This review may contain spoilers
Liu Xue Yi plays those morally grey characters like nobody else!!!!!
Coming into A Moment But Forever after the anime, I was hopeful. Hopeful that the drama would keep the emotional core intact while adding layers only live-action can give. And in many ways, it does. But as I sit here, 24 episodes in, I find myself still waiting for the emotional breakthrough, for the love that’s been brewing beneath the surface to finally rise to it.
I appreciate that the drama chose not to follow the anime beat for beat. The divergence is welcome. It gives the story breathing room, a chance to explore new angles. But I also can’t help but wish that the leads had been allowed to embrace their feelings sooner. Instead, we’re still caught in this careful distance. It’s frustrating — because I feel the story is clearly aching to unfold.
Liu Xue Yi is, without question, the soul of this drama. He brings a remarkable level of depth and complexity to Yuanzhong, a character shaped by immense loss and years of restraint. Liu Xue Yi excels at portraying grey characters that walk the line between light and shadow and Yuanzhong is no exception. His quiet strength, his barely-contained power, and his nuanced emotional shifts lend credibility to a man who has been locked away for six decades, yet remains a formidable presence. One that even the clan elders do not dare to underestimate. His performance holds both tension and vulnerability, which creates an internal conflict that is compelling to watch.
Tiffany Tang’s return was something I looked forward to... And struggled with. I loved her in Princess Weiyoung, and seeing her here felt almost like seeing an old friend. But that warmth faded quickly. As Tanyin / Goddess Wushuan, she feels distant, stiff — especially in scenes that were supposed to carry emotional weight. It’s not that the character needs to be overtly expressive, but there’s a lack of spark between her and Yuanzhong that’s hard to ignore. She reacts, but rarely resonates. It’s as if she’s reciting grief and longing, rather than feeling them. And that makes it difficult to believe in the love story the show keeps telling us is central.
There is a relationship that does feel emotionally grounded: Yuanzhong and Tang Hua. Their friendship carries the weight of betrayal and the slow, painful work of forgiveness. The moment Yuanzhong chooses to let go of his anger toward Tang Hua, despite learning the truth about his family's murder is heartfelt. It’s a reminder that trust, when rebuilt, can be more powerful than resentment.
Also, about Tang Hua — him and Zhi Dai have something quietly sweet building between them, but it’s so slow. They’ve waited a lifetime already, and it’s starting to feel like the drama is dragging its feet. There’s this gentle connection between them. But at this pace, it’s in danger of being buried under the weight of all the other plots. These two deserve more than subtle moments and glances. I’m hoping the drama gives them the space to truly blossom before we’re all left waiting another lifetime.
Then there’s Fu Jiuyun, introduced to Yuanzhong and Tanyin by the ever sympathetic Mei Shan. Jiuyun's arrogance is both intriguing and amusing, but what’s more interesting is what he brings out in Yuanzhong. The quiet storm of jealousy, the way Yuanzhong’s barely-maintained composure begins to slip, tells us more about his feelings for Tanyin than any romantic speech could. The restaurant scene, where she leaves him waiting while meeting Jiuyun, says everything he cannot: the way he lashes out about the cold noodles isn’t about food, it’s about pain. It’s the only way he knows how to voice a heartbreak he doesn’t feel entitled to. Because Yuanzhong is caught in a contradiction — he doesn’t trust her, even though he wants to. She’s died for him, twice. She’s proven, in every way that matters, that he’s her choice. And yet, he still doubts. Still holds himself back. But when that other man comes into the picture, all that doubt becomes panic, and that panic erupts. He’s in love with her, desperately so, and yet can’t seem to stop questioning her. And that’s what makes it so painful to watch. He’s not just afraid of losing her. He’s afraid he might never be able to let himself believe in her.
One aspect I genuinely struggle with is the inconsistency in how Ji Tanyin sees Yuanzhong. She forgives Qian Lin, a LITERAL war demon, with barely a pause. She never shows any prejudice toward his kind. There are good and bad people everywhere, irrespective of their race. But the moment Yuanzhong’s potential transformation into a demon is mentioned, she recoils, immediately questioning him. It undermines her own moral compass and feels unfair, especially given everything Yuanzhong has endured. It’s hard to reconcile her actions with the values the show claims she upholds, and it adds a layer of cognitive dissonance that detracts from her character’s depth.
At 24 episodes in, I’m still watching. Hopefully, the remaining episodes will bring more emotional resolution and a deeper sense of connection between the leads.
*********************************************************************
⚠️ UPDATE : To be fair, a friend pointed out an important nuance that recontextualizes Tanyin’s reaction. In the drama, Yuanzhong isn’t facing the risk of turning into a demon in the typical "race/species" sense — like Qian Lin, but rather something far more insidious: a perverse, demonic heart. It’s not about bloodline, but about internal corruption. When that dragon in the sea of consciousness speaks of the one that wants to devour him — it is a metaphor for Yuanzhong losing himself entirely to darkness. The series plays with both interpretations of “demon,” and the translation likely blurs that distinction.
Still, even understanding this, I can’t help but feel disappointed by the way Tanyin reacts. No heart, as demonic as it might be, is beyond redemption — especially when it’s still clinging to a ray of light. Yuanzhong has already shown that he’s fighting to hold on, and instead of responding with suspicion, Tanyin could have chosen faith — could have looked for a way to help him stay on the path.
But perhaps the real flaw lies in the premise she set: allowing him to live with the divine hand under the condition that he is “good.” It wasn’t trust; it was a conditional reprieve. And the moment that condition seemed at risk, her judgment was swift. That lack of grace cuts deep, not just for Yuanzhong, but for me as viewer who has been rooting for his redemption all along.
I appreciate that the drama chose not to follow the anime beat for beat. The divergence is welcome. It gives the story breathing room, a chance to explore new angles. But I also can’t help but wish that the leads had been allowed to embrace their feelings sooner. Instead, we’re still caught in this careful distance. It’s frustrating — because I feel the story is clearly aching to unfold.
Liu Xue Yi is, without question, the soul of this drama. He brings a remarkable level of depth and complexity to Yuanzhong, a character shaped by immense loss and years of restraint. Liu Xue Yi excels at portraying grey characters that walk the line between light and shadow and Yuanzhong is no exception. His quiet strength, his barely-contained power, and his nuanced emotional shifts lend credibility to a man who has been locked away for six decades, yet remains a formidable presence. One that even the clan elders do not dare to underestimate. His performance holds both tension and vulnerability, which creates an internal conflict that is compelling to watch.
Tiffany Tang’s return was something I looked forward to... And struggled with. I loved her in Princess Weiyoung, and seeing her here felt almost like seeing an old friend. But that warmth faded quickly. As Tanyin / Goddess Wushuan, she feels distant, stiff — especially in scenes that were supposed to carry emotional weight. It’s not that the character needs to be overtly expressive, but there’s a lack of spark between her and Yuanzhong that’s hard to ignore. She reacts, but rarely resonates. It’s as if she’s reciting grief and longing, rather than feeling them. And that makes it difficult to believe in the love story the show keeps telling us is central.
There is a relationship that does feel emotionally grounded: Yuanzhong and Tang Hua. Their friendship carries the weight of betrayal and the slow, painful work of forgiveness. The moment Yuanzhong chooses to let go of his anger toward Tang Hua, despite learning the truth about his family's murder is heartfelt. It’s a reminder that trust, when rebuilt, can be more powerful than resentment.
Also, about Tang Hua — him and Zhi Dai have something quietly sweet building between them, but it’s so slow. They’ve waited a lifetime already, and it’s starting to feel like the drama is dragging its feet. There’s this gentle connection between them. But at this pace, it’s in danger of being buried under the weight of all the other plots. These two deserve more than subtle moments and glances. I’m hoping the drama gives them the space to truly blossom before we’re all left waiting another lifetime.
Then there’s Fu Jiuyun, introduced to Yuanzhong and Tanyin by the ever sympathetic Mei Shan. Jiuyun's arrogance is both intriguing and amusing, but what’s more interesting is what he brings out in Yuanzhong. The quiet storm of jealousy, the way Yuanzhong’s barely-maintained composure begins to slip, tells us more about his feelings for Tanyin than any romantic speech could. The restaurant scene, where she leaves him waiting while meeting Jiuyun, says everything he cannot: the way he lashes out about the cold noodles isn’t about food, it’s about pain. It’s the only way he knows how to voice a heartbreak he doesn’t feel entitled to. Because Yuanzhong is caught in a contradiction — he doesn’t trust her, even though he wants to. She’s died for him, twice. She’s proven, in every way that matters, that he’s her choice. And yet, he still doubts. Still holds himself back. But when that other man comes into the picture, all that doubt becomes panic, and that panic erupts. He’s in love with her, desperately so, and yet can’t seem to stop questioning her. And that’s what makes it so painful to watch. He’s not just afraid of losing her. He’s afraid he might never be able to let himself believe in her.
One aspect I genuinely struggle with is the inconsistency in how Ji Tanyin sees Yuanzhong. She forgives Qian Lin, a LITERAL war demon, with barely a pause. She never shows any prejudice toward his kind. There are good and bad people everywhere, irrespective of their race. But the moment Yuanzhong’s potential transformation into a demon is mentioned, she recoils, immediately questioning him. It undermines her own moral compass and feels unfair, especially given everything Yuanzhong has endured. It’s hard to reconcile her actions with the values the show claims she upholds, and it adds a layer of cognitive dissonance that detracts from her character’s depth.
At 24 episodes in, I’m still watching. Hopefully, the remaining episodes will bring more emotional resolution and a deeper sense of connection between the leads.
*********************************************************************
⚠️ UPDATE : To be fair, a friend pointed out an important nuance that recontextualizes Tanyin’s reaction. In the drama, Yuanzhong isn’t facing the risk of turning into a demon in the typical "race/species" sense — like Qian Lin, but rather something far more insidious: a perverse, demonic heart. It’s not about bloodline, but about internal corruption. When that dragon in the sea of consciousness speaks of the one that wants to devour him — it is a metaphor for Yuanzhong losing himself entirely to darkness. The series plays with both interpretations of “demon,” and the translation likely blurs that distinction.
Still, even understanding this, I can’t help but feel disappointed by the way Tanyin reacts. No heart, as demonic as it might be, is beyond redemption — especially when it’s still clinging to a ray of light. Yuanzhong has already shown that he’s fighting to hold on, and instead of responding with suspicion, Tanyin could have chosen faith — could have looked for a way to help him stay on the path.
But perhaps the real flaw lies in the premise she set: allowing him to live with the divine hand under the condition that he is “good.” It wasn’t trust; it was a conditional reprieve. And the moment that condition seemed at risk, her judgment was swift. That lack of grace cuts deep, not just for Yuanzhong, but for me as viewer who has been rooting for his redemption all along.
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