Conflict

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you are violently yanked out of your perfectly reasonable reality and hurled headfirst into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance book you have ever seen haunting the bestseller list like a cursed relic. Worse than paranormal romance as a genre. Let’s not even warm up the discussion about vampires, werewolves, orcs, or the deeply confusing decision to include all three in a single love triangle. This book is worse than all of them combined, duct-taped together with plot holes and poor life choices. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te. You are now trapped in a story where plot points appear, vanish, and reappear wearing a fake mustache. Characters stroll into scenes with great importance and then are never acknowledged again. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Eye colors fluctuate based on vibes. Everyone believes they are the main character, especially the ones who absolutely should not be. Continuity is a rumor. Editing is a myth. And at the center of this literary disaster stands Conflict—the entire reason the story exists at all. He is pacing. He is tension. He is logic desperately trying to hold the narrative together with both hands while screaming internally. He provides escalation, stakes, and something resembling coherence. For a while. Then the author got bored. Somehow—somehow—Conflict has been anthropomorphized into a seven-foot-tall orc. How this represents thematic struggle is unclear. Why he has abs is deeply suspicious. Even more baffling is the fact that he is relentlessly stalked by Resolution, who has been written as a vampire rabbit. Yes. A rabbit. With a tiny cape. And tiny fangs. Adorable. Menacing. Entirely unhelpful.