I read three chapters of your story. I sat down with a drink (green tea, not a beer) in hand, ready to give it the benefit of the doubt, because hey—there’s always that one webnovel with a bratty MC that somehow makes it charming. But, by the end of chapter three, I was staring into the narrative abyss, and the abyss wasn’t staring back. It was too busy facepalming.
From the second Ashrosaliera opened her mouth in chapter one, I knew exactly what energy this story was bringing to the table:
unchecked, weaponized brat mode. And like a prophecy foretold by a chain-smoking editor with PTSD from reviewing ScribbleHub drafts, I wasn't wrong. I knew—
I knew—this character would detonate the entire opening arc with the force of a thousand unfiltered tropes, and by god, you delivered. Not with grace of a connoisseur of a mesugaki, not with style of Korean bluntness, but with the raw, uncut fury of a Webnovel user who just discovered the concept of “quirky.”
Let’s start with the most fatal sin:
meta-context mismanagement. You, dear author, are the first in this roasting thread who fumbled the meta game so badly, you could’ve qualified for a special award. That little throwaway line about “only posting 30 chapters here, read the rest on WN”? Absolute reader napalm. It's not even that you had the gall to say it—
it's where and
when you said it. In your
synopsis. That’s like introducing yourself on a first date by saying, “Hey, I’m not going to finish this conversation. If you want the rest of me, go find my OnlyFans.”
Look, we’ve all seen authors redirect. But there’s a reason most smart writers do it after posting at least 20–30 solid chapters.
Then you casually slip in the “catch me over there” message, and readers go, “Eh, fair enough.” You? You asked readers to invest in a series and then told them it was a limited-time demo. The five one-star ratings? You earned those. Two were probably for the content—don’t worry, we’re getting there—but the other five? Pure, distilled meta-failure. Readers weren’t reviewing the story, they were reviewing the betrayal that they didn't have the stakes in, and that's how you get pot shotted in a back alley of a Webnovel realm.
Now let’s get into that content, because holy hell. You chose the
mesugaki trope, which, as you probably know, is a loaded gun wrapped in an energy drink and tied up with a squeaky ribbon. It’s a character archetype that can either make readers go
“UOOOOOOH 
cute and funny” or make them gnaw their own eyeballs out in frustration. Guess which camp you landed in? No, seriously—guess. Because what you’ve created here is not “cute and funny.” It’s “ugh, annoying, why am I reading this?” And that, my friend, is not a trope problem. That is
execution malpractice.
See, bratty characters work when the tone supports them—when the world, the pacing, and the emotional beats allow that brattiness to shine
and show layers. Yours? It’s all surface. Loud, screechy surface. Like a grinder cleaning the rust from the metal beam and still being rusty. You treat tone like it’s just seasoning—sprinkle a little slapstick here, some chaos there, and boom, instant comedy. No. Tone is a
genre deliverance system. It is the delivery truck that carries every emotional package you want the reader to open, and you, somehow, sent out KR academy boxes using Looney Tunes packaging, and none of it got delivered.
Let’s be clear: you’re writing what looks like a
Korean academy fantasy—you’ve got the magic system, the royal infrastructure, the prestigious school setup. That world demands a certain level of grounded plausibility, even if it’s light. And then you slathered it in a gallon of slapstick comedy so thick, I could practically hear the sound effects:
BOING, BONK, WHOOSH, THWAP! Your tone pulls in two opposite directions until the whole thing splits down the middle. It’s like you wrote the outline after watching
Sky High (the movie) and edited the scenes while playing Blue Archive, lmao
.
And the worst part is…
Ash could’ve worked. She really could have. You had moments—those
tiny, gasping moments—where she almost became something. The dynamic with her parents had potential. The backstory with her birth and the System could’ve been clever enough that readers would've forgiven the slowness of the pacing. But, instead of building on any of that, you throw readers headfirst into a tidal wave of flailing limbs, yelling, and system pings that function more like laugh tracks than plot devices.
Your pacing? Pure external description. There’s no breathing room, no internality, no emotional rhythm to prop up the action that is shown to the reader. You don't
write character growth in those opening chapter. You fling Ash at walls—literal and metaphorical—and hope we laugh while forgetting to make us
care. Which means your protagonist, despite being loud, OP, and constantly moving, is flatter than a pancake under a steamroller. She’s all action, no soul.
That’s your central failure:
pathos. You had the option to give her depth. To let us see a scared girl under the chaos. To explore what it means to be born overpowered, to be shackled to a system she doesn't understand from birth, to navigate pressure and loneliness with a mask of bratty defiance because if she doesn't do so she'll not be powerful to defend herself or her family because she knows what will happen to them. That’s good stuff. That’s character. But what did you do? You gave us a fireball-wielding toddler trapped in the body of a high schooler, who sets her hair on fire, bounces off a wall, and lands in a fountain like a Saturday morning cartoon. There’s no emotional tether here. Just noise.
When you don’t establish internal motivation early—when you don’t let the reader align emotionally—you force them to continue
only out of trope recognition. They don’t care about Ash. They just know this is “that kind of story,” and maybe it’ll eventually do something familiar and comforting. That’s not storytelling, that’s baiting people into reading without thinking too much.
You could’ve fixed this. Truly. If you’d expanded those “before academy” scenes—gave readers time in the world, let Ash be vulnerable, showed us
why she acts like this—you could’ve earned the chaos. Instead, you threw us into the brat blender from line one and hit “purée.”
The end result? A story opener that’s both shallow and predictable, and worst of all: forgettable. Not because you didn’t try, but because you didn’t
structure your effort. You didn’t respect tone. You didn’t respect pacing. You didn’t even respect your own genre.
So here’s what you need to do:
burn those opening chapters. Start fresh. If you want to write slapstick? Great. But give it a foundation. Show readers the character behind the chaos. Let us care before we laugh. And, if you’re going to write a KR-style academy story, respect the tone that comes with it. You can bend it, but you have to know it first.
Ash can be as bratty as you want—but if she’s only bratty, all she’ll ever be is annoying. Give her something real beneath the fireworks, or you’ll lose every reader who came looking for something more than a screech and a punchline.
You didn’t write a bad idea, not really. You just wrote it like you were on fire and forgot to aim the hose. Try again. Do better. This trope deserves it—and so do you.
