Many readers are likely already aware that after The Maoshan Demon Slayer Chronicles burst onto the world stage, President Roosevelt assembled a group of American filmmakers to produce a movie that could rival it—a cinematic counterstrike against China. They failed. The gap in both technology and ideology left every self-aware director shaking his head, and in the end they could only cobble together a clumsy imitation of The Great Dictator. This film, titled The Eastern Dictator, has since passed into legend—all thirty-six prints allegedly vanished in a fire that swept through Washington in 1935. Roosevelt himself later wrote in his memoirs that the movie, which principally depicted "a primitive Asian tribe gradually shedding its ignorance by pilfering scraps of Western civilization, ultimately deciding to challenge the West," was so marred by its "wretched script, nauseating acting, and vulgar visuals" that after having seen The Maoshan Demon Slayer Chronicles, he decided almost immediately not to release it to the public. To do so would have been an act of self-humiliation.

But Roosevelt did not give up. On one hand, he ordered endless reruns of Sherlock Holmes vs. Dr. Manchu. On the other, he convened representatives of the National Artists' Association of America and, by executive order, demanded they create "a villain worthy of the American people's imagination"—one capable of countering "the brainwashing propaganda of the reactionary Eastern Communist Party." He also, with relative "subtlety," specified that the villain's appearance must correspond to that of "a certain dictator from a large Eastern nation."

The National Artists' Association responded swiftly. An evil character named "Chen" was born: an Asian male of approximately forty, a master of chemistry, physics, and the arts, cruel and ferocious—practically a brother of Dr. Manchu...

Yet these early dark incarnations were unmistakably stamped with the "standard villain template" of the era, and for political reasons every one of their "stupidity factors" was amplified to absurdity: they were either immensely powerful but hopelessly idiotic, or brilliantly intelligent but compulsively garrulous.

The American public, it seemed, was not buying it. Even Roosevelt himself, the man who had issued the executive order, was heard to remark in private: "If this is the caliber of what sits across the Pacific, then what does that make our European allies, who've been beaten bloody by them?"

Credit where it is due—the creative powers of the American people are formidable. Once they recognized their error, the entire approach was transformed overnight.

And so the "evil intellect" and the "destructive force" were merged into one. The combination of "immortal Nero" and "dark Sherlock Holmes" unleashed staggering potential, and a character The New York Times hailed as "the perfect villain" was born:

"He possesses technology ahead of its time, an intellect beyond compare, and abilities beyond counting. Were he to walk in the light, all mankind would kneel before him—yet he has grown weary of the light. Were he to devote himself to science and art, Archimedes and Shakespeare would regard him as their teacher—yet he sneers at humanity's innate pursuit of beauty. Were he to appear on the battlefield, Troy would be his stage alone—yet he prefers to sit enthroned above, savoring the slaughter below. He is K. He is the serpent of Eden, the lord of Sodom, the friend of Satan, the enemy of the gods. He is you. He is me. He is the deepest evil in the heart of every one of us."

This villain was so spectacularly successful that he won public approval in record time and appeared in virtually every popular adventure story in an even shorter span. According to incomplete statistics, as of last October, the Asian figure known as K had appeared in 13,897 works. If you follow American television, you may also have noticed that FOX is currently preparing to shoot a new series, K: The Deepest Dark, set to air next March. For a character who has existed for more than a century, that is the ultimate proof of his enduring popularity.

Precisely because this character was so extraordinarily successful, his "failure at the critical moment" felt painfully contrived. After serialization offices received an avalanche of protest letters, the National Artists' Association launched a grand debate over whether to "weaken K's abilities" or "give K a weakness." This debate—in essence, an argument over "whether a fictional character should be allowed to be perfect"—produced conclusions that have shaped the principles of character creation to this very day.

But the outcome surprised everyone. A third path emerged triumphant: "Since there exists a perfect villain, give him a perfect hero." An alien who grew up in Kansas, wearing a red cape and bearing a great big "S" on his chest, appeared. His arrival was so epoch-making that it triggered the entire "superhero" tidal wave in American art. Still, to borrow a line from the celebrated author Ren Wu'ai Sinuo, no summary could be more apt: every superhero can only ever see Superman's back—and standing across from Superman, there is always K.