At exactly midnight on December 18th, the premiere of Zhuang Hua Luo was released nationwide.

Even before its release, several major media companies in Huaxia had placed great expectations on the film, securing as many as 6,000 theaters for its opening screening. Even so, the midnight premiere boasted an impressive 90% occupancy rate!

Countless viewers, holding popcorn and drinks, sat excitedly in their seats, eagerly awaiting the start of the movie.

The opening scene of Zhuang Hua Luo unfolded amidst a torrential downpour.

The dim, heavy tones slowly settled the excitement in the audience’s hearts. On the desolate plains, over a dozen black stallions galloped at full speed. The riders pressed on through the pounding rain, their hooves thundering as if trampling directly inside the cinema, blending with the sounds of thunder and lightning, weaving a strange and ominous atmosphere.

Just then, the young man at the front flashed quickly across the screen. The long blade at his waist traced a dazzling arc, revealing a sharp flash of cold silver light.

“Hurry! His Majesty has issued three urgent imperial decrees! Escort Grand Minister Sheng back to the capital!”

With a crack of lightning and a roll of thunder, the screen returned to darkness. Then, just as seen in the earlier teaser, a silver blade pierced the screen, stamping three golden characters—

Zhuang Hua Luo.

Jinyiwei (Embroidered Uniform Guards) films have long been a popular genre in Huaxia’s historical action movies. Like Yuan Ke, who planned to shoot a Jinyiwei-themed movie next year after Lost City, this genre typically features the Jinyiwei as protagonists locked in struggle against the Eastern or Western Depot eunuchs. The secondary male lead—or the main villain—is usually a high-ranking eunuch with peerless martial arts, ultimately defeated in a climactic showdown.

Just as expected, Zhuang Hua Luo opened with the tragic and unexpected death of Grand Minister Sheng.

A dozen Jinyiwei were ordered to escort him back to the capital from Fujian, but along the way, the Minister fell gravely ill and perished. His family, however, did not escape so easily. Charged with treason, the entire Sheng household—over a hundred members—was mercilessly executed by the blade.

Before dying, the elderly Madam Sheng gazed skyward, her voice shrill and despairing: “Three generations of loyal service from the Sheng family! This injustice pierces the heavens! I pray to the heavens—bring snow in June, let blood spatter three feet, and clear our family’s name!”

With her words, the executioner’s blade fell. Madam Sheng’s eyes remained wide open, locked on the clear sky, truly dying with unresolved grievances. Yet the snow in June and the blood-stained justice existed only in tales; she never saw them fulfilled.

The film’s opening delivered a massive visual impact. Audiences immediately understood: the Sheng family was clearly innocent—framed, no doubt, by the corrupt eunuchs of the Eastern or Western Depot!

Liu Xiaozhen munched her popcorn, whispering to her friend: “Watch—Qin Cheng is definitely going to help clear the Sheng family’s name later.”

Her friend nodded furiously: “Definitely! I can’t wait to see God Qin appear!”

Liu Xiaozhen sighed but kept watching.

Liu Xiaozhen was a die-hard fan of Rong Xu, while her friend worshipped Qin Cheng. They were pure fans, and even though the premiere’s CP moments from the livestream earlier had made their hearts skip, they stubbornly resisted turning into CP shippers.

Just as Liu Xiaozhen predicted, the story progressed accordingly. Outside the execution grounds, a young, beautiful woman wept silently behind the crowd, staring at the Sheng family’s corpses.

As Madam Sheng died with wide, hate-filled eyes, the girl turned away, her expression blank.

The crowd at the execution grounds might not know her, but the audience did—this was Huang Lei, playing Sheng Xiangjun. With the surname Sheng, she was clearly the sole survivor of the Sheng family, destined to fuel the story’s revenge arc—surely she would seek out the male lead for help.

But if it were really that predictable, Director Liu wouldn’t be Director Liu.

Sheng Xiangjun vanished into the crowd, not to appear again for some time. Instead, the scene shifted to Qin Cheng’s entrance.

A cold wind whispered from the theater speakers. Night cloaked the empty streets once bustling by day. No—not entirely empty. One figure strode steadily from the distance. The sound of the night watchman echoed faintly as this man approached, his long hair tied back, swaying in the breeze.

Black boots, a wide belt, and at his waist—an exquisite and silent Xiuchun Dao, its sheath engraved with intricate patterns. The camera panned upward, revealing the ornate Zhuang Hua Luo embroidery on his chest just as he stopped walking, pale lips coming into view.

Squeals erupted in the theater. Just by that mouth alone, fans knew instantly—it was their idol!

But before they could fully soak it in, seven or eight masked assassins appeared from the rooftops. A stunning fight broke out. The cold, sharp man didn’t even draw his blade at first, dancing like a phantom among them, blocking strikes with the scabbard.

A single palm sent an enemy flying three meters. A swift spinning kick felled another with a dull groan.

Then the blade was drawn. The rest was butchery. Every strike claimed a head, fountains of crimson spraying like morbid blossoms. In mere seconds, seven bodies fell.

The last assassin staggered back in terror, turning to flee—only to have a slender, deadly blade pierce his heart.

Frozen, he turned slowly, trying to speak—but could only stammer “Kong… Kong…” before collapsing dead.

In the lonely alley, the handsome man calmly sheathed his bloodied blade, its arc slicing beautifully through the air.

The theater was utterly silent. Liu Xiaozhen, her hand still in the popcorn bucket, gaped at the screen. Her friend grabbed her arm, whispering breathlessly, “So handsome, so handsome! Did you see, Xiaozhen? God Qin is so freaking handsome!!!”

Liu Xiaozhen swallowed hard.

He really was stunning.

Little did they know this was only the beginning. Qin Cheng’s action scenes kept coming, dazzlingly choreographed and breathtaking.

The stoic and cold Commander of the Jinyiwei, Kong Zhao, lived in a modest residence. Word of the Sheng family massacre spread among the Jinyiwei, but Kong Zhao remained indifferent. In private, he had once sighed to a friend that he never expected the Grand Minister to meet such an end—but it had nothing to do with the Jinyiwei.

Until, a month later, one of the Jinyiwei who escorted the Minister was found dead.

Kong Zhao investigated personally and ruled the man died in the line of duty—murdered by enemies.

But it didn’t stop there. Two weeks later, another died. Then two months later, another.

Eleven months on, nine out of the original escort were dead. Only two remained—one an old friend from Kong Zhao’s hometown.

That night, Kong Zhao invited his friend for drinks. When the moon rose high and the friend didn’t arrive, dread filled Kong’s heart. Grabbing his sword, he rushed out—only to find his friend, bloodied and dying, collapsing into his arms.

The nineteen-year-old gasped, clutching Kong Zhao’s chest, trying to speak—but only gurgling blood came out. Moments later, he died with wide, fearful eyes.

The audience sat tense, holding their breath.

Earlier, an Eastern Depot officer had quarreled with Kong Zhao—surely they were behind this.

Kong Zhao buried his friend and went to the palace.

Some are seen before heard. Others—before sight—are revealed by their hand.

“Commander Kong Zhao…?” A clear, elegant voice filled the theater. A gentle smile lingered in its tone. Rong Xu fans gasped and lit up with joy.

On the grand screen, a fair, slender hand gently stirred dark herbal medicine in a jade bowl. Every flick of the wrist cooled the mixture with a soft breath.

A sharp eunuch’s voice rang: “Yes, Your Highness, Commander Kong Zhao waits outside. He’s been there for nearly an hour.”

A faint smile, a sigh. The camera returned to the graceful hand.

“Let him wait longer. His Majesty slumbers still—another two hours at least. Tell Commander Kong to leave, lest he suffer the cold.”

“Yes.”

The eunuch scurried out. Pale yellow curtains fell again, hiding the figure behind them. A thin, tall shadow moved to the bedside, gently stirring the bowl, tirelessly.

And so the Rong Xu fans all thought:

“…Seriously?!”

Qin Cheng, Huang Lei, even the veteran actor playing the villain had full scenes—but Rong Xu’s Prince showed only his hand?!

Only now did the audience realize the meaning of “third male lead.”

Rong Xu’s role was small—just this glimpse early on. Later, as Kong Zhao traced the assassin’s trail, he rescued the last Sheng orphan, Sheng Xiangjun, from a brothel. The girl fell to her knees, bloody from frantic kowtows, begging for help.

And Kong Zhao’s trail eventually led him straight to the Eastern Depot.

The Eastern Depot’s Grand Director had a nephew in Fujian who committed a crime two years prior. Grand Minister Sheng discovered this, and the grand eunuch sent lavish gifts, hoping Sheng would spare the life of his last remaining blood relative. But how could a man as upright and incorruptible as Grand Minister Sheng possibly show mercy? He executed the nephew without hesitation, and from that moment on, he and the Eastern Depot’s Grand Director became mortal enemies.

All the clues pointed directly to the Eastern Depot, and Kong Zhao clashed with its agents at every turn. But because the Emperor favored the eunuchs of the Eastern Depot, Kong Zhao couldn’t investigate too deeply; he was forced to secretly infiltrate their inner circle and was seriously wounded in the process.

On this particular day, he hid the knife wound at his waist and returned home—only to find the Crown Prince waiting for him in his house.

As the door swung open, bright sunlight spilled into the room, instantly illuminating the young prince standing inside.

As a Jinyiwei, Kong Zhao had glimpsed the Crown Prince before in the shadows, but this was the first time they met face-to-face. A tall, slender figure stood with his back to him at the table. Hearing the door, the man slowly turned around, clear eyes shining with a gentle smile, lips slightly curved—time itself seemed to freeze in that moment.

Kong Zhao’s eyes narrowed, stunned as he stared at the man.

A soft chuckle broke the silence, as the young, handsome Crown Prince gave a calm smile and said:
“Commander Kong.”

He wore a jade-white robe, his refined, painting-like features glowing gently in the light. His long black hair was tied high with a jade crown. His faint smile radiated such brilliance that the theater audience, especially Rong Xu’s fans who had been stewing in frustration, collectively gasped—mouths agape in awe, some murmuring: “Since Rong Rong… is this beautiful, I forgive him.”

At last, after endless waiting, he appeared.

This elegant and gentle Crown Prince listened patiently as Kong Zhao spoke of the slaughtered Jinyiwei.

The scene could have been a painting—one man speaking steadily, the other listening quietly. When Kong Zhao reached the crucial point, both men lifted their eyes simultaneously, exchanging a look of perfect understanding.

The story then accelerated rapidly. Kong Zhao had long uncovered clues pointing to the Eastern Depot but lacked a legitimate reason to enter. Then, three years after the Sheng family’s execution, he suddenly appeared in the Eastern Depot holding the Crown Prince’s jade command token—and found the final, decisive evidence.

The Grand Director of the Eastern Depot was a fearsome martial master; in his hands, Kong Zhao barely won the battle, suffering grave wounds. He handed the evidence to the Crown Prince, who sighed softly—then redressed the injustice against the Sheng family, restoring their good name.

By all rights, the film should have ended there. Many viewers were already expecting the closing credits. But some checked the time on their phones and were surprised:
“Eh?! There are still more than twenty minutes left?”

Kong Zhao had avenged his thirteen fallen brothers and cleared the Sheng family’s name. Worn and weary of court life, he resigned and returned to his hometown—only to encounter a gentle young woman as soon as he arrived.

Liu Xiaozhen munched her last handful of popcorn, puzzled: “Is the last twenty minutes about the male and female leads’ love story?”

Her friend laughed: “As long as I get to see more of God Qin, I don’t care.”

Liu Xiaozhen nodded in agreement.

As they guessed, the following scenes seemed to depict Kong Zhao and Sheng Xiangjun’s secluded life together. Yet Kong Zhao never formally married her, always addressing her as “Miss Sheng,” while her gaze betrayed her deep affection.

He farmed by day and rested at dusk; she sewed and washed at home—their life as peaceful and simple as that of any rural couple.

Three quiet years passed. The bloody storms of court seemed distant and irrelevant.

One day, a royal decree announced that the Emperor would abdicate in three days.

Hearing this in town, Kong Zhao smiled faintly, thinking of an old friend. Back home, he told Sheng Xiangjun the news; she rejoiced for the Crown Prince, their family’s benefactor.

The audience enjoyed the slow, pleasant scenes. Liu Xiaozhen grinned and whispered: “At this pace, maybe my Rong Rong will appear again at the end.”

But just two minutes later, her smile froze.

On the screen, Sheng Xiangjun stared in disbelief at a blood-stained flying fish robe. She quickly copied the strange embroidery pattern and gave it to Kong Zhao. His eyes widened, fingers clenching the paper as he slowly ground out the words:
“A cat… swapped for the crown prince!”

What happened next exceeded every viewer’s imagination.

Some things go unnoticed until revealed—then past details flood back.

For example: Before fighting Kong Zhao, the Eastern Depot’s Grand Director had read a letter over and over by the window before burning it and going off to his death. The audience had assumed it was incriminating evidence—but it had been a death order from Zhu Molang himself.

Or how the Eastern Depot agents had surrendered the moment they saw the Crown Prince’s jade token. Everyone thought they obeyed because the Crown Prince now held power. But they’d forgotten: from the start, both the Eastern Depot and the Jinyiwei answered to the Emperor alone. Kong Zhao had been afraid to meet the Prince secretly—so why had the Eastern Depot bowed so easily?

Because it had all been the Crown Prince’s trap. Each Jinyiwei death had been carefully planned. Accidents in the line of duty were normal—but Kong Zhao, sensing something amiss, refused to believe his old friend had simply died on assignment.

Once Zhu Molang noticed Kong Zhao’s suspicion, he wove an intricate net just for him.

He deliberately planted clues, letting Kong Zhao “discover” the truth, leading him straight to the Eastern Depot. But the Depot was the Prince’s pawn all along—the Grand Director, the Prince’s man, was sacrificed willingly. In the end, the Prince even used this setup to publicly clear the Sheng family’s name.

The film’s final ten minutes were more gripping than the two hours before.

A prince led troops to surround the palace, shouting:
“The Crown Prince is a fraud!”

In the grand hall, the Emperor repeatedly demanded answers; the Crown Prince knelt silently. His thin frame remained straight as the wind lifted his hair, revealing a pale, flawless face—gentle as jade.

“Father,”
the low, calm voice finally rang out, stunning the theater into silence.

The voice held no trace of guilt—still gentle, like every past appearance of Zhu Molang. He was always warm and kind—a merciful prince, a benevolent ruler, as soft as a spring breeze that made you believe such goodness could exist in the world.

And now, kneeling here under countless accusing stares, he softly asked:
“Father… do you believe me?”

Silence was the Emperor’s only reply.

At last, Zhu Molang chuckled faintly, self-mocking. Lifting his head, his clear, handsome face filled the giant screen—bright eyes, faint smile, still every bit the graceful Crown Prince, even as thousands of soldiers leveled spears at his back.

Looking gently at his father, he sighed and whispered:
“You don’t believe me.”

Liu Xiaozhen’s throat tightened. Memories surged: how he had cared endlessly for his ailing father, appearing most often in the Emperor’s bedchamber; how even cold, proud Kong Zhao had admired him, once telling Sheng Xiangjun:
“The Crown Prince is the man I respect most in this life.”

But now, here he knelt—betrayed, accused—exposed by that same loyal man who led soldiers to strip away his last mask.

Yet his calm, warm smile never changed. Even with tears shimmering in his eyes, he did not weep. Looking at his shocked, panicked father, he suddenly rose and seized the Emperor himself.

The father he had nursed with such devotion for ten long years now stared in horror.

Chaos erupted. Amid flying blades and shouting soldiers, he held the Emperor hostage, struggling to escape the palace. Swords tore his royal robes, exposing bloody wounds; he stood before the half-open palace gates and cried:
“Open the gate!”

In a flash, an arrow pierced his palm. With a cry of pain, he staggered back.

The gate creaked open—halfway.

Covered in blood and disheveled hair, he fled desperately toward freedom. Then—suddenly—he stopped.

Eyes widening slightly, the proud and beautiful Crown Prince watched as a tall, cold man stepped through the gate, Xiuchun Dao in hand.

That blade pierced straight through his heart.

The bleak, urgent music fell silent.

Liu Xiaozhen clapped a hand over her mouth—and felt the chill of tears on her face. Only then did she realize she had been crying all along. The theater held its breath, hearts sinking like stones, stunned silent by the sight of Kong Zhao’s blade through Zhu Molang’s chest.

But the pierced man simply lowered his head, glancing at the sword in his chest—then slowly turned to face his killer.

Blood gushed from his mouth, yet his gaze was gentle and regretful as he softly whispered a chiding question, lips curling into a faint, tender smile:

“Kong Zhao… doing this to me… does your conscience… not ache even a little?”

The Jinyiwei commander’s pupils trembled. His lips parted slightly, but in the end, he said nothing.

Next, the Emperor rushed forward and cradled his most beloved Crown Prince, sobbing as he called for the imperial physicians. But the Crown Prince’s lips curled into a faint smile, as if he had forgotten his wounds entirely—he only smiled gently. He could hear his father holding him tightly, promising he would never harm him, never take his life.

But at this moment, he could no longer utter a single word.

His eyes slowly closed—and then he saw Sheng Xiangjun.

…

Deep within the palace, the Grand Director of the Eastern Depot knelt before him, reporting the events that had unfolded in Fujian. After a long silence, the prince shut his eyes and asked softly:
“Grand Minister Sheng committed treason. Eunuch, what is the punishment for treason?”

The Grand Director paused, stunned, then slowly lowered his head and answered:
“Extermination of the entire family.”

…

Then he saw his father once more.

…

Amid painted eaves and carved beams—ten years ago, the Emperor, still healthy, had patiently taught him how to handle state affairs. The loving father gazed at him with pride, nodding approvingly:
“My dear Lang’er—clever, virtuous, benevolent, and upright. After I pass into the afterlife, I can rest easy knowing you will rule.”

The young prince frowned slightly and earnestly objected:
“Father, you are the true Son of Heaven. Why speak of death?”

…

His gaze shifted—and he saw that bloodstained sword, saw the silent Jinyiwei Commander staring at him. The prince’s smile bloomed brighter. His splendid robe, now sullied with blood and dust; his disheveled hair spilling onto the floor—but his once-bright eyes slowly dimmed, growing heavy and powerless.

At last, all faded to darkness.

In the theater, Liu Xiaozhen couldn’t stop crying. She didn’t know why exactly—but seeing someone once so brilliant, so flawless, fall to such an end made her heart ache unbearably. Not just because he was her beloved Rong Rong—but because of this person, this character himself.

Yet even then, the film did not end.

The screen shifted abruptly.

Beneath a clear, moonlit sky, Kong Zhao and Zhu Molang sat at a stone table, drinking together.

They laughed and talked freely—about the stars and the earth, the people and the court. In the wine reflected a bright full moon. The Crown Prince raised his cup, smiling gently as he spoke, before falling silent, his eyes soft as he looked at the slightly drunk Kong Zhao slumped on the table.

“Lord Kong… why do you always look at me like that?”

Moonlight formed a beautiful halo around the young man’s figure; he smiled softly, his beauty outshining the very moon.

Kong Zhao squinted tipsily at the stunning prince, dazed, confused—until at last he chuckled lowly and murmured:
“Your Highness commands my respect… my admiration.”

The prince pouted slightly:
“Are we not friends, Lord Kong? Why still so formal? I thought you weren’t like those stiff scholars, always clinging to rank and status—but perhaps I was wrong.”

“…Molang.”

The prince froze.

Surprise flickered across his fair, handsome face; his eyes widened as the drunken Jinyiwei chuckled again and said:
“Zhu Molang.”

And with that, Kong Zhao collapsed face-first onto the table, dead drunk.

For a long moment, Zhu Molang stood silent—then laughed quietly. Rising, he sighed and lifted the heavy man, supporting him awkwardly as he muttered:
“Kong Zhao, oh Kong Zhao… besides Father, you are the first person I’ve ever cared for this much. Fine, I’ll not quarrel with a drunkard tonight.”

The prince struggled to bear the tall man’s weight, staggering toward the house.

Creaaak—the door opened.
Creaaak—the door closed.

The screen dimmed. Grand, mournful music swelled suddenly. When the audience blinked back to awareness, they were once again at the abdication ceremony.

A bloodied hand fell to the floor with a soft thud—forever still.

This was the same hand that had just rested on Kong Zhao’s shoulder, guiding him into the house. But now it lay in the dirt—its pale skin stark against the dark earth.

Not noble. Not royal. Just returned to the dust—perhaps where he truly belonged.

The Emperor let out a soul-wrenching cry:
“Lang’er!”

The screen faded to black once more—and this time, there was nothing more.

The film had truly ended.

As the credits rolled upward, countless young girls in the theater could no longer hold back their tears, their makeup ruined from crying. Liu Xiaozhen sobbed endlessly; she hated Kong Zhao so much—but reason told her he had done nothing wrong.

She wanted to complain to her friend—but then remembered: her friend was a die-hard fan of Qin Cheng (Kong Zhao’s actor). So she bit her lip and wiped her tears in silence—until her friend suddenly burst out, furious and indignant:

“Scumbag! Kong Zhao is such a scumbag! A heartless bastard! Scumbag, scumbag, scumbag!!”

Liu Xiaozhen froze:
“…?!”

She never expected that right after, a girl sitting in front of them would whirl around, face streaked with tears, and angrily cry out:

“Exactly! Scumbag! Took everything and ran! Ran away and even killed the gorgeous Crown Prince QAQ! He’s inhuman!!”

Her friend immediately agreed:
“Yes, inhuman—boohoohoohoo!”

Liu Xiaozhen:
“…”

EXM?! Were we watching the same movie?!

__

Author’s Note:
Qin fans: Scumbag! Scumbag! Scumbag!!!

Qin Cheng: …(I must’ve attracted a bunch of fake fans.)

Rong Rong: “Does your conscience not ache.jpg”