Chapter Eight: The Comrade Struck by a Sudden Blow

"As long as it's effective, that's what matters." Koman seemed to know what Martin was thinking, silently musing, *You filthy rats hiding in the gutters, how could you possibly understand the radiance of the sun? It’s no surprise that you’re so easily startled.*

A while later, break time arrived. Koman continued to scribble away on paper. Time ticked by, minute by minute, until Alan appeared as usual to invite Koman for a walk. "What are you doing? We're about to set off, and you're suddenly so diligent."

"I have always been diligent. I am a man of discipline." Koman stopped writing. The pages were filled with text, and his wrist ached—a minor side effect.

"If you don't mind, could I take a look?" Only after Koman nodded did Alan take the pages to read them quickly. His expression turned bizarre. After a few minutes, he looked overwhelmed, as if he didn't quite understand but was nonetheless shocked. "I feel like you shouldn't push yourself to be a writer. What's wrong with being a soldier? Of course, I don't mean anything by it, it's just a feeling."

"It's very melodramatic, very trashy." Koman smiled, clearly happy from the heart; it seemed that being recognized by his comrade was a thing of great joy.

"Koman, I didn't mean anything else." Alan, fearing he had offended his comrade, hurriedly explained, "The first attempt at writing is always difficult, but I believe that with perseverance..."

"Perseverance? Who has the time to waste on this?" Koman scoffed, clearly aware that he had produced a load of nonsense.

This reaction left Alan completely stumped. He couldn't believe so much content had been written without effort, yet his honest nature made it impossible for him to call the pages "good."

However, the two were comrades with a strong bond, especially given that Koman, despite being a beneficiary of the Damascus military coup, treated everyone as an equal. Because of this, Alan couldn't bring himself to call Koman’s work trash, and he felt stifled, wanting to be blunt but fearing he would hurt Koman’s feelings.

"That expression on your face..." *He looks just like a 'green tea' male second lead from a romance novel,* Koman thought, the corners of his mouth twitching at the déjà vu. He spoke slowly, "Of course I know what I've written is trash, but it serves a purpose."

*What use could such trash possibly have?* Alan thought, though he didn't say it. He couldn't hold back, however. "I suppose it's a kind of experiment, something to keep as a memento."

"That certainly won't do," Koman flatly denied. This was a piece of excrement, but he insisted that everyone had to eat it together. He didn't have the stomach to suffer through the "poison" alone. "It must be spread, and when we return to the mainland, every French man must see it."

Must he take revenge on society? Alan’s posture stiffened. Was there some hidden reason behind the Dragon family leaving the mainland to serve in Syria? Was there some deep-seated resentment?

"You'll know when the time comes." Koman felt as though black wings had sprouted from his back, his expression one of feigned compassion. "I am saving the French people, but what great deed comes without a price?"

In truth, there was no special reason; he just wanted to disgust the French people, especially the French men.

His short story was a collection of popular tropes: body doubles, amnesia, secret pregnancies, miscarriages, and kidney transplants. It was a pity that factors like "seven older sisters" or "the real vs. fake young master" didn't fit the current national reality, otherwise, he would have showcased his broad knowledge.

Alan's reaction was expected, as Koman’s writing was indeed abysmal. It wasn't a style he excelled in; it would have been better if he had just stuck to online debate tactics.

He had only stumbled upon these romance tropes by accident while trying to "study." Since the stories were limited to a few dozen thousand words, he read them quickly—so quickly that he had devoured four or five hundred of them in a month. He hadn't learned anything, except that he felt he existed in a completely different world from the readers of such fiction.

Koman couldn't understand how stories where a woman cheated and then pursued her husband through "crematorium-level" trials could possibly fill a million words. But after analysis, he realized that if the prose were good enough, no matter how disgusting the premise, the characters could be "whitewashed."

This differed from the tastes of male readers; in male-oriented fiction, a woman cheating was like a death sentence—no amount of good writing could save it.

But why was Koman doing this? He was conducting a social experiment: he wanted to see if this country—which in the 21st century had a marriage rate of only three percent—was even worth saving.

If French society still held basic, correct values, he would continue to be an idealist striving for progress. But if, faced with the reality of an influx of illegitimate children in France, the majority of French men didn't react even after Koman spread articles targeting their deepest insecurities, then perhaps Koman would find that the Maronites were his true kin.

Once Koman arrived in France, he planned to spend a month or two spreading these stories, testing the limits of French society step by step. He would start with ordinary settings, then eventually replace the "green tea" characters with Germans—German doctors, German soldiers, even members of the SS.

Coupled with the "purification" of collaborators that would soon begin, he hoped to resolve France's historical baggage in a short time.

Koman believed that even across different civilizations, basic human emotions remained the same. Was France naturally destined to be a country with a three-percent marriage rate? Did they truly want to avoid building families and prefer to keep relationships in a state of chaos?

The first subject of this social experiment was his comrade, Alan. The effect was immediate; Alan kept asking, "What kind of ending are you planning? It has to be that evil is punished, right?"

"I haven't decided yet, but I suppose so." Koman watched Alan, who was already hooked, and offered a perfunctory comfort.

In reality, most of these short stories ended with the male lead acting like a coward, turning around with a suave gesture and saying, "I don't love you anymore," even if the element of reincarnation was involved. The common title for these stories should have been *Reborn: I Am Still a Loser.*

But considering this was Alan's first time experiencing the "garbage information bombardment" of the 21st century, and that they were comrades, Koman felt a rare pang of conscience. He dug out the little scrap of heart he had left and deceived his friend.

"People who do no wrong shouldn't suffer such a tragic fate," Alan muttered, almost begging Koman to promise him repeatedly.

"Just go back and get some sleep." Koman made a solemn promise and pushed Alan toward the door. "The commander is coming to address the barracks tomorrow, and we have to listen. Don't think about these virtual stories."

Watching Alan walk away, Koman pursed his lips with a hint of apology. "My poor seventeen-year-old comrade."

Though he felt sorry, he could understand Alan’s simple belief in justice. If the Count of Monte Cristo had finally escaped prison only to find his childhood sweetheart and say, "I don't love you anymore" before walking away, Koman wasn't sure he wouldn't pull out his gun and shoot Alexandre Dumas himself.