The prose doesn't want to be good. It wants to be long. Endless. Elastic. A content hose spraying words into the algorithm's open mouth. Finish one arc and another identical one spawns like mold.
Nothing is edited. Nothing is cut. Nothing is allowed to end because endings don't pay rent.
Every female character arrives pre-installed with jiggle physics and no inner life. Every villain monologues like they're paid by the syllable. Every cliffhanger is artificial, a door slammed not for tension but for coins.
You realize something horrifying.
This isn't storytelling.
It's farming.
Stories grown in rows. Watered with repetition. Harvested for microtransactions. A field of immortals, systems, reincarnations, and leveling screens stretching to the horizon.
You close the tab.
The site asks if you're sure.
It always does.
Somewhere, another chapter uploads. Another thousand words saying nothing. Another comment screams PEAK into the void.
And the spinning circle keeps turning.
A home, they said.
Yeah.
A content mill with wallpaper.