CrimsonQuill

How to Lose a Plot in 40 Episodes — and Still Walk Away with Liu Yuning's Spine Intact

★★★☆☆ (5/10) — Four stars for Liu Yuning’s lumbar courage, one for the costume budget, zero for narrative mercy.

Some dramas are good. Some are bad. And some exist in that rare third category: the genre-bending fever dream you watch out of loyalty, finish out of morbid curiosity, and then question your entire concept of narrative coherence.

Let’s start with the central mystery: What genre is this?

Is it a romance? No, unless you define romance as one person emotionally bleeding out while the other flicks metaphysical riddles at them. Is it satire? Perhaps. Parody? Sometimes. A parody of a parody? Getting warmer. A slow-burn fantasy with a twist of self-awareness? Possibly, if the “twist” snapped the narrative spine somewhere around episode 12 and nobody told the scriptwriters.

This is not a slow-burn romance, it’s more of a cold shoulder in silk robes. And yet, like many viewers, I clicked play. Why? Three reasons:

The poster, which promised epic fantasy and emotional depth.
The premise, which teased brilliance through narrative self-reference.
Liu Yuning, whose performance, spine, and general ability to suffer gracefully on screen have become the stuff of legend.

He enters as the God of Death, cloaked in threat and charisma, a walking, brooding contradiction of pain and purpose. But as episodes pass, he degrades into what can only be described as the Patron Saint of Emotional Begging. Watching him go from divine menace to doormat philosopher is both impressive and heartbreaking.

And the FL? She knows she's in a novel world. She has foreknowledge of events. She understands the narrative setup. In short, she holds the cheat codes. And what does she do? She gaslights the ML, fumbles assassination plans, and drops half-baked existential quotes like fortune cookies from a bad philosophy class. This could’ve been the smart kind of self-aware fiction, where a character leverages story logic to reshape her fate. Instead, we got 31 episodes of emotional whirligig, poorly planned sabotage, and dialogue that could be summarised as: “Yes, I’m hurting you. But it’s because I read the spoilers.”

Her reactions? Inexplicable. Her growth? Non-existent. Her emotional intelligence? Hovering somewhere between “toddler in a tantrum” and “taxidermied Victorian doll.” And the dialogue? Forget poetic, every line sounds like she's haggling over bootleg scrolls at a metaphysical flea market. Again, this isn’t the actress’s fault. Clearly someone behind the camera instructed her to exceed parody and she committed with wild-eyed determination.

This is not what a heroine should do in a self-aware fiction drama. What should she do?

Observe the narrative structure and learn its rules.
Make allies- power in fiction equals survival.
Use foreknowledge to evolve strategically.
Stop weaponising emotional trauma as plot filler.
Build an actual arc- with intention, consequences, and vulnerability.

Instead, she walks in philosophical circles, drags the ML along with half-truths, and treats emotional consistency like an optional side quest.

Now, let’s talk about writing.

A good script, especially one dealing with stories that reflect on their own structure and romance, needs three things:

Character Consistency- Development, not regression.
Emotional Logic- If we can’t follow the “why,” we stop caring about the “what.”
Earned Moments- Big scenes must be built upon, not dropped in like surprise confetti from a broken ceiling.

This show ignores all three. Pacing oscillates like a caffeinated metronome. Plot arcs appear and vanish like side characters in a dream. Emotional payoffs? Denied. Instead, we get… the bite scene.

Yes. That cringe-crowned moment when the ML, bleeding from a sword wound and barely conscious, is violently shaken and then bitten by the FL in an act that’s equal parts rabid and romantic-adjacent. No tenderness. No catharsis. Just… jaw-dropping nonsense. The kind of scene that makes you question not the actors, but the writer’s grasp of human interaction, or gravity.

And the Crown Prince? Introduced as a man with the comedic energy of someone who might grow donkey ears and burst into song, he later pulls off a sword-wielding redemption arc. How? No one knows. He undergoes a 180° emotional transformation faster than a Netflix recap can say “previously on.” The Emperor, meanwhile, spends what feels like an eternity inventing increasingly sadistic punishments for his son, only to pivot without warning into "Father of the Year" mode. Don’t look for logic here. Our scriptwriter clearly believed they were penning the drama of the century, possibly while sipping hallucinogenic tea or something far stronger.

Even Gárgamel, with his cat Azrael, had clearer motivation than our eyebrow-wielding villain here. And at least Gárgamel knew what he wanted (Smurfs). This villain? He sneers. He raises an eyebrow. He plots vaguely. He exists in a state of permanent dramatic squint, delivering monologues that suggest he thinks he's in Macbeth while everyone else is stuck in Scooby-Doo. With every new plan, he seems one cackle away from asking where the smurfs went. It’s not menace, it’s theatrical confusion. His villainy becomes so exaggerated it borders on self-parody. It’s not that he twirls an actual mustache, it’s more like he’s auditioning for the role of a moustachioed villain straight out of the melodrama bargain bin.

Which brings us to the supporting cast, criminally underused and suspiciously better written. The Nightwalkers? An intriguing and promising concept, sadly underused and left mostly unexplored. The sister? More logical, more emotionally full of subtlety. Fu Gui? A minor character with more clarity and heart than the entire central arc.

Cinematography? Competent. Wardrobe? Sumptuous and repetitive, at least if you're the FL, condemned to recycle the same gown in several key episodes. The ML’s outfits, on the other hand, seem to have enjoyed both budget and narrative respect. Pacing? Like a rubber band stretched too thin over a 40-episode arc. Dialogue? Cringe-worthy at best, with failed attempts at humour that never quite land.

And the ending?

Equal parts predictable and nonsensical, a rare feat. I watched the final stretch at 2x speed, not because I was bored, but because I needed to emotionally outrun the plot.

So what is this drama?

Not a romance. A romance requires mutual emotional investment, vulnerability, and growth. This gave us martyrdom, manipulation, and confusion. Not a parody either, parody implies purpose. This felt more like someone spilled three genres into a blender, added eyeliner and trauma, and hoped for magic.

And yet. Liu Yuning stands tall. His character bleeds, breaks, and somehow survives, narratively, emotionally, and physically. He lends gravitas to a script that doesn’t deserve him, making the unwatchable nearly worthwhile. He does it all armed with nothing but cheekbones and that gaze, the kind that carries centuries of suffering and half the audience’s emotional investment. In the end, this isn’t a drama. It’s a hostage situation. One where the script holds its characters captive, and only LYN attempts a jailbreak, with no tools but his eyes and a well-fitted cloak.

Would I recommend it? Only with caveats.

If you’ve just emerged from the raw anguish of Moon Lovers, the sharp narrative elegance of Story of Kunning Palace, or the unexpected emotional payoff of The Prisoner of Beauty, my advice is simple: give this one a miss, or at least, wait. Let the memory of strong writing cleanse your palate. This drama might wear the costume of intelligence and genre experimentation, but beneath the surface, it sells you a sheep in wolf’s clothing, and expects applause.

Me? I’m off to rewatch Story of the Kunning Palace and TPOB. I need to remember what good writing looks like.

This is just my personal take, and I hope no one gets offended, everyone’s tastes are different, just like in my book club where we all have our own opinions. If you loved this drama, that’s awesome! I’m happy for you. All I ask is that you respect my view, too. After all, variety is what makes stories interesting… even if sometimes the flavour’s not quite to my taste.

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A Drama Adrift in Beauty and Hesitation

I thoroughly enjoyed the first installment of this saga, Flourished Peony. It was a richly woven drama where visual splendour met emotional depth, anchored by two leads whose chemistry is both undeniable and deeply refined. In my view, they rank among the finest actors working in Chinese television today. That said, I haven't always connected with all their previous performances, but here, at least in terms of craf, they were outstanding.

With such a solid foundation, I approached In the Name of Blossom with genuine anticipation. It promised a continuation both narratively and emotionally. And yet, despite flashes of brilliance, this second part ultimately falters. While the production values remain high and the acting commendable, the story’s rhythm slackens. The romantic thread, for one, takes far too long to gain momentum. What begins as a slow burn teeters dangerously close to narrative inertia. At times, the focus on the heroine’s professional journey and the broader commercial landscape overwhelms the emotional core. A viewer can endure extended tension, but only if met with meaningful emotional rewards. Unfortunately, here, those are few and far between.

A particular source of narrative frustration lies in the portrayal of the Emperor. For a man endowed with absolute authority, he comes across as curiously impotent, lurking in the shadows, plotting with unnecessary subtlety while his brother openly schemes against him. One can appreciate the need for tension and intrigue, but realism, and dramatic satisfaction, suffers when power is wielded so passively.

Equally, I found myself longing for a narrative decision that never came: for Mu Dan to be elevated from concubine to principal wife. I'm aware that such transitions may be culturally complex or historically rare, but in the realm of drama, where symbolic gestures can resonate powerfully, it would have given their relationship the weight and worth it deserved. I was reminded of a moment in the recent drama "Are You the One", where the FL, with calm certainty, tells the ML that if he truly loved her, he would never ask her to accept the role of a mere concubine. That line stayed with me, not because it was emphatic , but because it was resolute.

Moreover, the ending lacked the emotional climax one might expect. When the lovers reunite after believing each other lost, the moment feels strangely muted. One anticipates a release of long-suppressed emotion, a reckoning with grief and hope, but instead, the scene lands flat, as if afraid of its own emotional potential. The final episodes suffer from the same affliction: an overabundance of symbolic gestures, ships, markets, carts laden with goods, gestures of goodwill to the less fortunate, that, while aesthetically beautiful, begin to feel didactic rather than dramatic.

Still, there are elements worth cherishing. The secondary cast, particularly Mu Dan’s circle of female companions, bring texture, warmth, and humour. The music, delicate and atmospheric, lingers in the background like a thread of mist, subtle, but ever-present. And the costumes and makeup are nothing short of exquisite: richly detailed, elegant, and evocative of another time.

In the end, In the Name of Blossom is a beautifully produced continuation that, while ambitious, never quite lives up to the emotional strength of its predecessor. It’s clear that the creators poured their hearts into it, but the script, for all its lyricism and political intrigue, failed to move me.

That said, I would love nothing more than to see these two lead actors reunited in a future project. Their chemistry is cinematic gold, only this time, may the writing rise to meet them.

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Beyond Tropes and Timid Hearts: A Chinese Drama That Dares to Love Deeply

It had been a long time since I truly enjoyed a Chinese drama the way I did with The Prisoner of Beauty. This series captivated me from the start with its compelling performances and the beautifully communicated bond between the main couple. The storyline was thoughtfully woven, mature, and emotionally resonant—free from the exaggerated comedic tropes that often lead me to abandon other dramas.

What stood out most was the profound sincerity in the dialogues, the elegance of the cinematography, and the quiet strength of the romantic moments—each one simmering slowly, patiently, like a love that knows its depth. The soundtrack, the supporting cast, the intricate set design, especially the stately mansions, all added richness and nuance to the narrative.

This drama has earned its place among my favorites, and I can already tell it’s one I will return to more than once. I only wish more writers, directors, and actors would take note of what a truly mature, intelligent romance looks like—rooted in character, emotion, and genuine connection.

Now that it’s over, I find myself unsure of what to watch next. Perhaps I’ll revisit other favorites while I wait for another rare gem like this one to come along. But for now, I’m left with the warmth of this beautiful ending and the sorrow of Xiao Tao’s final goodbye to her general.

A perfect 10 in romance.

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you—is not that strange?” — William Shakespeare

A final note: The lead actors, Song Zu'er and Liu Yuning, absolutely deserve to work together again. Their chemistry was nothing short of extraordinary. Liu Yuning, in particular, has quickly become one of my favorite actors. His presence—his height, his gaze, that quiet strength in his smile—makes him the perfect blend of hero and antihero (the kind I always fall for, especially when love redeems them in the end). He has a brilliant career ahead, and I would love to see him in a serious, emotionally complex modern romance, perhaps playing a commanding boss falling for a strong subordinate. I’ll gladly watch anything he does—and the same goes for Song Zu’er.

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