-Another in-depth analysis from a long time fan of Zhan Zhao-
With the finale of "Rainy Night Bells," I had no time to pay attention to the various online comments, both positive and negative. While many were still reminiscing about the battle at Chongxiao Tower, I was completely absorbed in episode 36. I watched episode 36 three times, and each time I couldn't help but shed tears. For me, episode 36 is legendary. The reason this episode was so impactful lies in its stunning three-layered narrative "reversal," which further elevated the image of Zhan Zhao in the battle at Xiqiao Ferry in the original novel "Rainy Night Bells." Episode 36 completely lived up to my years of fondness for the character of Zhan Zhao on screen and my expectations for the drama "Rainy Night Bells. -The first reversal: a life-or-death gamble with "confession" as the bargaining chip- I think the battle between the "real and fake Yaksha" was far more exciting than the battle at Chongxiao Tower. The most exciting part wasn't the martial arts, but the battle of wits and humanity. Zhou Jiliang didn't present a fight, but a game of wits: protect Mingzhu'er, or protect the people of Wanshan County? He wanted to drag Zhan Zhao into a moral dead end, forcing him to choose between "who to sacrifice." Zhan Zhao's solution was ingenious—he refused to choose. Just like in the battle at Xiqiao Ferry, he still wanted to protect both, only this time more resolute. He even staked his "reputation" and "freedom" as a wager. In a desperate situation where no one was willing to send troops for him, he used Yaksha's confession as a bargaining chip, just to secure reinforcements to rescue the people. This was a desperate gamble, even at the cost of disgrace: he risked his lifelong reputation, his title as the Southern Hero, and even the possibility of imprisonment, all to ensure everyone's survival. At this moment, Zhan Zhao was no longer a simple knight-errant, but a "saint" willing to sacrifice himself, using a "divine move" to break the deadlock, sacrificing himself to protect the people. -The second twist: "Self-condemnation" behind the truth— This is the most poignant part. While watching the drama, the audience, along with Mingzhu'er, was led astray, struggling with the question of whether Mingzhu'er's family was killed by Zhou Jiliang or Zhan Zhao. When Zhan Zhao said, "It was an accident," everyone reluctantly accepted this so-called truth, unable to conceive of a third possibility. Only at the very last moment of the revelation, when all the logic closed, did we suddenly understand—Zhan Zhao's painstaking effort to conceal the truth, even at the cost of admitting "accidental killing," was crucial. He knew the truth would burden Mingzhu'er for life, and he wanted to protect the boy's innocence, so he once again chose to sacrifice himself, taking the blame upon himself. He wanted to use the lie of "being the murderer" to ensure Mingzhu'er's peace of mind for the rest of his life. This "self-condemnation" was more tender and warm than any act of self-sacrifice. At this moment, Zhan Zhao's character was elevated once more, radiating a divine brilliance. -The third twist: the "sublimation" of the meaning of Mingzhu'er's death- Mingzhu'er's ending was equally unconventional. Having seen the spoilers beforehand, I knew Mingzhu'er would die, but I kept wondering how his death could be made in a way that wouldn't leave the audience feeling regretful, heartbroken, or stifled. Seeing Mingzhu'er die brought me a profound sense of relief. He didn't die seeking revenge or taking a knife for Zhan Zhao; rather, after remembering the truth, on his journey to find his "pure and innocent, charming young man," he sacrificed himself for the greater good of his country in order to steal the documents from the Prince of Xiangyang regarding their communication with Xixia—a small man's path to redemption ultimately leading to loyalty and righteousness that transcends the individual. This way of dying transformed Mingzhu'er from a victim of tragedy into the author of his own destiny.
--- Therefore, the most moving part of episode 36 is that Zhan Zhao used his reputation, freedom, and even his life to build a gamble. He wasn't betting on victory or defeat, but on whether he could preserve the light within a child's heart while protecting everyone else. This choice of "sacrificing oneself for the sake of everyone" is the most dazzling brilliance of humanity. Finally, I must praise actor Yang Yang. His portrayal of Zhan Zhao is meticulous and moving. As a seasoned cat lover, I accept this Zhan Zhao.
Fun Fact: Ming Zu'er or his real name Xu Wai Lou was also played a role of Young Song Yang (Fireworks of my heart) and Young Prince Lanxi (Who Rules the world) where the two main roles were played by Yang Yang.
Wow! haters must be working overtime to rate this so low. Hahahaha There are lots of positive reviews that I have watched in Douyin and they explain the ending.
This drama gives me interesting nostalgia for other past and recent dramas. Every time I hear Linglong call Zhan…
Agree with the Samurai X vibes. Zhan Zhao also uses the back of his sword not to kill and Kenshin has this double edge sword to prevent him also to kill.
This one post in weibo hits so hard. She explained it so well!
"I've loved this character for 33 years, and I've pondered countless times why I'm so obsessed with Zhan Zhao. At first, I thought it was just the allure of the red-clad, sword-wielding figure of Kenny Ho in my youth—the inherent charm of a beautiful, strong, and tragic character. But the older I get, the more I understand it's much more than that.
It's that tension, ingrained in my very being, stretched to its limit yet refusing to break—like a string stretched between two extremes: on one side, the carefree spirit of the martial world; on the other, the rigid laws of the court; on one, self-criticism; on the other, gentleness towards others; on one side, the misunderstandings of the world; on the other, unwavering principles. It trembles constantly, pulls at the edge of a precipice, yet never snaps.
My profile picture is still a fan art of Kenny Ho's Zhan Zhao, my earliest and most stubborn expression of affection for this character. As a child, I only saw his righteous spirit, his dashing swordsmanship, but I always felt that the Zhan Zhao of that time was like a meticulously polished piece of jade, not yet fully unfurled. Standing beside Bao Zheng, he was always the most reliable and prudent supporting character. His struggles, his choices, his wavering between the martial world and the imperial court, his unwavering commitment to "justice" were all hidden beneath his official robes, never fully revealed. We saw his chivalry, but never his hardships; we saw his righteousness, but never his pain. This regret remained for many years.
Until, in "Rainy Night Bells," Yang Yang dissected this jade, revealing its most fervent and resilient core. This version of Zhan Zhao...The character Yu Linling in the TV series truly deserves the title of "gentleman." A gentleman's uprightness is his foundation; his virtue is his guiding principle; and his principles of what he will and will not do are ingrained in his very being. The martial world values swift retribution, where justice is found in the clash of swords and the swift resolution of grudges. The imperial court, on the other hand, values law and order, where following the rules is the code of conduct. People say these two are incompatible, yet he stands precisely on this dividing line, willingly stepping into what others perceive as "constraint."
Others call him a lackey of the court, laugh at him as a sycophantic official, but he knows that what he believes in is not the power of the court, but the justice behind the law that protects more people. He believes, therefore he follows, therefore he puts it into practice with his own flesh and blood. Thus, he chooses the most difficult path. Not by being recruited, but by actively choosing; not by being bound, but by actively taking responsibility. He didn't turn back, nor did he argue, because he knew that besides pleasure, there was right and wrong; besides gratitude and resentment, there was justice. This was the tension in his situation, a stubbornness that others couldn't understand, yet it always moved me.
What's even more poignant is the hidden, almost self-destructive tension within his character. He was almost harsh on himself, never defending himself when wronged, never crying out in pain when seriously injured, even suppressing the pain in his eyes to a minimum, only revealing a hint of vulnerability when no one was around; but to others, he always possessed a gentle, nurturing kindness, protecting the innocent, the weak, and everyone he could protect, shielding them from all the sharp edges of danger, swallowing all the bitterness in his heart.
And so, he walked alone on the narrow bridge built atop the cliff. You watch his taut shoulders, see the pain he hides, watch him walk forward step by step, without looking back, without retreating. And so you tense up along with him, feel the pain with him, feel gripped by that pulling tension, unable to breathe.
I respect his integrity, I respect that he could have been a chivalrous person, but instead chose the difficult path of upholding the law and protecting justice; I pity his integrity, I pity that he also feels pain and exhaustion, yet he suppresses all his emotions deep inside, refusing to utter even a single "I'm in pain." I admire his restraint, I admire that he hides all his turmoil beneath his surface, leaving only an open and honest facade; I also pity his restraint, pity the countless struggles hidden behind it that no one knows. Sometimes, I even feel a touch of resentment, hating that he doesn't cry out in pain, hating that he doesn't turn back, hating that he protects everyone else but forgets to protect himself. But the next second, you're struck by the unwavering determination in his eyes, feeling a mix of love and hate, pity and sorrow. You laugh and cry, weep and sigh, following his story.
Most remarkably, Yang Yang understood this tension, grasped Zhan Zhao's "intense" nature, his refusal to explain, his unwavering resolve, and the gentleness and integrity hidden beneath his official robes. He didn't portray Zhan Zhao as a flat, symbolic good guy, but as a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood person—he gets tired, he feels pain, he's misunderstood, he licks his wounds alone in the dead of night, but the next day, he'll still wear his official robes, grasp his sword, and move forward. Even the actor himself carries the same quiet yet incredibly resilient strength as the character. He doesn't explain, he doesn't flaunt, he simply moves forward step by step, letting his work speak for itself, just like Zhan Zhao, who chose a difficult path but never turned back. This resonance between actor and character is what truly moves people.
After all these years, I've finally found a drama that understands Zhan Zhao, and an actor who truly understands him. That youthful ideal, hidden in my profile picture, has finally come to life on screen as the most complete version of myself I imagined.
It turns out that true chivalry is never about the carefree pursuit of revenge, but about knowing the road ahead is difficult, knowing you'll be misunderstood, knowing the end of the narrow bridge is an abyss, yet still moving forward because there are people to protect and righteousness to uphold. It turns out that my affection for him all these years has never been without reason. Because Zhan Zhao is that taut string that never snaps; that gentleman who stands on the boundary line but never deviates from his course; that bit of justice and gentleness that we all yearn to protect. "
With the finale of "Rainy Night Bells," I had no time to pay attention to the various online comments, both positive and negative. While many were still reminiscing about the battle at Chongxiao Tower, I was completely absorbed in episode 36. I watched episode 36 three times, and each time I couldn't help but shed tears.
For me, episode 36 is legendary. The reason this episode was so impactful lies in its stunning three-layered narrative "reversal," which further elevated the image of Zhan Zhao in the battle at Xiqiao Ferry in the original novel "Rainy Night Bells." Episode 36 completely lived up to my years of fondness for the character of Zhan Zhao on screen and my expectations for the drama "Rainy Night Bells.
-The first reversal: a life-or-death gamble with "confession" as the bargaining chip-
I think the battle between the "real and fake Yaksha" was far more exciting than the battle at Chongxiao Tower. The most exciting part wasn't the martial arts, but the battle of wits and humanity. Zhou Jiliang didn't present a fight, but a game of wits: protect Mingzhu'er, or protect the people of Wanshan County? He wanted to drag Zhan Zhao into a moral dead end, forcing him to choose between "who to sacrifice."
Zhan Zhao's solution was ingenious—he refused to choose. Just like in the battle at Xiqiao Ferry, he still wanted to protect both, only this time more resolute. He even staked his "reputation" and "freedom" as a wager. In a desperate situation where no one was willing to send troops for him, he used Yaksha's confession as a bargaining chip, just to secure reinforcements to rescue the people. This was a desperate gamble, even at the cost of disgrace: he risked his lifelong reputation, his title as the Southern Hero, and even the possibility of imprisonment, all to ensure everyone's survival. At this moment, Zhan Zhao was no longer a simple knight-errant, but a "saint" willing to sacrifice himself, using a "divine move" to break the deadlock, sacrificing himself to protect the people.
-The second twist: "Self-condemnation" behind the truth—
This is the most poignant part. While watching the drama, the audience, along with Mingzhu'er, was led astray, struggling with the question of whether Mingzhu'er's family was killed by Zhou Jiliang or Zhan Zhao. When Zhan Zhao said, "It was an accident," everyone reluctantly accepted this so-called truth, unable to conceive of a third possibility. Only at the very last moment of the revelation, when all the logic closed, did we suddenly understand—Zhan Zhao's painstaking effort to conceal the truth, even at the cost of admitting "accidental killing," was crucial. He knew the truth would burden Mingzhu'er for life, and he wanted to protect the boy's innocence, so he once again chose to sacrifice himself, taking the blame upon himself. He wanted to use the lie of "being the murderer" to ensure Mingzhu'er's peace of mind for the rest of his life. This "self-condemnation" was more tender and warm than any act of self-sacrifice. At this moment, Zhan Zhao's character was elevated once more, radiating a divine brilliance.
-The third twist: the "sublimation" of the meaning of Mingzhu'er's death-
Mingzhu'er's ending was equally unconventional. Having seen the spoilers beforehand, I knew Mingzhu'er would die, but I kept wondering how his death could be made in a way that wouldn't leave the audience feeling regretful, heartbroken, or stifled. Seeing Mingzhu'er die brought me a profound sense of relief. He didn't die seeking revenge or taking a knife for Zhan Zhao; rather, after remembering the truth, on his journey to find his "pure and innocent, charming young man," he sacrificed himself for the greater good of his country in order to steal the documents from the Prince of Xiangyang regarding their communication with Xixia—a small man's path to redemption ultimately leading to loyalty and righteousness that transcends the individual. This way of dying transformed Mingzhu'er from a victim of tragedy into the author of his own destiny.
---
Therefore, the most moving part of episode 36 is that Zhan Zhao used his reputation, freedom, and even his life to build a gamble. He wasn't betting on victory or defeat, but on whether he could preserve the light within a child's heart while protecting everyone else. This choice of "sacrificing oneself for the sake of everyone" is the most dazzling brilliance of humanity.
Finally, I must praise actor Yang Yang. His portrayal of Zhan Zhao is meticulous and moving. As a seasoned cat lover, I accept this Zhan Zhao.
"I've loved this character for 33 years, and I've pondered countless times why I'm so obsessed with Zhan Zhao. At first, I thought it was just the allure of the red-clad, sword-wielding figure of Kenny Ho in my youth—the inherent charm of a beautiful, strong, and tragic character. But the older I get, the more I understand it's much more than that.
It's that tension, ingrained in my very being, stretched to its limit yet refusing to break—like a string stretched between two extremes: on one side, the carefree spirit of the martial world; on the other, the rigid laws of the court; on one, self-criticism; on the other, gentleness towards others; on one side, the misunderstandings of the world; on the other, unwavering principles. It trembles constantly, pulls at the edge of a precipice, yet never snaps.
My profile picture is still a fan art of Kenny Ho's Zhan Zhao, my earliest and most stubborn expression of affection for this character. As a child, I only saw his righteous spirit, his dashing swordsmanship, but I always felt that the Zhan Zhao of that time was like a meticulously polished piece of jade, not yet fully unfurled. Standing beside Bao Zheng, he was always the most reliable and prudent supporting character. His struggles, his choices, his wavering between the martial world and the imperial court, his unwavering commitment to "justice" were all hidden beneath his official robes, never fully revealed. We saw his chivalry, but never his hardships; we saw his righteousness, but never his pain. This regret remained for many years.
Until, in "Rainy Night Bells," Yang Yang dissected this jade, revealing its most fervent and resilient core. This version of Zhan Zhao...The character Yu Linling in the TV series truly deserves the title of "gentleman." A gentleman's uprightness is his foundation; his virtue is his guiding principle; and his principles of what he will and will not do are ingrained in his very being. The martial world values swift retribution, where justice is found in the clash of swords and the swift resolution of grudges. The imperial court, on the other hand, values law and order, where following the rules is the code of conduct. People say these two are incompatible, yet he stands precisely on this dividing line, willingly stepping into what others perceive as "constraint."
Others call him a lackey of the court, laugh at him as a sycophantic official, but he knows that what he believes in is not the power of the court, but the justice behind the law that protects more people. He believes, therefore he follows, therefore he puts it into practice with his own flesh and blood. Thus, he chooses the most difficult path. Not by being recruited, but by actively choosing; not by being bound, but by actively taking responsibility. He didn't turn back, nor did he argue, because he knew that besides pleasure, there was right and wrong; besides gratitude and resentment, there was justice. This was the tension in his situation, a stubbornness that others couldn't understand, yet it always moved me.
What's even more poignant is the hidden, almost self-destructive tension within his character.
He was almost harsh on himself, never defending himself when wronged, never crying out in pain when seriously injured, even suppressing the pain in his eyes to a minimum, only revealing a hint of vulnerability when no one was around; but to others, he always possessed a gentle, nurturing kindness, protecting the innocent, the weak, and everyone he could protect, shielding them from all the sharp edges of danger, swallowing all the bitterness in his heart.
And so, he walked alone on the narrow bridge built atop the cliff. You watch his taut shoulders, see the pain he hides, watch him walk forward step by step, without looking back, without retreating. And so you tense up along with him, feel the pain with him, feel gripped by that pulling tension, unable to breathe.
I respect his integrity, I respect that he could have been a chivalrous person, but instead chose the difficult path of upholding the law and protecting justice; I pity his integrity, I pity that he also feels pain and exhaustion, yet he suppresses all his emotions deep inside, refusing to utter even a single "I'm in pain." I admire his restraint, I admire that he hides all his turmoil beneath his surface, leaving only an open and honest facade; I also pity his restraint, pity the countless struggles hidden behind it that no one knows. Sometimes, I even feel a touch of resentment, hating that he doesn't cry out in pain, hating that he doesn't turn back, hating that he protects everyone else but forgets to protect himself. But the next second, you're struck by the unwavering determination in his eyes, feeling a mix of love and hate, pity and sorrow. You laugh and cry, weep and sigh, following his story.
Most remarkably, Yang Yang understood this tension, grasped Zhan Zhao's "intense" nature, his refusal to explain, his unwavering resolve, and the gentleness and integrity hidden beneath his official robes. He didn't portray Zhan Zhao as a flat, symbolic good guy, but as a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood person—he gets tired, he feels pain, he's misunderstood, he licks his wounds alone in the dead of night, but the next day, he'll still wear his official robes, grasp his sword, and move forward. Even the actor himself carries the same quiet yet incredibly resilient strength as the character. He doesn't explain, he doesn't flaunt, he simply moves forward step by step, letting his work speak for itself, just like Zhan Zhao, who chose a difficult path but never turned back. This resonance between actor and character is what truly moves people.
After all these years, I've finally found a drama that understands Zhan Zhao, and an actor who truly understands him. That youthful ideal, hidden in my profile picture, has finally come to life on screen as the most complete version of myself I imagined.
It turns out that true chivalry is never about the carefree pursuit of revenge, but about knowing the road ahead is difficult, knowing you'll be misunderstood, knowing the end of the narrow bridge is an abyss, yet still moving forward because there are people to protect and righteousness to uphold. It turns out that my affection for him all these years has never been without reason. Because Zhan Zhao is that taut string that never snaps; that gentleman who stands on the boundary line but never deviates from his course; that bit of justice and gentleness that we all yearn to protect. "