broader cultural malaise afflicting contemporary Chinese literary production.
Japanese Literature's Descent into Mediocrity
The Isekai Epidemic
Anyone even passingly familiar with the Animesphere can't help but notice the flood of stories about people getting transported to other worlds. Whether through convenient reincarnation or summoning spells, this genre has metastasized across Japanese media like a literary cancer.
Sure, the concept holds inherent interest - who hasn't dreamed of escape? But when "Reborn as a Vending Machine, I Now Wander the Dungeon" becomes not just publishable but successful, we must ask: What profound cultural malaise has infected Japan's creative consciousness?
The Disease of Derivative Design
Japanese writers demonstrate undeniable technical competence in plotting - they even occasionally outshine their Chinese counterparts in humor. Yet they're shackled by an almost pathological lack of imagination, manifesting in what we might call the "Cheap Cheat Syndrome."
This narrative virus follows a predictable pattern:
Take one downtrodden protagonist
Hand them some absurdly overpowered advantage
Watch as wish-fulfillment overwhelms actual storytelling
The result? Stories that exist as little more than elaborate gimmicks, their premises stretched thin across volumes of increasingly tepid content. Yes, masters like Re:Zero's author can transmute this formula into genuine art, turning the "cheat" premise on its head to explore human nature. But in lesser hands? We get endless variations on the same tired theme, each indistinguishable from the last.
The Formula for Failure
Let's save everyone time and money with the universal template for Japanese light novels:
Setting (Choose One):
Tolkien-meets-Dragon Quest fantasy world (90% probability)
Akira-inspired dystopia (1%)
Modern Japan with fantasy elements (5%)
Space opera with medieval fantasy undertones (4%)
Protagonist (Select One):
The Capybara: A male lead with negative testosterone levels, whose only aspiration is "peaceful life", often under appreciated by the surrounding
The Edge Lord: A morality-free zone focused solely on revenge
Supporting Cast:
Assorted female characters whose entire personality consists of crushing on the protagonist
End of list
The Death of Ambition
Perhaps most damning is these works' fundamental hollowness. Conflict either resolves with artificial ease or never materializes at all. Unlike Chinese novels, where protagonists wage eternal war against reality itself, Japanese works embrace a more insidious form of stagnation - they've surrendered before the battle begins.
Consider these exemplars of creative surrender:
"A Late-Start Tamer's Laid-Back Life" - So laid back it flatlines
"The Dorky NPC Mercenary Knows His Place" - A celebration of mediocrity where ambition itself becomes villain
"I've Been Killing Slimes for 300 Years and Maxed Out My Level" - A title that serves as both synopsis and epitaph for narrative ambition
The Paradox of Mastery
Korean literature presents us with a unique cultural phenomenon: technical excellence that emerges not despite psychological wounds but because of them. Unlike China's rage against reality or Japan's retreat into mediocrity, Korean writers have transmuted their cultural trauma into literary craftsmanship—yet this very transformation reveals deeper limitations.
The Geography of Memory
Across modern Korean literature, Jeju Island emerges not merely as setting but as psychic wound—a geographical manifestation of millennial trauma with Japan. This historical injury manifests in perhaps the most revealing way possible: even in their greatest fantasy narratives, Korean protagonists must inevitably prove superiority over foreign (particularly Japanese) characters.
This compulsion proves both poignant and paradoxical. First, it ignores the obvious dominance of Japanese cultural products in global consciousness—the ubiquity of shonen manga speaks for itself. Second, it reveals a deeper insecurity, particularly when considering what modern Korea has actually become...
The Corporate Pantheon
The omnipresence of Chaebols in Korean narrative transcends mere trope—it reflects lived dystopia. These corporate dynasties have so thoroughly colonized Korean consciousness that the saying "You cannot escape death, taxes, and Samsung" emerges as something to be taken seriously.
In this corporate feudalism, where political power has married the worst aspects of capitalism, the very concept of competition becomes fantasy—any genuine threat would simply be regulated out of existence in a single kickback. Yet Korean authors respond to this systemic oppression in a telling way: inevitably, one of their female love interests emerges as corporate royalty. Even when they had the power of gods, the authors cannot imagine success or life outside the Chaebol system they suffered under. Even the mean of pulling down the Chaebol stand-in often include the almighty media and public opinion more manipulated than a herd of sheep; the two power which had proven to be ever so fickle, corrupt and unreliable.
This manifests in their protagonists as a particular form of repressive despair—characters marked by irritability and ruthlessness, forever short on time or patience for others. Yet even these hardened protagonists cannot escape...
The Validation Trap
There will be a part in every Korean's light novel where the protagonist—now established in their new world—returns to their old life to show off to their parents or older relatives what they have accomplished. This transparent reflection of social expectation and wish fulfillment reveals something profoundly troubling about Korean literary psychology.
When authors write, they should leave pieces of themselves behind for their readers—something to help them move forward, alleviate their pain, or bequeath as meaningful legacy. What these Korean authors do instead is no different than creating a waifu-shaped hug pillow, parading it before everyone being crushed by the Chaebol, and shouting their success to the world. Or worse, indulging in pointless fictional retribution against real-life entities—acts worth nothing in the long run.
Sloth believes it to be the most pathetic things an author could do.
Now to cap how Sloth explained this phenomenon…
The Cultural Pathology: Fear of Chaos
The Chinese Wound
China's condition stems from unprocessed civilizational trauma. A society that once claimed heaven's mandate discovered its fundamental organizing principle—Confucian hierarchy and order—was inherently inferior to Western romanticism and individualism. Rather than confront this revelation, China retreated into hypocrisy: extolling past glories while constructing a low-trust society dependent on imitation, adopting communism as spiritual substitute for Confucianism while waging war against reality itself.
This manifests in literature through protagonists obsessed with "killing heaven"—a juvenile response revealing deeper inability to accept that the universe might operate on principles other than hierarchical order. Having watched Christianity and Western freedom demolish their spiritual framework, Chinese writers rage against cosmic order itself, unable to comprehend that chaos might serve creation rather than destruction.
The Japanese Paralysis
Japan's response emerged from different wounds but similar fears. A society forged by natural disasters elevated stability to supreme virtue, creating a culture where "harmony" meant rigid conformity. Their signature quote—"A child wants to change the world, an adult accepts it as is"—perfectly captures why they lost to America, a nation born from principled rebellion.
This produces three types of protagonists: the meek conformist, the childish rebel, and the directionless middle, none capable of embodying genuine heroic transformation. Even legendary figures like Oda Nobunaga or characters like Gojo must be treated as forces of nature rather than humans who chose their path. The result? A society where values exist only under social pressure, producing stories where characters either embrace total submission or escape through death and reincarnation.
The Korean Paradox
Korea's cultural condition manifests through a peculiar marriage of technical excellence and spiritual immaturity. Their writers, operating from within corporate feudalism, achieve remarkable craft while remaining trapped in cycles of juvenile pride. The Confucian requirement for external validation prevents the introspection necessary for genuine growth, producing literature that mistakes elaborate complaint for profound insight.
This manifests most clearly in their relationship with the Chaebol system—a dying order they cannot stop fighting. Despite living in a corporate dystopia facing demographic collapse, Korean writers remain obsessed with proving themselves to their oppressors, defining their identity through opposition to powers already fading into irrelevance. The result is a literature of sophisticated tantrum-throwing—technically polished works that reveal a culture unable to imagine existence beyond the very chains they rage against.
The Common Root
All three pathologies stem from Confucian societies' fundamental inability to process chaos as anything but existential threat. Where Western civilization channeled chaos into creativity—understanding God's universe as both wonderful and comprehensible—Eastern societies sought perfect order through suppression of individual vitality.
The result is three distinct forms of spiritual death:
China: Eternal adolescent rage against reality
Japan: Perfected submission disguised as maturity
Korea: Excellence in service of imprisonment
Their literary decline reflects not mere artistic choice but civilizational exhaustion—societies that chose spiritual death over the painful growth that comes from embracing necessary disharmony. Until they confront this fundamental error, they will remain trapped in cycles of rebellion, retreat, and validation-seeking, unable to imagine genuine liberation.