Who on Earth Is Complimenting That Ugly Guy?

People are born good by nature, and a prodigal who turns over a new leaf is worth more than gold.

So, should we use love to reform ugly scumbag men?

What a load of crap.

You can fall in love, but scumbag men have to die.

Open The Illustrated Guide to a Thousand Ways Scumbags Can Die. Twelve months a year, each month brings a scumbag a vicious beating, no thanks needed.

January: A heartbroken junior girl falls to her death and is reborn, then sends her scumbag senior crashing into a physics exam.

February: A senior girl who fights against sexual harassment exposes a scam, forcing the unscrupulous show's producers to turn on each other.

March: A devoted roommate, a replacement, and an assistant join forces to torment a perverted male star until he bites the dust.

Every month, PUA scumbags are sent to hell's crematorium. The girls join hands and build a better life, while becoming the light of righteousness themselves.

Mmm, that's the good stuff~

As scumbag men face death, their words turn kind: Don't your consciences hurt?

The heroines smile sweetly: There, there. Drink this bowl of Meng Po's soup on your way to the underworld.

1. Only men get tormented, never women.

2. Restoring the virtue of men is everyone's responsibility.

[Click the author's column for the completed story about male virtue]: Second-Rate Goods

(One-line summary: A scumbag woman who turns over a new leaf is worth more than gold.)

[Contemporary romance previews in the author's column: a. Double stand-ins / b. Green tea boy. Pick whichever you like.]

a. After the Stolen Kiss Fails (A powerful man's cinnabar mole X a nightingale's moonlight)

After years apart, the powerful man and his little nightingale each attend a banquet with a member of the opposite sex far more impressive than the other.

But true love is true love. No matter how attractive, warm-hearted, or capable the two stand-ins are, they can only serve as backdrops to the real thing.

As the powerful man and the nightingale act out version 2.0 of their forced romance, the man on the other side of the door idly toys with an old fire striker. He glances at the other backdrop, but says nothing.

In the pitch-black corridor, the fire striker's feeble glow illuminates his sharply defined features. A fleeting spark catches on the corner of his brow and eye, making him unbelievably beautiful.

With a bright red cigarette between her lips, she leans in to light it. Her lashes cast a bewitching shadow as a wisp of mild smoke rises. She arches a brow and smiles.