Usually when you’re isekai’d to another world, you’re supposed to live it up in the ivory towers as the baddest hero around. Sadly for Haru Koyama, she receives no cheats and no awesome abilities, and the work she takes on is prostituting herself at a brothel, which is the exact opposite of the ivory tower, as in this world, women are second-class citizens, and prostitutes especially are the bottom of the barrel.
There’s only the faintest thread of a continuous narrative, most of the novel being snippets from Haru’s days as an escort, and this novel gets distracted by the most random things. Halfway through, Haru spends her time off from work playing a children’s sport called Kickin’ the Can. The consequences and rewards for partaking in this outing are jack and all. This is just a side diversion most likely dreamed up on the spot and written off the cuff. Much of the book in written in this manner, with subplots springing up and withering as soon as a ray of sunlight hits them. I think it’s supposed to be slice-of-life, but it’s the clumsiest slice-of-life I’ve ever read.
Whenever an antagonist crops up and is a total dickhead to a story’s main cast, I’m always overcome with the powerful urge to leap into the pages and deck them with diamond-studded brass knuckles. Usually, the heroes win the day through less violent means, so my bloodlust is cooled, but this novel gives in to its bestiality, and I’m not sure what my opinion should be. Sure, it’s the sort of quality I would expect from a writer’s first WattPad novel, as it comes out of nowhere and isn’t entirely in line with the general tone, but I’d be remiss to not mention how satisfying it is to see the limbs go flying. It’s the literary equivalent of chowing down on fast food.
The Clever Bits:
While I would conclude this novel has the IQ of a refrigerator as measured in Celsius, it surprised me with its occasional flaunt of cleverness. None of its wit is a mind-blowing twist or mind-melting plot, but it is a decently assembled stage play for which you can piece together what’s behind the curtain by reading in between the lines. Unfortunately, the novel does diddly-squat with these glistening nuggets after it gets distracted by the gloss of a prostitute’s bare breasts or a soldier’s big friggin’ sword.
I find it difficult to believe a publishing house picked up the original script and decided to put it on store shelves. I thought it might be a thoughtful insight into the difficult, dangerous life of a prostitute, but instead, this novel is a college student that guzzled a six-pack and slipped out its clothing to go fraternizing.
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