It not close to perfect but I you can I be thinkful
The Devil Been Isekai | Scribble Hub
I read three chapters of this webnovel, and all I can say is that it’s not a webnovel for others to enjoy—it’s more of an unmedicated fever dream of a person in only in a trench coat you find in the wrong turn alleyway somewhere in any metropolis. It reads like someone vomited every edgy, "cool," half-baked idea they’ve ever had into a blender, hit purée, and then poured the mess into a trench coat-wearing, whiskey-swilling narrator because they thought
that was a substitute for narrative structure. This isn't persuasive storytelling masters of old and new preach, it’s creative indulgence with none of the restraint, taste, or purpose required to turn it into anything besides a scattered scrapbook of inspiration that should’ve stayed in the notes app.
Look, you want to write weird stuff? Fine. You want to throw in opera references, katana bros, dinosaurs, Tokyo, Hell, MP3 players, and gold-hoarding monsters who somehow also dismember mage parties? Do your thing. You’re allowed. Everyone has a right to make art. But, don’t you dare act like anyone’s going to stick around and read it if you serve it like this: raw, twitchy, and duct-taped together by narrative duct tape labeled “Trust Me, It Gets Cool Later.” It doesn’t.
Let’s start at the root of this literary tumbleweed: the synopsis. Actually, no, the word “synopsis” implies intent that someone will persuade me to read anything than this piece of text further. What I got was a passive-aggressive blog comment about how synopses suck, followed by the vaguest handwave toward "booze, death, and Hell." That's not a hook. I’ve seen “do not disturb” signs with more persuasive energy. The narrator tells us he doesn’t like synopses and then fails to write one—as if spiting the reader is part of the pitch. Such pitches only work with Deadpool, and even then it only worked because Deadpool is popular. You know what kind of people start a story by saying, “Let’s just get this over with”? People who don’t know what they’re writing or why. People who have ideas but not stories. Inspiration, but no experience of writing outside ideas.
And that lack of execution bleeds into every part of the actual content. The plot moves like a drunk stumbling across a highway, skipping crucial steps and logic like it's allergic to structure. One minute we’re complaining about work and checking pocket watches, the next we’re being abducted by alien lights and dropped into a fantasy world where samurai and knights cohabitate with a steampunk fortress. There is no connective tissue—just a pile of scenes with no transitions, no cause and effect, and no sense of escalation. Events go from A to C to F as if concept of walking slowly through B to C doesn't exist.
Characters? I’d call them cardboard cutouts, but that implies they have shape. The protagonist, “V,” is what happens when someone tries to write a noir antihero with deep thoughts and accidentally ends up with a disaffected Reddit thread in a trench coat. He reacts to being teleported to another world the same way someone reacts to realizing they left the oven on. His internal monologue tries to sound world-weary, philosophical, and jaded, but it’s just ironic detachment dressed up in a thrift store suit and a fedora. It’s not cool. It’s exhausting.
And speaking of exhausting, let’s talk about the references. Good God, the references. There’s nothing wrong with weaving in cultural or literary touchstones, but here they’re jammed in like the author is doing a pop culture scavenger hunt on speed. Apocalypse Now Redux. Warren Zevon. Monty Python. Sun Tzu. Jurassic fucking Park. If these names were plot-relevant, symbolic, or even stylistically resonant, fine. But they’re not. They're tossed in with the desperation of someone afraid the story can’t stand on its own legs, so it leans on smarter, more coherent works like crutches carved from someone else’s success.
The POV tries to be sincere. It tries to be raw. But the irony undercuts every genuine emotion, until the entire narrative feels like it’s being told by someone who’s both too cool to care and too insecure to actually commit to a feeling. Everything’s filtered through a voice that wants to be taken seriously and also wants to pretend it’s above being taken seriously. Insert funny joke here (none, because almost every joke about POV is exhausted from me).
And all of these sins—every one of them—lead to one unavoidable conclusion: this is
unaware postmodernism, the worst kind. Not the fun, clever, "LOOK AT ME, I'M CRINGE", self-aware kind. Not the Vonnegut sort that subverts tropes and reconstructs meaning through irony. No, this is the lazy kind. The kind that just stacks contradictions and nonsense and says “that’s the point,” because the author didn’t bother to build something logical, so they pretend logic itself is the problem. The text doesn’t ask me to care. It doesn’t even seem to want me to read. There is no persuasion, no "I want to connect my ideas to the other human across the world" type of feeling coming from the words. Just that slow, smug march into a hole dug so deep into its own aesthetic, it hits literary magma and disintegrates in a puff of vague references and empty nihilism.
Now look, if this is your first serious attempt at a creative project? Sincerely, congratulations. You’ve already outpaced every “I have a great idea” guy who never writes a word. You’ve bled something onto the page. That matters. But if you want to build an audience—or even a competent story—you have to stop treating storytelling like a dumping ground for random thoughts and start treating it like
communication. Because that’s what this isn’t. This isn’t talking to the reader. This is screaming into a mirror while hoping someone eavesdrops your screaming without vomiting out negativity.
If I were your creative writing teacher, I wouldn’t give you a red pen. I’d give you
Introduction to Logic and
A Rulebook for Arguments. Because that’s what’s missing most of all—structure, persuasion, clarity. A story isn’t just a pile of ideas, it’s a
case you’re making. “Here’s why this character matters. Here’s why this world is worth exploring. Here’s why this moment should make you feel something.” A story is a carefully chosen arrangement of pieces designed to pull people in. And these chapters? These chapters shove the reader out the door, hand them a pack of Lucky Strikes, and tell them to go contemplate the void somewhere else.
In short: if this was supposed to be a story, it failed. If this was supposed to be indulgent, for "myself" type of thing, it succeeded. But don’t mistake success in self-indulgence for achievement in craft. One gets you high on your own supply, while the other gets you readers.