Pushing through the story’s second year, an evident amount of growth is exhibited by the characters. Year 2’s notable strength is how it provides an avenue for the former Class D—those who were once underdogs of their year—to face increasingly complex challenges that push them toward genuine growth. Exhibit A: we have students such as Horikita, Sudou, and Kushida face personal hurdles they have to push through head-on to confront their flaws and reevaluate their roles within the class. The most notable of them all, Horikita Suzune, evolves from an individualistic, ice-cold princess into a growing leader. Sudou pivots toward a more emotionally mature character
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whose evolving rationality is continuously challenging his hot-tempered shadow of a character. Even Kushida slowly but surely develops into a character that outgrows her manipulative nature of a facade.
They are faced with trials that they not only have to face as individuals but as a class, contributing to the growing sense of unity. They have evidently grown from a fragmented group of selfish individuals to a coherent group of people whose collaboration displays cooperation, strategic collaboration, and a sense of shared responsibility.
A Cast Maturing Past its Protagonist
However, for all its progress as a story, this growth comes with a significant caveat: while the class matures, the protagonist—despite the narrative’s efforts to shift this trait—remains emotionally static. While the story positions his obsession with winning as a measure of success—a product of his upbringing from the White Room—he continues to walk the longer path by acting behind the scenes. Of course, this is just a byproduct of his inconsistent desire to avoid attention, but in his second year of high school, a hint of change in our protagonist’s established utilitarian mindset is teased. The story positions Ayanokouji toward a different path toward emotional growth—deviating from his cold philosophy and discovering the true essence of being an emotional human.
His deepening relationship with Kei, earning the loyalty of his classmates, and even the reflections on other characters’ development all imply the story’s desire to let Ayanokouji look past a desirable outcome—to understand human connection. Unfortunately, the writing falls short in executing that promise.
Despite the repeated suggestions that Ayanokouji wants his class to operate without him, he continues to intervene in critical moments. He manipulates the outcome from under the shadows that allows Horikita and the class to believe that their success is a product of class cohesion and genuine hard work. While this may be a purposeful decision to propagate the promise into a later book, the fact remains that the story wants him to explore his emotional growth while simultaneously refusing to take any real risks.
The problem isn’t that Ayanokouji is an emotionally stagnant character—it’s that the author keeps pretending that he’s growing while narratively ensuring his stoic and utilitarian base for a character remains the same. His humanity is teased, yet never explored in depth. He balances the two philosophies of “winning at all costs” and the idea of humanizing our protagonist, yet the aforementioned ideals are never reconciled. What could have been a compelling internal conflict between control and vulnerability; perfection and imperfection, is reduced to progress the plot despite his character growth, at least partially, was never resolved. In trying to have both ideologies coexist, the author undermines the thematic ambition and leaves the protagonist feeling shallow and unresolved.
Reemergence of the White Room
Moving to the main distinction between Year 2 and Year 1, we see the reintroduction of the White Room—a place Ayanokouji once escaped. This external institution’s attempt to expel him by sending students feels less like a compelling narrative conflict and more like an excuse to artificially sustain tension. It even undermines the authority of the Advanced Nurturing High School, given how easily outside forces manage to infiltrate it.
That said, this development does yield a narrative benefit: it ties Ayanokouji’s past directly to his present circumstances. His encounters with other White Room students offer a mirror to what he could have become, creating a more grounded connection between his origins and the world around him. However exciting the conflict with the mysterious White Room agent may be, its prolonged presence across fifteen volumes ultimately diminishes its impact. Rather than serving as a genuine threat or catalyst for growth, it becomes a means to stretch the story and reassert Ayanokouji’s superiority. In doing so, the narrative misses a critical opportunity to meaningfully bridge his past and present and to challenge the trajectory of who he is becoming.
An Incoherent Battleground
Moving on to a more fundamental flaw, worldbuilding remains incoherent—establishing malls and services for fewer than 500 people is absurd to anyone with even a basic understanding of economics. More concerning, however, is a system where the student council holds more power than the institution itself. Calling it a “student council” is misleading when all authority is monopolized by one person: Nagumo, the student body president. The rest of the council is reduced to little more than an executive committee—obedient enforcers stripped of any real agency or representative function.
While the council does exist to execute its responsibility, be it lobbying grievances, managing events, establishing new rules, or even spearheading to maintain the current order of the institution, the way the author uses this system feels less institutional and more a contrived arena to erupt conflict between Nagumo and Ayanokouji. Nagumo clearly exploits his authority to corner Ayanojouji, yet the extent of his authority is implausible. A student body president wielding absolute authority with no oversight strains credibility and all sense of reason even within the show’s meritocratic setup.
Final Thoughts
Obviously, this review isn’t for the general audience but for the fans that made it past the first-year series. After all, this is already the second installment of Classroom of the Elite, so I’m writing for those who’ve followed the story this far. I’m simply here to give my two cents and hopefully offer a different perspective, as those who disliked the series wouldn’t be able to give theirs, as they most likely stopped at the first series. Nonetheless, I still find the series entertaining. It’s rich in intricate power plays, tactical battles, and high-stakes mind games. It improved many of the characters, yet there is still much to improve when it comes to the protagonist, which will hopefully be resolved by the third installment of the series. I don’t believe this is peak storytelling, as it falls short in many opportunities and is established on an inconsistent and nonsensical world, but don’t be discouraged from liking the story as it is. There is a charm to this story, and I do hope for a better third season.
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Aug 1, 2025 Not Recommended Funny  Well-written 
Pushing through the story’s second year, an evident amount of growth is exhibited by the characters. Year 2’s notable strength is how it provides an avenue for the former Class D—those who were once underdogs of their year—to face increasingly complex challenges that push them toward genuine growth. Exhibit A: we have students such as Horikita, Sudou, and Kushida face personal hurdles they have to push through head-on to confront their flaws and reevaluate their roles within the class. The most notable of them all, Horikita Suzune, evolves from an individualistic, ice-cold princess into a growing leader. Sudou pivots toward a more emotionally mature character
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Reviewer’s Rating: 3
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Jun 18, 2025 Not Recommended Well-written
The Beginning After the End was one of the most highly anticipated light novel adaptations to come out from outside Japan. Written by Brandon Lee, known by his alias as TurtleMe, this story takes a more careful and genuine approach to Isekai—a genre not typically praised for its strong writing or compelling characters. Boasting one of fantasy’s richest worldbuilding, a meticulously detailed magic system, compelling character-writing, and immersive storytelling, any adaptation—be it manhwa or anime—had some pretty big shoes to fill. After a long wait, the ten-year light novel finally received the anime adaptation the fans have long been waiting for, yet they were not
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happy.
Given how loved and praised the original light novel and manhwa adaptation was, it begs the question: why did one of Isekai’s most well-loved stories receive such poor treatment in its anime adaptation? The backlash grew so loud that the author had to make a statement acknowledging their complaints. And while he didn’t explicitly address his grievances, his disappointment in the adaptation was unmistakably evident. Quick disclaimer: Despite being a fan of the original light novel myself, this review won’t be a comparison between the adaptation and its source material. The majority of the disappointment The Beginning After the End inspires is mostly due to Studio A-Cat failing to translate the light novel’s writing quality into an anime form, and while these grievances are valid, criticism grounded in comparison fails to provide a fair evaluation of the anime in and of itself. But what remains true with the majority of its criticism is the lack of care, effort, and ambition in adapting this work. While the anime does have its strengths, every good thing you can say will evidently be followed by a “but.” An episode in, a rushed nature of introduction became painfully clear—overloaded with exposition and character setups squeezed into a brief 20-minute runtime that extends throughout the whole series. Instead of taking the time to introduce the characters, magic system, and world coherently, each episode resembled that of a disjointed slideshow. Its fragmented vignettes gave the impression of a disorganized production, each scene feeling like it’s completely separate from the other despite following the correct timeline. The Beginning After the End’s world shows an underlying complex magic system. However, the complexity is ultimately dumbed down by a poor introduction, where the concepts of augmenters and conjurers are undermined by weak lectures and visual aids that rival primary school presentations. The animation and voice acting fall significantly short, even when compared to lower-budget Isekai adaptations. Studio A-Cat’s execution lacks the emotional nuance necessary to convey character traits—Alice’s vulnerability, Reynold’s immaturity yet caring warmth, Sylvia’s selfish yet motherly nature, and Arthur’s curiosity and growth are all diminished. Rather than capturing the awe and vulnerability of someone discovering magic and family for the first time, the production portrays an overly detached tone that undermines the story’s emotional core. While Arthur’s guarded demeanor from his past life justifies some of the restraint, it should have never stripped away his humanity or youthful curiosity. Still, credit must be given where it’s due. The Beginning After the End’s biggest strength is a rare gem we can find in its protagonist. I praise the series for the way it depicts the characters as individually flawed but provides room and appropriate progression for growth and redemption. Among these characters is Arthur—previously King Grey—whose character writing stands out the most. Most reincarnation stories follow an overused blueprint: a shut-in NEET or burned-out salaryman dies, is reincarnated or transported, and suddenly becomes an overpowered genius—no questions asked. They rush emotional and intellectual growth, often redeeming flaws and absolving terrible past behavior for the sake of an empty power fantasy. Only a few titles distinguish themselves to be a cut above the rest—to name a few: Log Horizon, keeping its protagonist grounded in strategy as that’s his biggest strength; The Eminence in Shadow, which embraced the protagonist’s strength pre-reincarnation; Re:Zero, that maintains Subaru’s physical weakness while emphasizing emotional resilience; and Mushoku Tensei, which—albeit has its issues—expertly portrays how someone can grow past their trauma. The Beginning After the End takes a similar approach in its storytelling to that of The Eminence in Shadow, where the protagonist isn’t strong because of reincarnation. Arthur is strong because he was King Grey—someone whose title was earned through brutal one-on-one duels, and social training appropriate for someone assuming the gravitas of a king. What sets Arthur apart is that his strengths and other seemingly perfect traits don't just carry over. Much like a foreign exchange student translating what he already knows to a new language, Arthur had to translate his knowledge and experience into a new context: an entirely new and immature body, a different magic system, new styles of combat, unfamiliar political structures, and a society he had to integrate into from the ground up. This makes his progression not only believable, but earned. His magical proficiency isn’t some divine gift of reincarnation, either. His past world had a system akin to mana called “Ki.” It’s similar in principle to augmentation specifically in this new world. This background provides a believable foundation for his competency as an augmenter. Similarly, the mismatch between his combat knowledge and his immature body is a small yet crucial detail to establish a sense of realism to his development. Unfortunately, my praises end here. As the adaptation currently stands, there is no indication the anime would distinguish itself as anything more than your typical Isekai. Despite having all the ingredients to prepare a thought-provoking and well-written story, the adaptation comes across less like a passion project and more like a marketing investment—a promotional piece to direct new fans to the more delicately crafted manga and light novel. And in all honesty, that is a direction that I wholly encourage everyone to go to—whether you enjoyed the anime or not.
Reviewer’s Rating: 2
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Dec 3, 2022 Mixed Feelings Well-written
Before diving into this review, I want to make it clear that I’m not here to praise or condemn Mushoku Tensei based on personal discomfort. The discourse surrounding this series often falls into two extremes: either labeling it along the lines of “MUSHOKU TENSEI IS DISGUSTING AND ANYONE WHO ENJOYS IT IS WORSE THAN SCUM,” or the contrary that claims “MUSHOKU TENSEI IS A DEEP AND MEANINGFUL JOURNEY AND ALL OF YOU HATE IT BECAUSE Y'ALL ARE SENSITIVE SNOWFLAKES.” It is either irredeemably vile or praised as a misunderstood masterpiece. I intend to take a more balanced approach while addressing the controversy that surrounds it.
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My goal is to inform readers who are considering giving Mushoku Tensei a try and maybe offer each side a wider perspective.
The reason Mushoku Tensei inspires such polarized responses is because it attempts to be more than just another escapist fantasy. It positions itself as a story about redemption–a character-driven narrative set in a world that gives its protagonist a second chance at life. However, before exploring whether it succeeds in that goal, it’s important to acknowledge its foundations. Mushoku Tensei is undeniably trite. It borrows heavily from familiar tropes and themes common in the isekai genre, often prioritizing appeal over originality. Yet, author Rifujin na Magonote succeeds in crafting a protagonist with a coherent and believable backstory, whose motivations align with his character. The world–though formulaic–shows effort in its historical, cultural, and political layers, providing a solid narrative foundation. In terms of isekai, Mushoku Tensei is arguably one of the best. But given the generally low bar in the genre, that claim comes with an asterisk. Isekai as a genre has a reputation for being derivative and formulaic in nature. The premise limited to ideas around a reincarnated protagonist with a purpose–be it slaying a demon lord or simply indulging in fantasy wish-fulfillment without having a conceivable plot. Mushoku Tensei could’ve easily fit into this description, but it did something different. It used the idea of reincarnation to create something meaningful: redemption. However, it ultimately fails to do so through reckless writing decisions. Mushoku Tensei is, first and foremost, a redemption story. It doesn’t try to hide that–even marketing itself as such. A protagonist portrayed as an unforgivable bastard in his previous life and shows his regret in life living as a deadbeat. At his lowest, he decided to do one last act of humanity before Truck-kun claimed him as another victim, and lo and behold, he reincarnated in a new world where he can start anew. Unfortunately, that ambition is also where the narrative stumbles. Though Mushoku Tensei is built around the idea of personal growth and atonement, it often undermines its own premise through inconsistent and at times questionable writing decisions. This disconnect between intention and execution forms the core of the controversy surrounding the series. Rudeus as a Character: Addressing the Controversy As mentioned, Mushoku Tensei is a controversial title. Before diving into the story, I want to address the controversy. Feel free to skip ahead if you'd prefer. The backlash mainly stems from two things: the main character being a pedophile and the author’s objectification of women—especially children. While these themes are common within Japanese light novel media, Mushoku Tensei is centered on redemption, making these writing decisions especially questionable. Pedophilia is evil. I think everyone can agree on that. I won't be deconstructing pedophilia as something to be taken personally nor provide thought-provoking commentaries about its evil. It is a sensitive subject, and whether or not it deserves credence in Mushoku Tensei's narrative is still debated. Yes, disturbingly creepy scenes are all over the novel series, but that doesn't decide its overall worth. If personal incapability to cope with unsettling scenes decide a poorly-written story, then works like Nabokov's Lolita would be dismissed, regardless of its critical acclaim. The key lies behind the author’s intent and how they handle a subject matter. For instance, in Lolita, Nabokov uses pedophilia to reveal the true moral decay of a character, all while weaving a deeper narrative without normalizing their behavior. Similarly, The Monogatari Series exaggerates its portrayal of such themes as a form of satire. In Mushoku Tensei, Rudeus’ damning flaws were intended to be a character foundation to create a redemption story. However, the intent and execution behind that decision falls flat. Rifujin na Magonote never addresses this flaw with the depth or intention it could have, reducing it to mere fan service rather than an integral part of Rudeus' growth. Rudeus ultimately has a solid foundation. Although his competency as a mage was his most identifying development, his identity didn’t revolve around that alone. He is still a very much flawed and vulnerable character with room for growth–an element needed for redemption. He was introduced in his previous life heavily flawed as a person, socially and especially morally; a shut-in, free-loader, drop-out, even refusing to attend his parent’s funeral so he could beat his meat to child porn. Chekov’s gun was loaded, reborn to redeem himself. Unfortunately, the story undermines its own redemption arc the moment Rudeus shows no guilt or remorse for his past life post-reincarnation. Some flaws are resolved, others dragged out, but the most damning is left completely unaddressed. It’s emphasized through repeated scenes and monologues, suggesting narrative importance, yet never serves as a turning point for growth. Chekhov’s gun is left unfired. Rudeus continues indulging in pedophilic fantasies, rendering that trait narratively pointless—a shallow display of lechery with no thematic weight. The redemption arc collapses further when every woman is objectified–be they adult or child–before Rudeus even considers his second chance at life. Nearly every female character is sexualized—not by Rudeus, but by the author—except the grannies, although I’m sure it has nothing to do with the author’s preference for women, right? It’s difficult to redeem pedophilia, a sexual preference seemingly inherent in one’s mind. However, despite the lack of guarantee of scientifically grounded treatment, this flaw could have been used as a powerful element to explore the depths of his evil and personal transformation. Rufujin had the opportunity to depict Rudeus slowly confronting the depravity of his desire–maybe using his new relationship with his female friends and family to realize how vulnerable women and children are, thereby challenging his warped worldview. But the author either lacked skills and experience to execute this journey, or just plainly didn’t see anything wrong with that aspect of the protagonist’s character. That's why I didn't understand the decision to make Rudeus a pedophile in the first place. The story didn’t need that–rather–the story would have thrived in its absence. His terrible qualities as a family member in his previous life would have been the perfect conflict he needed to resolve, but it was overshadowed by the emphasis the author placed on Rudeus’ interest in children. It's a thoughtless decision made by an amateur author who didn't understand the intricacies of what he was writing nor realize how hard it would be to create a string of developments that would allow Rudeus to deviate from the aforementioned problem. Either that or he made that decision to gratify those desperate for fanservice. I won’t deny that Rudeus experiences growth in other areas. Although many of the changes were just him acting his physical age to avoid suspicion, his maturity in other areas are commendable. He overcomes his social trauma by stepping foot outside for the first time, discovers a sense of purpose in life through his competency in magic, and–after a pivotal moment in the story–acknowledges his shortcomings as a member of a family in his past life. However, there remains a lecherous omission of his character arc: he never grew past his deviant sexual desires. While Rudeus practiced proper manners, kindness, and sympathy, it is important to remember that propriety alone does not equate to morality. Regardless of personal growth, when the most damning flaw is left unaddressed, it undercuts the entire premise of a redemption narrative. Worldbuilding: A Strong Foundation Poorly Built Upon As previously mentioned, Mushoku Tensei relies on a formulaic plot and a generic framework to construct its world. It's important not to conflate the light novel with the anime in this regard. Studio Bind’s meticulous planning and research enriched the adaptation’s setting—going so far as to develop distinct languages with their own writing systems, adding authenticity and depth to the world. In contrast, the light novel shows little effort in these same areas. Aside from its well-structured magic system, most aspects of the worldbuilding feel underdeveloped or glossed over, missing the opportunity to elevate the story beyond its conventional fantasy trappings. The world is rich in culture, diverse in races, and nuanced in political conflict. The only other gripe I have is a one-dimensional history. Everything built upon one line of history, a legend foreshadowed to be repeated. While not a critical flaw in the writing, it becomes tiring to hear how such events and cultures were built upon Laplace’s intervention, diminishing the complexity a world of this scale deserves. Side Characters: A Weak Support Past Rudeus as a central figure to the story, there aren’t many characters whose depth and narrative relevance can stand on par with our protagonist’s. Look no further than Paul, Gisu, Orsted, and Hitogami. Unlike our main character, Paul, in spite of his failures as a father and husband at times, acknowledged his shortcomings and didn’t run away from his past. He faced them head-on, redeeming his character, and was met with a complete and satisfying character arc. Gisu, meanwhile, hid his complexity behind a simple guise and utilitarian worldview–believing his actions served the greater good–yet still expressed remorse, highlighting internal conflict born from uncertainty rather than inherent villainy. Finally, Orsted and Hitogami, whose characters and conflict upscaled the plot so much, they took the main character role away from Rudeus. Syphy, Roxy, and Eris: Rudeus’ Trophy Collection The three love interests–Sylphy, Roxy, and Eris–could have been great characters. Their introductions and small personal journeys void of Rudy’s intervention allowed them to shine. However, once they become involved with our main character again, they are reduced to damsels in distress whose goals were ultimately turned to bearing our big-dicked protagonist’s children. I mean screw the “who will win the harem” theme, let my boy wife up all three love interests, I guess. I was disappointed, especially with Eris’ development. Unlike the other two, she had her own journey–consciously making the choice to separate herself from Rudeus so she could grow independently–and for a time, she did. Upon reuniting with Rudeus, she held her own well enough. But apparently, Redeus’ big dick energy was a force so strong, it can collapse any semblance of female agency. Eris’ journey as a swordswomen and as a person ultimately feels futile–forgotten in favor of her being a trophy in Rudeus’ collection. Forgotten Protagonist: The Cost for a Grander Plot Orsted and Hitogami, to their credit, are arguably two of the most intriguing characters in Mushoku Tensei’s world. Their deep-rooted enmity, backed by ancient history, cosmological manipulation, and clashing motives, is ripe with potential–not only for the ultimate fate of their world, but as an avenue for Rudeus’ growth. Orsted, the Dragon God–cold and fearsome, bound and cursed by duty and existence–acts with a sense of responsibility that shows a more complex figure beyond his stoic demeanor. Hitogami, the Human God, operates through charm and manipulation–his benevolent façade masking his selfish and malicious core. These opposing forces could have served as a rich backdrop: enhancing Rudeus’ arc, challenging his values, and pushing him toward maturity. Instead, the narrative pivots in a direction that ultimately places Rudeus on the sidelines. As the tension between the two gods takes center stage, Rudeus ceases to be a protagonist and is reduced to nothing more than a tool–Orsted’s errand boy, caught in a war he barely understands. The focus shifts toward a more celestial conflict, abandoning the character-driven and introspective story that was promised–the redemption of a deeply flawed man. The issue isn’t that Rudeus gets pulled into a grander plot. It’s that the story gives up on his character arc completely. Instead of using the conflict between Hitogami and Orsted as an avenue for moral growth, it uses him as a mouthpiece akin to that of a personal secretary. The Rudeus whose journey was once built on psychological conflict and a troubled past falls flat. His development stagnates, redemption is forgotten, and what remains is a character no longer driving the story but being driven by it. Final Thoughts If you can look past the ill-intended use of pedophilia, excessive perversion, and misogyny, Mushoku Tensei might still be worth your time. For all its faults, it remains one of the more polished and ambitious titles the isekai genre has to offer–though, given the genre’s baseline of mediocrity, that may not be saying much. But if you can’t stomach lecherous portrayal of pedophilia and underlying misogyny–consider this your way out. I read Mushoku Tensei so you don’t have to. Instead, I’d recommend The Beginning After the End–an isekai light novel that tackles reincarnation and redemption with far more nuance, restraint, and respect.
Reviewer’s Rating: 4
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Jan 18, 2022
Solo Leveling
(Manga)
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Mixed Feelings
Solo Leveling has been entitled by many fans as something exceptional–”not like the other manhwas,” or “not like your other power fantasies.” Although I commend them for the awareness of the type of content consumed within the medium–a nod to the saturation of formulaic projects–they ultimately misrepresent what Solo Leveling is. Because, make no mistake: this is your typical power fantasy–a blueprint of one, only adorned with the silk of high production value. Solo Leveling is not necessarily a masterpiece, it’s just simply good at what it does.
Despite what I would consider mediocre character writing and world-building, the series never really sells itself as more ... than a power fantasy. While I do believe that the overall story is poorly written, the lack of nuance in its story is also its strength, only delivering exactly what its audience wants: a clean, visually stunning power trip, free of pretense. Jin-Woo has a front-loaded development. Only early on can you find a well-paced, even engaging climb from weak to powerful. However, once he got a hold of how the system works, the fights become increasingly one-sided. No more questioning if he’ll win, thereby failing to keep readers at the edge of their seats. Still, the story deserves credit for decently escalating the stakes. The scale of conflicts moves past minimal threats as global consequences are introduced–keeping the story from stagnating, regardless if Jin-Woo’s win remains foreseen. For all the narrative flaws, what truly carries Solo Leveling, and likely what pushed its success, is the art. Visually, the manhwa is above every other project. Fight scenes are fluid and dramatic, colors are vivid and striking, and the artist’s scale and perspective evokes an epic quality–for lack of a better term–in each and every panel. Jang Sung-rak, the artist, had one job and absolutely killed it. However, for all its highs, Solo Leveling still lacks in many areas. At its core, this story is about Sung, Jin-Woo, an underdog turned unstoppable god. That’s not inherently a problem; the issue is that Solo Leveling past the first few chapters lacks tension, risk, and emotional weight. You are never in doubt that Jin-woo would always win, and I guess that’s the point behind every power fantasy. He suffers no real losses, overcomes every challenge with ease, and his enemies only exist solely for him to overpower. The outcome of every battle is evident from the start–there is no “if,” only “how fast.” There exists an inverse relationship between Jin-Woo’s growth in power and how compelling he is as a character, exhibiting vulnerability and emotional grounding before his reawakening and in a few moments afterward. But with each level-up, his personality fades. Don’t confuse this with the plot’s intention to make Jin-Woo lose certain emotions; he genuinely becomes a duller version of himself in exchange for aura points. What remains is an uncompelling character meant more for projection rather than reflection. Look further from our protagonist, every character has the same amount of nuance–or lack thereof, each only playing a part in helping Jin-woo show how big his dick is rather than challenging him. Allies exist to admire him; enemies exist to fall before him. Even S-ranked hunters–figures who should carry their own gravitas–are ultimately sidelined in favor of Jin-Woo and his shadows. By the final battle, every major moment belongs to him alone—everyone else is simply irrelevant, or worse, a liability. Among the sea of one-dimensional figures, only a few can be considered passable and offer a semblance of emotional grounding. The only decent side characters are his family who treats him as a brother or son, and Lee, Joo-Hee, a potential love interest who sees past Jin-Woo's identity as a hunter only for her to be forgotten halfway through the story. Each character, fight, and narrative turning point exists only to elevate Jin-Woo. The story offers no complexity–only a setting crafted for our protagonist to thrive on. But to its credit, that’s all you ever really need for a power fantasy. Ultimately, Solo Leveling is anything but unique. It doesn’t push the medium forward or challenge the genre’s status quo, but it understands its appeal and wears it with confidence. Despite its shallow story, it’s clean, coherent, and tailor-made to satisfy anyone looking for a turn off your brain, visually stunning power fantasy.
Reviewer’s Rating: 4
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Feb 4, 2021 Mixed Feelings
Welcome to Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School where we take in the most competent among the elite students for the sake of Japan's future. Or at least that was what the story was supposed to do. Instead, we are left with an incoherent group of students who competes for the title of Edge Lord.
Honestly, I enjoyed Classroom of the Elite. This light novel series intrigued me enough to complete two volumes a day. I don't usually find stories set in school enjoyable, but this was indeed a page-turner. But although engaging, is the story in its ... entirety good? My answer would be no. My enjoyment is, after all, subjective, and not everyone would have the same experience. Enjoyment does not equal being objectively good, and it took me a while before I decided to write a review so I could remove any bias I may have. I don't want it to look like I dislike the story (Which I don't), so I'll say this now; this review is mainly criticizing the flaws of Classroom of the Elite. Spoilers are mentioned further in the review. The story takes place in a school supported by the Japanese government to raise students to lead the country in the imminent future. Basically, a standard school's vision but put to the extreme. They don't accept students with academic superiority alone but students who are also competent in separate fields like judgment, physical ability, and cooperativeness. So everyone has a chance to enter the school. This sets up the first flaw, which is the students present in the institution. It just seems too easy to be accepted. Each year 160 students from Japan can enter the school, meaning that 160 out of millions of students in Japan are selected to enter the country's top school. This part makes me question why students like Ike, Sakura, and many others got accepted in the first place. With the school's standards, I can understand why Sudou got in and why students like Koenji and Horikita are in class D despite their overwhelming competence. But students with straight C's and even B's in all the fields by logic should not have passed the school's standards. Mediocrity being allowed in the country's best school doesn't make sense. It's the same flaw I find with My Hero Academia, with students like Mineta and Hagakure passing UA High school and in the hero course at that. It may look like I'm nitpicking characters, but it's clear that students incompetent in all fields of ability are present in the institution. After passing the entrance exams and the interview, these said students are assigned to a class decided by their competence. Many institutions use this method in real life, but what makes this interesting is that this is the part of the narrative where the author associated the question involving equality, but inherently, does that even matter? Are the different classes representative of hierarchy? The higher classes as a representation of those with power and the lower ones as powerless? The first scene of the story shows an exchange of words showing a brief social commentary that explains the topic. However, once the story arrives at the school, it doesn't matter anymore or, at least, fails to bring correspondence. It's just a poor attempt to use the flawed school system and characters as an analogy of society. Yes, the school is indeed flawed. Firstly, how rich is Japan? The school gives free money to the students each month and supplies the items in each store throughout the school, including an entire mall. Not to mention that the school hired all the employees for all the stores, owns crews ship, and gives extra class points and private points given as awards for tests. The amount of money used for the school brings up another question; is the result worth it? Using this method to create "Elites," I mean. Half of the graduates would probably just work jobs that ordinary graduates could do. With wasting millions of Yen on students' allowance, billions or even trillions on infrastructure, employment, and miscellaneous. Japan is just going to add more to its debt before any of the students here makes a change for the country's economy. A competitive school environment where students are left to their own devices isn't needed to make these elites. If anything else, the white room seems to be a better place to use that money. Let's see, what else... A student council that has all power over the school, check; rules left with holes to be bent for the sake of the plot, check; that's about it, I suppose. Tell me if there's anything else I've missed. Now for the characters. Firstly, Kiyotaka Ayanokouji; Arguably the only character worth criticism, but I'll still tackle the general cast later. Ayanokouji is portrayed as this super-genius, well-hung kid, but he chooses to hide his genius to fit in with the rest of the students and have an ordinary student life. In doing so, he purposely scored a half-perfect score in all subjects of the entrance exams and a few others after that. He should have at least tried to have an arbitrary set of scores for each subject so it wouldn't look painfully obvious. In addition, his scores would have been more believable if he hadn't answered the hard questions correctly while he answered wrong to some of the easy questions. In any ordinary school, his performance wouldn't have been that important. However, in his environment where competence is needed and filled, or supposed to be filled, with other geniuses, wouldn't appearing to be competent be a better way to not stand out? Ayanokouji's initial motive was to live as an ordinary student, but this was interfered with due to being caught up in other people's business. He got the attention of highly acclaimed students and competition, and Chabashira sensei threatened him to compete for class A. Of course, this could have been avoided if he didn't stand out too much due to his test scores and going overboard on special tests like the race with Manabu. That's all my criticism for our protagonist, everything else about his character is very thought out, especially his development in connotation to his past and initial personality, from a very apathetic person to slowly developing feelings for someone and accepting his friends. However, that does render his infamous monologue in volume three irrelevant. Now for the general cast. We have the perfect stereotypes to create a generic high school classroom. Sudo, A tuff guy who can't control his temper; Hirata, the class' heart rob and representative; Kurizawa; an annoying girl who is in a "relationship" with the said handsome class representative; Suzune Horikita, the class genius; Kushida, our yandere with big fucking tiddies; girls in the "hot girls" clique, a few introverts, and a bunch of morons who have no significant qualities (As I have already mentioned, these idiots shouldn't even be in the school, to begin with). Also, why do some high school students look like divorced fathers in their forties? While generic, that doesn't mean all of the characters are inherently bad. There are a couple of exemptions; Sudou and Kurizawa. Sudou's character is great to show the audience of the school's standards (If it wasn't for other idiots, at least). The school's description in the light novel places high emphasis on not accepting students who are only intellectually competent. In Sudou's case, it's his athletism that got him admitted. And his development on slowly improving his grades, whether having his motivation (Suzune) or not, makes him an even better character. I only have a couple of minor problems with his character, that would be that he was too dumb initially, and the other being his sudden affection for Suzune Horikita. I wish there could have been a gradual development to his feelings rather than "If Ayanokouji doesn't like her, then I'll like her instead." Kei is also a decent character, but that was only prominent after being Ayanokouji's tool. Loving someone she hated might seem like an overused cliché, but her relationship with Ayanokouji prior to the confession scene makes it work. Despite my criticism, I would actually like to recommend this to anyone, unless they absolutely hate edgy characters and pseudo-intellectual dialogue. Yes, it's filled with flaws but, the author was able to make it engaging, especially to those fond of power fiction in the shape of an intellectually prominent setting. If you believe I may be wrong with any of these statements or if I left something out, feel free to discuss it with me as my main objective is not to hate on the story but to give voice to the minority.
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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Dec 7, 2020 Mixed Feelings
Remember how popular the topic of Disney princess movies turning little girls into helpless princesses due to portraying their women as “damsels in distress” was? Yeah, that’s been the star of the show for a while. But what people fail to mention is the other side of the coin—how those same movies hardwire boys into thinking what makes a man is to risk life and limb for these very damsels, often at the expense of their own safety and well-being. A savior complex. What makes you a decent person? Not your smarts nor personality, but how much suffering you can endure without complaining. Oregairu doesn’t
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have castles to raid or dragons to slay, but it runs on the exact outdated script. The only difference is, instead of a prince charging into battle, you’ve got a dead-eyed high school boy doing all his “heroics” from behind the shadows, ruining his own life and image for the sake of people who wouldn’t show up to his funeral.
Hachiman Hikigaya: A Mouthpiece, Not a Character That high schooler is Hachiman Hikigaya—self-proclaimed cynic, professional loner, and a part-time philosopher who just discovered Nietzsche last Tuesday. Good news: if you’ve spent your teen years thinking the world is garbage and everyone except you is an idiot, then Hikigaya is your kindred spirit. Sure, he does make good points, but most of the shit he spills out is either redundant topics from Philosophy 101 or some shit you’d see from a Twitter account named “Deep Nihilistic Quotes.” Everyone likes to call this character relatable. And by everyone: pretentious teens who think they’re the most mature and philosophical person in the room. Which… yeah, to some degree I’d give them that. But that says more about the fans rather than Hikigaya himself. His worldview flips faster than a politician's during election season. One moment he swears he doesn’t care about anyone, the next he’s bending over backwards to “help” people he openly can’t stand. There isn’t a timeline of emotional and situational development—just sudden shifts of “heroism” whenever the plot needs him to save the day. And his big heroic move? Dragging his own reputation through the mud for other people’s sake. I wouldn’t call it noble; maybe theatrical. He’s so committed to his martyrdom, Jesus would look away in shame. Problem is, this behavior isn’t realistic nor believable one bit. Hikigaya is less of a person and more an epitome of every “misunderstood genius” trope you’ve ever seen—introverted, intelligent, selfless, secretly kind—oh, and he just so happens to attract two heartthrobs without even trying. Yeah, super realistic. Don’t get me wrong, Hikigaya is still an interesting character. But not because of the way he is written. He’s got a certain charm, he’s funny in his own self-deprecating way, and you can trace some growth over the series. But every time that “growth” surfaces, Wataru Watari takes the wheel away from his protagonist and uses him as a soapbox to deliver whatever social commentary he wants to spit out. That’s where Hikigaya’s phantom of maturity comes from—a teenager with the voice, baggage, and existential fatigue of a thirty-something salaryman. He’s compelling, sure. But not because he’s a methodically well-written character; he’s compelling because of the pseudo-intellectual soliloquies Wataru uses to lecture his audience, for better or for worse. That’s my biggest gripe with the series. Instead of creating a chain of development that’ll allow our protagonist to see these mature themes and answers on his own, he’s already a built character who doesn’t need directions to mature. The author was so excited to rant about his disdain for the world, he just imposed the adult baggage he had onto Hikigaya instead of creating a coherent narrative. It isn’t deep or meaningful; it’s performative. Had he made the protagonist a more believable high schooler, had he made him face hurdles instead of falling to martyrdom, and had he been more patient in writing, this could have been the best coming-of-age story the light novel industry could offer. He has the skills—you can nitpick a few well-written scenes and compelling dialogues—but he was too proud a Nietzsche stan to not yap about his worldview through his protagonist. Watari’s problem is that he’s too in love with his own work. You can practically hear the author’s voice bleeding through his characters. And while personal investment is good, there’s a fine line between sincerity and using your cast as sock puppets for your own TED Talk. Let’s be honest, if you’re reading this review with your MyAnimeList account, veins popping out of your forehead, odds are you probably see a little bit of yourself in him. Except, you know, two pretty girls helplessly falling in love with you. Codependency: Unresolved Conflict Speaking of those two pretty girls, they are probably the most narratively frustrating characters in the entire series. Yui Yuigahama and Yukino Yukinoshita. Yui, to be completely frank, is nothing but convenient. Literally her only role in the story is to keep Hikigaya and Yukinoshita from falling apart. She’s not a character, but a support to keep the love triangle rolling. Oh, there’s conflict between dead-eyed boy and dead-eyed girl? Here’s Yui to save the day. The story fails to give Hikigaya and Yukinoshita independent growth both as individual characters and as love interests. Codependency this; codependency that. Wataru Watari highlighted that the main conflict of the story is the characters’ inability to sustain their relationships without a club to glue them together, yet there was no resolution to the story and the outcome came out entirely forced. Thank you, Yui (They did you dirty). As for Yukino Yukinoshita, the main heroine. She’s basically Hikigaya in a wig: same social isolation, same stubborn worldview, and same “I’m better than you because I read books” vibe. Much like how the story positions Hikigaya as someone grounded in his beliefs until he needs to save the day, Yukinoshita is portrayed as an unshakable ice-cold princess, until the story needs her to shake. She does receive the most development in the series, but like I previously said, it’s forced and unnatural; only with the help of her co-heroine could she have become the person she ended up as. Despite the amount of screentime Yui received, the story could have just been Hikigaya and Yukinoshita. No other characters mattered. All this talk about our main cast outgrowing codependency, the author didn’t figure out that every other character’s relevance is codependent on their ability to make Yukinoshita and Hikigaya get together. Codependency to Convenient Storytelling And then there’s the Service Club—a pretty neat concept: basically a grievance system that helps out students’ personal requests. It was a breath of fresh air: a club that actually does something, helping people with their problems instead of just reading books, eating snacks, or just using the club room as a venue for character interactions. However, somewhere down the line, it mutates into this bureaucratic nightmare of student council meetings, vague planning, and logistical filler that lasts entire chapters to fill Wataru’s page quota or something. Early requests were simple and reasonable; however, further into the story the Service Club was basically invading other people’s privacy. Helping with confessions? Snooping into career plans they explicitly told you to stay out of? That’s not wholesome club activities; that’s meddling with other people’s business. Stalking with extra steps. What for? Obviously, doing wholesome requests will run stale, and the author obviously needed to raise the stakes of the story, but this development is just unreasonable and irrational. Which is ironic because Hikigaya was supposed to be this hyper-rational guy, yet he jumps on these requests like a hungry dog on table scraps. Which brings us to the issue: convenience. This story runs on convenience like it is diesel fuel. Dialogue bends over backwards to force misunderstandings. Conflicts appear out of nowhere, like the infamous fake confession scene. And while convenience in storytelling is unavoidable, Oregairu builds entire arcs out of it, only for them to matter in the moment and vanish without touching the bigger picture. To even make the protagonist seem like a good person, Wataru’s writing depended on stepping down on a decent character to make Hikigaya look good. Hayama wasn’t necessarily a decently written character, but someone with a good heart. However, he was evidently written to be Hikigaya’s rival—someone with opposing views and methods to his, but also as competition in whatever category Wataru wants them to compete in. This brings us back to Hikigaya not developing as a person because he’s already a built character from scratch. So to make him somewhat interesting, he pitted these two characters against each other to create more tension, making it seem like he’s outgrowing someone even though he’s just bringing Hayama down if you look at it from a wider perspective. Final Thoughts I don’t believe Oregairu, to the core, is a garbage story, though the way I’ve trashed every aspect of the light novel may make it seem like it. It had potential, and at times it actually delivered decent storytelling I was compelled by. So sure, I’d recommend Oregairu. It’s the romcom equivalent of a toxic relationship—frustrating, full of bad communication, but you can’t just break up with it because it has enough charm to reel you back in (I will not elaborate on why I know how that feels). Although I would recommend watching the anime instead due to the amount of unnecessary dialogue and logistical fillers that would put even caffeine to sleep. So if you like the same old harem setups with extra cynicism and a little bit of existential dread—or if you’re just an edgy teenager—you’ll have the time of your life. Just don’t expect it to be a flawless, soul-piercing masterpiece fans make it out to be.
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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