Clever, cruel, and hilarious—Joy of Life is political drama done right
Joy of Life presents itself as a clever political drama wrapped in humor and time-travel intrigue — but beneath its sharp dialogue and playful protagonist lies a darker, more unsettling truth: life is terrifyingly cheap in this world. Especially for those without power.
What’s shocking — and oddly amusing— is how casually sons of noble families and princes treat human life. Staff, guards, even long-time allies can be discarded at a moment’s notice. "Kill him." "Take care of his family." These lines are uttered with the same ease one might order tea. If I had a dime for every time a noble gave that command, I’d have enough to fund a comfortable little estate of my own. And honestly, it makes you wonder — was there ever a budget set aside for compensating the families of the fallen? Or was that too much paperwork? Too much conscience?
It’s not cruelty — it’s logistics. Life and death are business transactions, collateral damage in the endless chess match of political survival. This ruthlessness isn’t hidden in shadows. It’s front and center, normalized to the point of absurdity. No one bats an eye when an entire household is wiped out to silence a rumor or protect a secret. The irony is thick: in a court so obsessed with appearances and rules, the easiest thing to get rid of is a human being.
And yet, what elevates Joy of Life beyond pure cynicism is the way it handles its characters. The cast is absolutely flawless. Their acting is superb. Everyone — from Fan Xian to the minor ministers lurking in the background — brings nuance and depth to roles that could have easily turned into caricatures. There are so many standout performances, but the one that intrigued me the most is Li Chengze, the Second Prince. He's one of, if not the most fascinating character, who embodies JOL's chilling duality to the fullest.
He’s a masterpiece of contradictions: eccentric, insolent and often barefoot, with a crooked smile that feels more like a warning than a welcome. Beneath his charm and the apparent indolent exterior is a mind that calculates swiftly and kills cleanly. There’s always an eerie calm about him, as if he’s ten steps ahead in a game only he fully understands. His unpredictability makes him terrifying — and unforgettable. You’re never sure whether he’s amused, offended, or quietly orchestrating someone’s execution. And when he says “take care of it” no one dares ask what that means.
Fan Xian, our modern-minded protagonist, walks this tightrope with a constant awareness of this world's cruelty. His charm, wit, and sarcasm are his shields — but he sees the rot. He’s surrounded by characters who are brilliant and monstrous in equal measure, and he’s all too aware that power doesn’t just corrupt — it kills. Sometimes with elegance. Sometimes with a smile.
What makes Joy of Life so gripping is that it doesn’t sensationalize these killings. It treats them as part of the world’s logic. That’s what’s truly haunting. There is no justice system in the way we expect it. There’s only survival, maneuvering, and choosing whether to kill or be killed.
And yet, Joy of Life isn’t devoid of emotion. That’s where it cuts the deepest. When someone does die, especially someone Fan Xian truly cares about, the grief feels suffocating. Not because the death is surprising — but because we always knew it was coming. This world doesn’t allow for mercy. Loyalty is a death sentence. Compassion is a liability.
It’s this emotional dissonance — this coexistence of amusement and horror — that makes Joy of Life so powerful. You laugh, then you flinch. You admire the strategy, then mourn the cost. It’s a reminder that in a world ruled by ruthless power and noble egos, a human life is worth less than a secret, a mistake, or a whisper.
What’s shocking — and oddly amusing— is how casually sons of noble families and princes treat human life. Staff, guards, even long-time allies can be discarded at a moment’s notice. "Kill him." "Take care of his family." These lines are uttered with the same ease one might order tea. If I had a dime for every time a noble gave that command, I’d have enough to fund a comfortable little estate of my own. And honestly, it makes you wonder — was there ever a budget set aside for compensating the families of the fallen? Or was that too much paperwork? Too much conscience?
It’s not cruelty — it’s logistics. Life and death are business transactions, collateral damage in the endless chess match of political survival. This ruthlessness isn’t hidden in shadows. It’s front and center, normalized to the point of absurdity. No one bats an eye when an entire household is wiped out to silence a rumor or protect a secret. The irony is thick: in a court so obsessed with appearances and rules, the easiest thing to get rid of is a human being.
And yet, what elevates Joy of Life beyond pure cynicism is the way it handles its characters. The cast is absolutely flawless. Their acting is superb. Everyone — from Fan Xian to the minor ministers lurking in the background — brings nuance and depth to roles that could have easily turned into caricatures. There are so many standout performances, but the one that intrigued me the most is Li Chengze, the Second Prince. He's one of, if not the most fascinating character, who embodies JOL's chilling duality to the fullest.
He’s a masterpiece of contradictions: eccentric, insolent and often barefoot, with a crooked smile that feels more like a warning than a welcome. Beneath his charm and the apparent indolent exterior is a mind that calculates swiftly and kills cleanly. There’s always an eerie calm about him, as if he’s ten steps ahead in a game only he fully understands. His unpredictability makes him terrifying — and unforgettable. You’re never sure whether he’s amused, offended, or quietly orchestrating someone’s execution. And when he says “take care of it” no one dares ask what that means.
Fan Xian, our modern-minded protagonist, walks this tightrope with a constant awareness of this world's cruelty. His charm, wit, and sarcasm are his shields — but he sees the rot. He’s surrounded by characters who are brilliant and monstrous in equal measure, and he’s all too aware that power doesn’t just corrupt — it kills. Sometimes with elegance. Sometimes with a smile.
What makes Joy of Life so gripping is that it doesn’t sensationalize these killings. It treats them as part of the world’s logic. That’s what’s truly haunting. There is no justice system in the way we expect it. There’s only survival, maneuvering, and choosing whether to kill or be killed.
And yet, Joy of Life isn’t devoid of emotion. That’s where it cuts the deepest. When someone does die, especially someone Fan Xian truly cares about, the grief feels suffocating. Not because the death is surprising — but because we always knew it was coming. This world doesn’t allow for mercy. Loyalty is a death sentence. Compassion is a liability.
It’s this emotional dissonance — this coexistence of amusement and horror — that makes Joy of Life so powerful. You laugh, then you flinch. You admire the strategy, then mourn the cost. It’s a reminder that in a world ruled by ruthless power and noble egos, a human life is worth less than a secret, a mistake, or a whisper.
Was this review helpful to you?
