Prologue (1)

The Case of the Headless Princess or the Saint — The Challenge

When confronted with some unknown element, if you simply accept it as it is, it becomes fantasy. If you fear and reject it, it becomes horror. If you analyze it and conduct thought experiments on what kind of influence it might have on the world, it becomes science fiction.

On the other hand, there are also elements that constitute genres in and of themselves. Where there is a mystery and its solution, there is mystery fiction; where there are love and romance, there is romance.

If elements are what determine genre, then what happens to stories that contain elements from multiple genres?

If love and romance coexist with mystery and its solution, then romantic mystery is possible. If an unknown element is analyzed while love and romance are intertwined with it, then romantic science fiction is possible as well. Yes, genres can be hybridized. More than merely possible, one could even say that throughout the history of storytelling, stories containing elements from only a single genre are the rarer kind.

Although one may identify the “primary” genre depending on where the focus lies, it would be fair to say that clearly dividing stories into distinct “genres” has been impossible since the age of the classics.

That said, there are combinations of genres that are incompatible, or at least difficult to hybridize.

For example, science fiction and fantasy—or horror—because they approach their central elements differently.

The same applies to mystery combined with fantasy or horror. This is because mystery is fundamentally a story about “uncovering the truth,” whereas introducing elements that must simply be “accepted” or “feared and rejected” risks causing the genre itself to cease functioning properly.

—Josef Tiss
From Labels Called Genre

“Fiction is all fantasy in the end, isn’t it? Märchen, fairy tales,” Mike began to argue. “It’s different from reality.”

“Come on.” I cut in, surprised. “Even nonfiction is fantasy. The moment something becomes a story, everything becomes fantasy. We live our lives unconsciously constructing stories. We live inside the fantasy we call reality.”

“Is that your opinion as a psychiatrist?”

“No.” I shook my head firmly. “That’s my opinion as a writer.”

—Quarible Quavatta
From The Death of the Rabbit

“I can’t believe it.”

The elderly magician’s voice betrayed an unusual degree of agitation.

The victim’s two blood relatives stared wide-eyed in stunned silence.

“This is…”

Even the brilliant young genius, renowned for his sharp mind, covered his mouth as though struggling to withstand the shock.

The middle-aged man who was usually arrogant and overbearing was dumbfounded, as was the lady who never seemed to lose her composure.

Me, my companions, the students, the teachers, the outsiders—everyone refused to believe the sight before us.

We stood frozen inside the room, surrounding the girl’s corpse.

No one could accept that this development, this scene, was real.

But of everyone there, I was the one who found it hardest to believe what I was seeing.

Because this was an impossible crime. No one else had realized it yet, but this was a genuine impossible crime—the kind that appeared all the time in mystery novels.

An impossible crime… in this world of swords and magic?

An incident that should never have been possible.

No.

That wasn’t right.

I had believed it was possible. That was precisely why I had been acting all this time.

And now it had finally happened.

At the worst possible moment.

The interior of the sacred room, which should have remained pristine and unstained white, was smeared with blood.

And the girl’s corpse had no head.