Tan SongYun was in her early 30s when she shot this but does look a lot younger than her age. its a very good…
I responded because of this comment you left earlier:
“you absolute dumb ass… talk to that asshole… idiot… clown.”
That was directed at me.
So yes — when someone publicly calls me an “asshole,” I will respond. That’s not bullying. That’s accountability.
What’s interesting is that you frame yourself as the target while simultaneously telling people to “go f yourself” and layering multiple insults in one sentence. If we’re discussing self-awareness, that might be the place to start. Telling people to “go f yourself” and stacking insults, on the other hand, isn’t tone — it’s escalation. When discussions move from disagreement to profanity and name-calling, that’s usually a sign the argument itself has run out. 👏
You’re free to dislike a drama. You’re free to dislike my tone.
But once you move from disagreement to personal attacks, you don’t get to claim the moral high ground.
At this point, the difference between responding to criticism and actively escalating into abuse is very visible.
Tan SongYun was in her early 30s when she shot this but does look a lot younger than her age. its a very good…
It’s interesting how “oh darling” was framed as unbearably obnoxious, yet multiple variations of explicit insults, playground-level spelling edits, and caps-lock aggression are apparently acceptable forms of communication. 🤔
That contrast genuinely speaks for itself.
There’s a noticeable difference between being condescending and being abusive. Condescension — however irritating one might find it — still operates within the realm of language, argument, and tone. It implies control. It implies structure. It implies that someone is responding to ideas.
When someone runs out of arguments and shifts to personal insults instead, that usually signals the substance is gone — and volume has taken over. 👏
If “oh darling” is the most offensive contribution in this exchange, then we’re clearly operating on very different definitions of decorum.
And just as an observation — when discussions devolve into insults instead of arguments, it’s rarely the calm participant who looks unreasonable. 🎭
they literally are, because the name of the drama already implies it... 24 Strategem... Think about it as a chess…
I think saying “there are four players” already assumes a flat board — and that’s where the misunderstanding starts.
Yes, we see Huai An, Yan Feng Shan, the Tiemo king, and Xiao Wuyang acting. But that doesn’t automatically make all of them equal players. In fact, most of them are pawns — just on different layers of the game.
That’s why the chess metaphor matters here, but not as a rigid role assignment. Chess isn’t used to say “this person is the king, this one is the queen.” It’s a language for strategy. It describes information imbalance, proxy actions, sacrifice logic, and delayed outcomes. That’s exactly where the 24 Stratagems come in.
Being a pawn doesn’t mean being weak. In stratagem logic, pawns are mobile, disposable, often invisible — and frequently the most dangerous pieces because they’re underestimated.
If you look closely, there are actually multiple games running at once.
The first game is the one we never saw on screen: the Tiemo king in captivity. That’s where everything really starts. From that position, he gathers information, sends out the Shadowguard, and chooses Xie Huai An as a piece — without Huai An realizing he’s already on a larger board. Huai An believes he’s acting on his own revenge, but structurally, he’s already embedded in a wider operation. That doesn’t make Huai An stupid or weak — it shows how big the board actually is.
From the Tiemo king’s perspective, he is the king. Yan Feng Shan is the opposing king that needs to be checkmated. Huai An is the forward pawn — the one who carries risk so the real king stays protected.
From Xie Huai An’s perspective, though, he is the king. Yan Feng Shan is his opposing king. His allies and subordinates are the pawns he moves to reach checkmate — which he does, since Yan Feng Shan is now dead.
Both perspectives are true at the same time. That’s not a contradiction — it’s layered strategy. Who counts as “the king” depends entirely on which level of the game you’re looking at. That’s how multi-layered power plays work.
Once the Shadowguard is exposed as Tiemo’s agent, the game shifts again. The next phase is more open, less invisible — but also more dangerous. This is no longer just about eliminating enemies; it’s about control.
That’s where Huai An’s friends come in. The fact that it’s explicitly stated they must stay alive to keep Huai An controllable is not a throwaway line. It tells us that Huai An is valuable — but not autonomous. Emotional ties become the new reins.
And that naturally leads to the next game: not against Yan Feng Shan anymore, but against the emperor himself.
The emperor isn’t a fixed piece; he’s a variable. Is he fully awake? Fully aware? Already acting? Or still hidden? What is clear is that the Tiemo king knows exactly where the current emperor is, holds the deposed emperor in his grasp, and likely intends to use whichever one becomes useful. At this stage, the game shifts from elimination to legitimacy — not “who dies,” but “who counts.”
So yes, you can name four visible actors. But calling them all “players” misses the point. Most of them are pawns — powerful, dangerous pawns — operating on different boards at different times.
And that’s why the story works. It’s not a simple revenge plot. It’s a sequence of games with changing boards, shifting roles, and players who don’t always know which game they’re in.
That layered structure is exactly what makes it interesting.
Does anyone who's actually watching this drama expecting ML surviving this piety pit in the end? Ain't no way!!
No — I never said he should kill himself, and that’s not what I’m arguing for at all.
What I’m saying is that a “happy ending” in the usual sense doesn’t fit this character or this story. That’s very different from self-destruction.
There’s a huge middle ground between a cheerful, rewarded ending and suicide
And that middle ground is exactly where Chinese dramas usually place characters like Xie Huai An — especially when censorship rules and narrative logic meet.
From a censorship perspective, this matters a lot. Under NRTA guidelines, a character who: - operates through manipulation and deception, - undermines institutions from within, - and can be read as validating revenge as effective,
cannot be shown as emotionally rewarded for that path. He doesn’t have to die — but he also can’t be celebrated. That’s how the rulebook avoids promoting harmful social messages.
But even setting censorship aside, the bigger issue is coherence.
How could Xie Huai An be genuinely happy when: - his entire family is dead, - most of the people around him are dead or gone, - and his life has been built on loss, control, and revenge?
Revenge doesn’t magically refill that void. It closes a chapter — it doesn’t heal anything.
So when people imagine him “sitting in a chair with a cat, smiling peacefully,” that would actually be the least realistic outcome — emotionally and narratively. Not because he deserves punishment, but because this story has never been about emotional reward.
A far more realistic ending — and one that does pass censorship — would look like this: - he survives, - the system stabilizes, - he steps out of power or loses his central role, - and he’s left with memory rather than fulfillment.
That’s not glorifying revenge. That’s showing its cost.
And that’s exactly how Chinese dramas usually conclude arcs for morally gray leads: - not dead, not triumphant, but contained.
As for polls or Cheng Yi’s hints — actors are careful with wording. “Hopeful,” “open,” or “bittersweet” doesn’t automatically mean happy. In C-drama language, it often means quiet, restrained, or emotionally unresolved.
So no — this isn’t about wanting him gone. It’s about recognizing that a man who wins everything and loses everyone cannot plausibly walk away happy.
That wouldn’t be justice. And it wouldn’t be human either.
Tan SongYun was in her early 30s when she shot this but does look a lot younger than her age. its a very good…
Calling something “obnoxious” because you refuse to read past two words doesn’t exactly position you as the rational party here.
You’re the one throwing around judgments without watching the drama or making any effort to understand why an age gap exists in the story. That’s not critique — that’s a knee-jerk reaction dressed up as moral superiority.
And let’s be clear: age-gap couples exist in real life. They’re legal, consensual, and functional. If your worldview implies they shouldn’t exist, then what you’re actually doing is trying to enforce your personal ideology onto everyone else — including fiction, history, and other viewers.
Posting negative takes about a show you haven’t even started watching is frankly poor form. It’s not commentary; it’s just throwing mud based on your own biases and calling it an opinion.
If you don’t like age-gap stories, don’t watch them. But misrepresenting a narrative you haven’t engaged with says far more about your approach than about the drama itself.
She mentioned that even the c nets are with her on that. But then again as mentioned by tantaijin when it comes to censorship ruling, he would be soooo dead...
I think as well that a happy ending wouldn't fit. Him sitting in the chair with a cat and then constantly thinking about everyone he has lost? Being misserable?
the series has such a wierd setting , actually -. there is so much death, ML , the deposed emporer and his brother…
I think you’re reading the series emotionally, but judging it as if it were meant to be morally comforting — and that’s where the disconnect comes from.
“No one lives a normal life” — yes. That’s intentional. You’re absolutely right: almost nobody in The Vendetta of An lives anything resembling a “normal” life. But that’s not bad writing or a weird setting — that’s the premise. This isn’t a slice-of-life historical drama. It’s a story about what prolonged instability does to a society. When power is constantly contested, when survival depends on position rather than principle, normal life disappears first.
The series deliberately shows a world where: - safety is temporary - morality is conditional - kindness stops being useful That doesn’t mean the characters are “animals.” It means they are humans trapped in a system that rewards inhuman behavior. And more importantly: these characters aren’t meant to represent humanity at its best. They represent what humans become when ethics stop being functional — when greed takes over and power becomes the smallest, yet most destructive, goal people are willing to sacrifice everything for.
Greed and Power: when humanity collapses over “small” things - this is where characters like Yan Feng Shan are key. Yan Feng Shan doesn’t just want to survive — he wants to remain in power, and he removes everyone who could threaten that position. He uses the young emperor. He uses ministers. He uses generals. He uses everyone. Psychologically, people around him become dependent on him. They listen to him almost as if he were infallible — not because he is good, but because their own positions depend on his power. As long as he stays where he is, they get status, safety, influence. That dependency is greed. They don’t kill out of loyalty or belief. They kill to survive and to stay relevant. That’s why characters like Yan Feng Shan — and later Xie Huai An’s uncle — don’t kill because they value life. They kill because the system has trained them to equate survival with legitimacy. Staying alive means staying powerful. Losing relevance means death — political or literal.
Violence isn’t chaos — it’s filtered - it may feel like endless death, but there’s a clear pattern: - People who kill openly lose power. - People who make others kill gain it. That’s not accidental. Yan Feng Shan and Xie Huai An are actually very similar in this regard. Both rarely kill with their own hands. Both use others as tools. Both understand that direct violence stains you — but delegated violence strengthens your position. So when the show feels like a killing spree, that doesn’t mean it lacks strategy. It means we’re watching the results, not the planning. Violence here isn’t the goal. It’s the side effect of power moving.
“Why cling to life without compassion?” - you’re asking a question the show is fully aware of: Is a life like this still human? The series doesn’t answer it emotionally. It answers it structurally. These people aren’t fighting for happiness. They’re fighting for continued existence inside a system that punishes weakness. Compassion doesn’t disappear because they’re evil — it disappears because it stops being useful. Calling them “animals” actually lets the system off the hook. Animals act on instinct. These people act on learned logic. That’s far more disturbing — and very human.
Episode 16: information is power - was it smart not letting the deposed emperor know his elder brother is awake? Yes — absolutely. In this series, information is currency. Once revealed, it can’t be controlled anymore. Keeping the elder brother’s state unclear preserves leverage. The deposed emperor still has a role to play in the larger strategy. If he knew for certain that his older brother was awake and aware, he would crumble under fear and expose himself. Ambiguity keeps him usable. The slip (“Brother, wake up fast”) isn’t bad writing — it’s pressure showing cracks. Even controlled people fail when emotions break through.
About the elder brother — your distrust is correct -and your instinct about the elder brother is right. From the deposed emperor’s point of view, he is still the emperor — the legitimate ruler. That alone makes him dangerous. Trusting him would be naive. He isn’t framed as a moral opposite or a safe option. He’s framed as another long-term variable. Someone who survives by appearing weak, silent, or harmless usually isn’t — especially not in this story. The fact that he has already tried to kill Han Ziling confirms that survival instincts don’t disappear just because someone looks passive.
About the pacing — fair criticism - you’re also right that 28 episodes feel tight. This story easily has material for 40–50 episodes. The politics, the character psychology, the delayed consequences — all of that suffers from compression. The ride feels choppy not because the story lacks depth, but because it has too much for the format. That’s a production issue, not a conceptual one.
This drama isn’t asking whether revenge is justified. It’s showing what revenge — combined with greed and power — turns people into when it’s executed efficiently. Xie Huai An doesn’t win because he’s morally right. Yan Feng Shan doesn’t fall because he’s uniquely evil. They rise and fall because they understand — or misunderstand — how power actually works in a broken system. And that’s why the story feels brutal, uncomfortable, and heavy. That discomfort isn’t a flaw. It’s the point.
“you absolute dumb ass… talk to that asshole… idiot… clown.”
That was directed at me.
So yes — when someone publicly calls me an “asshole,” I will respond. That’s not bullying. That’s accountability.
What’s interesting is that you frame yourself as the target while simultaneously telling people to “go f yourself” and layering multiple insults in one sentence. If we’re discussing self-awareness, that might be the place to start.
Telling people to “go f yourself” and stacking insults, on the other hand, isn’t tone — it’s escalation. When discussions move from disagreement to profanity and name-calling, that’s usually a sign the argument itself has run out. 👏
You’re free to dislike a drama.
You’re free to dislike my tone.
But once you move from disagreement to personal attacks, you don’t get to claim the moral high ground.
At this point, the difference between responding to criticism and actively escalating into abuse is very visible.
I’ll leave it there.
That contrast genuinely speaks for itself.
There’s a noticeable difference between being condescending and being abusive. Condescension — however irritating one might find it — still operates within the realm of language, argument, and tone. It implies control. It implies structure. It implies that someone is responding to ideas.
When someone runs out of arguments and shifts to personal insults instead, that usually signals the substance is gone — and volume has taken over. 👏
If “oh darling” is the most offensive contribution in this exchange, then we’re clearly operating on very different definitions of decorum.
And just as an observation — when discussions devolve into insults instead of arguments, it’s rarely the calm participant who looks unreasonable. 🎭
I’ll leave it there.
EP23: https://www.mgtv.com/b/705834/24020767.html
They are without subs though.
I am watching from Germany...
https://kisskh.at/769667-chang-an-er-shi-si-ji#comment-24544486
Enjoy the read. I just get inspired by certain comments and things.
Yes, we see Huai An, Yan Feng Shan, the Tiemo king, and Xiao Wuyang acting. But that doesn’t automatically make all of them equal players. In fact, most of them are pawns — just on different layers of the game.
That’s why the chess metaphor matters here, but not as a rigid role assignment. Chess isn’t used to say “this person is the king, this one is the queen.” It’s a language for strategy. It describes information imbalance, proxy actions, sacrifice logic, and delayed outcomes. That’s exactly where the 24 Stratagems come in.
Being a pawn doesn’t mean being weak. In stratagem logic, pawns are mobile, disposable, often invisible — and frequently the most dangerous pieces because they’re underestimated.
If you look closely, there are actually multiple games running at once.
The first game is the one we never saw on screen: the Tiemo king in captivity. That’s where everything really starts. From that position, he gathers information, sends out the Shadowguard, and chooses Xie Huai An as a piece — without Huai An realizing he’s already on a larger board. Huai An believes he’s acting on his own revenge, but structurally, he’s already embedded in a wider operation. That doesn’t make Huai An stupid or weak — it shows how big the board actually is.
From the Tiemo king’s perspective, he is the king. Yan Feng Shan is the opposing king that needs to be checkmated. Huai An is the forward pawn — the one who carries risk so the real king stays protected.
From Xie Huai An’s perspective, though, he is the king. Yan Feng Shan is his opposing king. His allies and subordinates are the pawns he moves to reach checkmate — which he does, since Yan Feng Shan is now dead.
Both perspectives are true at the same time. That’s not a contradiction — it’s layered strategy. Who counts as “the king” depends entirely on which level of the game you’re looking at. That’s how multi-layered power plays work.
Once the Shadowguard is exposed as Tiemo’s agent, the game shifts again. The next phase is more open, less invisible — but also more dangerous. This is no longer just about eliminating enemies; it’s about control.
That’s where Huai An’s friends come in. The fact that it’s explicitly stated they must stay alive to keep Huai An controllable is not a throwaway line. It tells us that Huai An is valuable — but not autonomous. Emotional ties become the new reins.
And that naturally leads to the next game: not against Yan Feng Shan anymore, but against the emperor himself.
The emperor isn’t a fixed piece; he’s a variable. Is he fully awake? Fully aware? Already acting? Or still hidden? What is clear is that the Tiemo king knows exactly where the current emperor is, holds the deposed emperor in his grasp, and likely intends to use whichever one becomes useful. At this stage, the game shifts from elimination to legitimacy — not “who dies,” but “who counts.”
So yes, you can name four visible actors. But calling them all “players” misses the point. Most of them are pawns — powerful, dangerous pawns — operating on different boards at different times.
And that’s why the story works. It’s not a simple revenge plot. It’s a sequence of games with changing boards, shifting roles, and players who don’t always know which game they’re in.
That layered structure is exactly what makes it interesting.
What I’m saying is that a “happy ending” in the usual sense doesn’t fit this character or this story. That’s very different from self-destruction.
There’s a huge middle ground between
a cheerful, rewarded ending
and suicide
And that middle ground is exactly where Chinese dramas usually place characters like Xie Huai An — especially when censorship rules and narrative logic meet.
From a censorship perspective, this matters a lot. Under NRTA guidelines, a character who:
- operates through manipulation and deception,
- undermines institutions from within,
- and can be read as validating revenge as effective,
cannot be shown as emotionally rewarded for that path. He doesn’t have to die — but he also can’t be celebrated. That’s how the rulebook avoids promoting harmful social messages.
But even setting censorship aside, the bigger issue is coherence.
How could Xie Huai An be genuinely happy when:
- his entire family is dead,
- most of the people around him are dead or gone,
- and his life has been built on loss, control, and revenge?
Revenge doesn’t magically refill that void. It closes a chapter — it doesn’t heal anything.
So when people imagine him “sitting in a chair with a cat, smiling peacefully,” that would actually be the least realistic outcome — emotionally and narratively. Not because he deserves punishment, but because this story has never been about emotional reward.
A far more realistic ending — and one that does pass censorship — would look like this:
- he survives,
- the system stabilizes,
- he steps out of power or loses his central role,
- and he’s left with memory rather than fulfillment.
That’s not glorifying revenge.
That’s showing its cost.
And that’s exactly how Chinese dramas usually conclude arcs for morally gray leads:
- not dead, not triumphant, but contained.
As for polls or Cheng Yi’s hints — actors are careful with wording. “Hopeful,” “open,” or “bittersweet” doesn’t automatically mean happy. In C-drama language, it often means quiet, restrained, or emotionally unresolved.
So no — this isn’t about wanting him gone.
It’s about recognizing that a man who wins everything and loses everyone cannot plausibly walk away happy.
That wouldn’t be justice.
And it wouldn’t be human either.
You’re the one throwing around judgments without watching the drama or making any effort to understand why an age gap exists in the story. That’s not critique — that’s a knee-jerk reaction dressed up as moral superiority.
And let’s be clear: age-gap couples exist in real life. They’re legal, consensual, and functional. If your worldview implies they shouldn’t exist, then what you’re actually doing is trying to enforce your personal ideology onto everyone else — including fiction, history, and other viewers.
Posting negative takes about a show you haven’t even started watching is frankly poor form. It’s not commentary; it’s just throwing mud based on your own biases and calling it an opinion.
If you don’t like age-gap stories, don’t watch them. But misrepresenting a narrative you haven’t engaged with says far more about your approach than about the drama itself.
https://kisskh.at/769667-chang-an-er-shi-si-ji#comment-24539352
She mentioned that even the c nets are with her on that. But then again as mentioned by tantaijin when it comes to censorship ruling, he would be soooo dead...
I think as well that a happy ending wouldn't fit. Him sitting in the chair with a cat and then constantly thinking about everyone he has lost? Being misserable?
https://kisskh.at/discussions/769667-chang-an-er-shi-si-ji/147070-progress-review-a-friendly-look-at-the-vendetta-of-an
“No one lives a normal life” — yes. That’s intentional. You’re absolutely right: almost nobody in The Vendetta of An lives anything resembling a “normal” life. But that’s not bad writing or a weird setting — that’s the premise.
This isn’t a slice-of-life historical drama. It’s a story about what prolonged instability does to a society. When power is constantly contested, when survival depends on position rather than principle, normal life disappears first.
The series deliberately shows a world where:
- safety is temporary
- morality is conditional
- kindness stops being useful
That doesn’t mean the characters are “animals.”
It means they are humans trapped in a system that rewards inhuman behavior.
And more importantly: these characters aren’t meant to represent humanity at its best. They represent what humans become when ethics stop being functional — when greed takes over and power becomes the smallest, yet most destructive, goal people are willing to sacrifice everything for.
Greed and Power: when humanity collapses over “small” things - this is where characters like Yan Feng Shan are key.
Yan Feng Shan doesn’t just want to survive — he wants to remain in power, and he removes everyone who could threaten that position. He uses the young emperor. He uses ministers. He uses generals. He uses everyone.
Psychologically, people around him become dependent on him. They listen to him almost as if he were infallible — not because he is good, but because their own positions depend on his power. As long as he stays where he is, they get status, safety, influence.
That dependency is greed.
They don’t kill out of loyalty or belief.
They kill to survive and to stay relevant.
That’s why characters like Yan Feng Shan — and later Xie Huai An’s uncle — don’t kill because they value life. They kill because the system has trained them to equate survival with legitimacy. Staying alive means staying powerful. Losing relevance means death — political or literal.
Violence isn’t chaos — it’s filtered - it may feel like endless death, but there’s a clear pattern:
- People who kill openly lose power.
- People who make others kill gain it.
That’s not accidental.
Yan Feng Shan and Xie Huai An are actually very similar in this regard. Both rarely kill with their own hands. Both use others as tools. Both understand that direct violence stains you — but delegated violence strengthens your position.
So when the show feels like a killing spree, that doesn’t mean it lacks strategy. It means we’re watching the results, not the planning.
Violence here isn’t the goal.
It’s the side effect of power moving.
“Why cling to life without compassion?” - you’re asking a question the show is fully aware of:
Is a life like this still human?
The series doesn’t answer it emotionally. It answers it structurally.
These people aren’t fighting for happiness. They’re fighting for continued existence inside a system that punishes weakness. Compassion doesn’t disappear because they’re evil — it disappears because it stops being useful.
Calling them “animals” actually lets the system off the hook. Animals act on instinct. These people act on learned logic. That’s far more disturbing — and very human.
Episode 16: information is power - was it smart not letting the deposed emperor know his elder brother is awake?
Yes — absolutely.
In this series, information is currency. Once revealed, it can’t be controlled anymore. Keeping the elder brother’s state unclear preserves leverage.
The deposed emperor still has a role to play in the larger strategy. If he knew for certain that his older brother was awake and aware, he would crumble under fear and expose himself. Ambiguity keeps him usable.
The slip (“Brother, wake up fast”) isn’t bad writing — it’s pressure showing cracks. Even controlled people fail when emotions break through.
About the elder brother — your distrust is correct -and your instinct about the elder brother is right.
From the deposed emperor’s point of view, he is still the emperor — the legitimate ruler. That alone makes him dangerous. Trusting him would be naive.
He isn’t framed as a moral opposite or a safe option. He’s framed as another long-term variable. Someone who survives by appearing weak, silent, or harmless usually isn’t — especially not in this story.
The fact that he has already tried to kill Han Ziling confirms that survival instincts don’t disappear just because someone looks passive.
About the pacing — fair criticism - you’re also right that 28 episodes feel tight.
This story easily has material for 40–50 episodes. The politics, the character psychology, the delayed consequences — all of that suffers from compression. The ride feels choppy not because the story lacks depth, but because it has too much for the format.
That’s a production issue, not a conceptual one.
This drama isn’t asking whether revenge is justified.
It’s showing what revenge — combined with greed and power — turns people into when it’s executed efficiently.
Xie Huai An doesn’t win because he’s morally right.
Yan Feng Shan doesn’t fall because he’s uniquely evil.
They rise and fall because they understand — or misunderstand — how power actually works in a broken system.
And that’s why the story feels brutal, uncomfortable, and heavy.
That discomfort isn’t a flaw.
It’s the point.