Director Cao Yiwen Reveals the Making of The Legend of Zang Hai

If you're still haunted by the twists and emotional gut-punches of The Legend of Zang Hai (藏海传), you're not alone. Whether it's the tangled web of loyalty between Zang Hai and his mentor Zhao Bingwen, or the eerie suspense surrounding the elusive "third man," social media remains ablaze with fan theories and character dissections.

And here's the kicker—unlike your typical revenge fantasy where the protagonist rises through sheer plot armor, The Legend of Zang Hai gives us a tragic, deeply psychological hero. Zang Hai's arc has become a spiritual sinkhole fans can't stop falling into. Viewers don't just watch him—they breathe with him.

What made this slow-burn success possible? According to the show's general director Zheng Xiaolong, much of the credit goes to a fresh face behind the camera: young director Cao Yiwen, whose approach breathed new life into the genre. His unique directorial style has fostered a whole ecosystem of fan-made scripts and alternative readings—what Chinese netizens call "wild screenwriters" (meaning audiences passionately creating their own interpretations and continuations of the plot).

Tracing Cao's Creative Footprint

Rewind to 2020, and you'll find Cao's name on another unconventional title: To Love (最初的相遇,最后的别离). It wasn't just another noir-tinged romance—it brought a dual narrative structure to Chinese suspense dramas that felt unexpectedly fresh. Back then, Cao was already showing signs of a genre disruptor, someone with an eye for structure and emotional rhythm.

Fast forward five years, and Cao's grasp of the director's craft has clearly matured. He now navigates storytelling with more ease, more control—and far more ambition. Just as The Legend of Zang Hai wrapped up its final episodes on CCTV, Cao sat down with New Drama Watch for a rare in-depth interview. From his early childhood inspirations to studying abroad, the conversation peeled back the curtain on a director who doesn't boast loudly, but builds deeply.

Cao Yiwen's story doesn't begin in front of a TV screen—he's what you'd call an "atypical TV kid." While many in his generation grew up on long-form soap operas, Cao was elsewhere entirely—wandering through the immersive universes of movies, animation, and video games.

His earliest screen obsession? Not just a cartoon, but a full-on animated film: Lotus Lantern (宝莲灯). He still recalls the chilling thrill of watching a shapeshifting hound-man (哮天犬) dart through illusions, with Jiang Wen's unmistakably gravelly voice adding a layer of menace. "Maybe I didn't grasp the symbolism back then," Cao says, "but something about the sound and image just grabbed me."

That childhood fascination had consequences—he was wearing glasses before most kids even knew their vision was blurry. But more importantly, it planted a seed: the dream to direct. When he first watched Batman, his focus wasn't on the crime-fighting—he was wondering how the hell they filmed that. While other eight-year-olds were still dreaming of becoming astronauts or athletes, Cao had locked onto one goal: become a director and tell stories that feel like this.

Cao's love of video games wasn't just about play—it was early training. Games taught him how shifting perspectives could shape a player's emotional immersion. That idea would later form the backbone of his dual-thread storytelling in To Love.

And it's not just technical flair—Cao brings urgency to his work. His desire to direct wasn't born from imitation, but from a deeper hunger: the need to express, to connect, to move. Whether through split timelines or cryptic characters, what drives him is always the same—the chase for emotional truth.

Cao Yiwen, who grew up in Beijing, often describes his childhood experiences as providing a general direction, while his later study abroad in the United States gave his directing dream a clearly visible path. He enrolled at the University of Southern California (USC) to study Film Production. This period marked a crucial step in his journey—from romantic imagination toward professional refinement.

Cao explains that the core design of the Film Production curriculum is to immerse participants in the entire filmmaking process, from script development to final post-production, rather than focusing solely on directing as a single role. He emphasizes, "You experience the script, pre-production, principal photography, and post-production—all of it." This systematic training gave him a clear understanding and deep respect for every single "screw" in the film industry's machinery.

Crafting Movie Magic Through Sound

A special elective course on sound became a turning point in his creative perspective. From on-location recording and sound design to the final mixing, he and his partner completed a full-cycle sound experiment and took part in senior-level film projects. Cao realized, "Sound is often overlooked but absolutely essential. We can't tell stories with visuals alone—sound is also a powerful vehicle to enrich the world and deepen the narrative."

From that point on, sound's role in his creative framework evolved from mere background accompaniment to a vital part of storytelling. The way ambient sound transitions—from silence to noise—as an elevator descends profoundly shaped his directing style, which is especially evident in The Legend of Zang Hai.

He shares a striking example showing his authorial intention: At the opening of The Legend of Zang Hai, Kuai Duo holds a torch and cautiously leads several people deep into a cave. In the vast darkness, the elevator slowly descends, barely lit by flickering torchlight. For this scene's sound design, Cao deliberately removed all environmental sounds to create a suffocating sense of emptiness and unease. "This was to highlight the immense hollow space and the danger of the characters' location." When the next shot cuts to a close-up, sound suddenly floods in, producing a sharp sensory contrast.

"Sound's emotional impact can subconsciously create tension even more than visuals," he says. By skillfully balancing the presence and absence of sound, he synchronizes the audience's heartbeat with the unfolding drama. When Zang Hai is thrown into prison by Zhao Bingwen, tortured with tie jia guan (贴加官, paper pasted on his mouth and nose), viewers famously felt like they "couldn't breathe through the screen." Some "fun-watchers" even jokingly reminded others, based on spoilers in the drama calendar, that "you can breathe when the paper is pasted."

In this sequence, Cao intentionally preserved and amplified the footsteps in the environment. For him, the urgency doesn't come from the individual sheets of mulberry paper stuck on Zang Hai's face but from "the near-stagnant atmosphere of the entire environment." Cao explains, "It's like cutting out the entire time and space—including that environment—and preserving it as a specimen. What the audience sees is the whole, not just a snapshot."

This meticulous attention to detail across all filmmaking phases extends deeply into sound. He also mentions a concept—"Cinematically Satisfying Sound" (CSS)—which means sound that transcends real life, artistically refined for film. For instance, the creak of leather shoes on rotten wood or the crisp shattering of objects are sounds we encounter in real life but are actually created through foley and sound synthesis during production. The goal is to deliver an auditory experience that is "more perfect than reality."

Cutting with Rhythm

In his view, editing is a "second creation of the footage"—a crucial process that reshapes narrative rhythm, refines performances, and breathes soul into the music. As a director, he insists on deeply involving himself in the entire post-production editing phase. "The primary goal of editing is to conceal flaws—correct the regrets from shooting and amplify the strengths."

The much-discussed "Long Night in Dayong" sequence spanning episodes 27-28 of The Legend of Zang Hai remains a hot topic among fans, full of details worthy of close scrutiny: Zang Hai transforms from a mere pawn to the chessmaster, meticulously plotting until success; Cao Jingxian fans the flames, awaiting the perfect moment to trap his prey; Zhuang Zhixing stumbles upon an unexpected yet pivotal role; and Ping Jinhou, facing a dead end, throws all his chips in the pot... The brilliant web of intricately connected storylines reflects the creators' tireless efforts.

Cao recalls that all narrative threads needed to be interwoven in editing, and that a piece of music matching the mood and theme of this story segment was essential. The inspiration for one of episode 27's iconic "deification" scenes came from Xing Minshan, who plays Cao Jingxian. A professional Kunqu opera performer, Xing has deep knowledge of classic arias. During early discussions and preparation for these two heavy episodes, the creative team considered incorporating Kunqu elements, and Xing recommended the aria Huan Sha Ji: Da Wei (浣纱记·打围) to Cao Yiwen.

The fusion of sound and visuals created a sense of undercurrents swirling inside and outside the palace walls, full of tension and deadly intent, which deeply moved the creators including Cao Yiwen himself—and ultimately resonated strongly with the audience.

"We sincerely want to convey the emotions and feelings in the story to the audience, and in return, the audience gives us wonderful feedback," Cao Yiwen said.

Storytelling Is Like Woodcarving—Every Detail

In Legend of Zang Hai, Cao sees storytelling as a process of woodcarving—slow, patient, precise. It's about carving out each detail, polishing each emotional beat, until the whole piece breathes. What began as a revenge story became a study of choice, consequence, and conscience. Through it, Cao hoped to offer not just entertainment, but a quiet reminder: every decision we make shapes who we become—and what we leave behind.

Legend of Zang Hai tells a story of revenge and redemption—but unlike many "feel-good revenge dramas," it doesn't just rely on fast-paced plot twists or clear-cut good-versus-evil showdowns. Instead, the drama dives into the murky waters of human nature. It focuses on a deeper question: when someone is burdened with a mission of vengeance, how should they make their choices—and what kind of responsibility or cost comes with those choices?

Director Cao explains his narrative design philosophy:

"The protagonist, Zang Hai, begins his journey fueled by hatred. His family was wiped out, and he wants answers—not just about who was responsible, but also about the mysterious secret his father protected until his death. This journey takes him through three major stages: first, he hides his identity to enter the government; then, he works hard to be a just official; finally, he risks everything to uncover and defeat a conspiracy threatening the people. In the process, Zang Hai learns not only to control his anger but also to reflect on the meaning of revenge itself.

When I worked with the screenwriter on the script, we constantly reminded ourselves that the weight of Zang Hai's choices must be shown through the plot—not just explained. Later, they made significant revisions to the second half of the story. For example, in the beginning, Zang Hai sees the "Gui Xi" (癸玺)—a powerful artifact, fictional but reminiscent of imperial seals—as merely a weapon to avenge his family.

But as he comes to understand its true value, his mindset shifts: he begins to protect not just his own legacy, but the well-being of the entire country. This leads him to a painful dilemma: should he reveal the full truth to gain the emperor's support in destroying his enemy, or keep it secret to maintain peace?

Meanwhile, his enemy Zhao Bingwen cleverly manipulates Zang Hai's compassion and moral hesitation—creating a mirror-like showdown between two men, not just in strategy, but in values.

Zang Hai keeps making hard choices: choosing to step into danger, to speak up for the powerless, to protect ordinary citizens from natural disasters, and even to save a rival without harming the innocent. Yet beneath these noble actions, he is constantly burning with the fire of vengeance. His enemies exploit this, weaponizing not just his hatred, but the fragility of human nature. And yet, thanks to the love of his family and the lessons his parents left him, there remains a light in his heart—a moral clarity that never fully dies out.

His integrity begins to influence those around him. Characters like Xiang Antu and Gao Ming, despite their own flaws or complicated pasts, end up standing by him without hesitation. With their help, Zang Hai escapes danger again and again, eventually defeating Zhao Bingwen, a villain portrayed as nearly omniscient and omnipotent.

Zang Hai's path starts with revenge, but ends with transformation. He becomes a protector of the people. He finds love. He breaks free from the chains of hatred and earns a second chance at life. In revising the script, I felt more and more how realism added a sense of destiny to the story—not because we wrote it that way from the start, but because once the characters became real in our minds, their fates naturally followed. For instance, Gao Ming's death—one of the most emotional moments in the series—was not planned early on. But we knew that he needed a way to redeem himself, not with words, but with action.

In the end, Gao Ming stages one final con, sacrificing himself to help Zang Hai. It's his "last performance" as a mentor. There's a small but meaningful scene where Liuchu says to him, "A person can't live their whole life lying. You've got to have something real inside." Gao Ming's reaction—just a small look—is full of layers. We weren't just showing his regret; we were planting a seed. Later, when Gao Ming uses that "real thing"—his life—to save Zang Hai, everything comes full circle. That choice becomes the brightest moment of his character arc.

Playing Hide-and-Seek with the Audience

In an era obsessed with fast-paced short dramas where three minutes often decide a show's fate, The Legend of Zang Hai stands out as a non-typical revenge thriller—not only gaining popularity but, more importantly, winning deep viewer loyalty. Cao Yiwen remains humble and clear-eyed about this achievement. He admits that the biggest plot hook—the identity of the mysterious "third person"—was a risky choice early on.

"The growth and transformation from Zhi Nu to Zang Hai needed enough screen time to unfold naturally," he explains. "That requires some patience from the audience. Later, when the truth is revealed, viewers might find their guesses confirmed or overturned, but either way, they gain a sense of involvement and satisfaction." Risk doesn't mean reckless pushing.

Cao is well aware that "the premise of a satisfying story is feeling the pain." Without empathizing with Zang Hai's suffering, witnessing the brutal destruction of his family, audiences cannot truly connect with his calculated path of revenge. It's this step-by-step journey into Zang Hai's inner world—watching the destruction of something beautiful right before his eyes—that makes viewers hold their breath in tense moments and cheer when he strikes back.

In his previous work To Love, beyond emotional buildup, a journalist noticed a particular camera habit by Cao Yiwen—an observation made while watching the series. As the mastermind behind all the wrongdoings, Lao Feng's deceit runs deep. He plays the role of a devoted husband and upright man so convincingly that his true identity only emerges at the final moment. Although earlier clues pointed to him, Cao's directing never "judged in advance." When the journalist shared this insight with Cao, he answered with an example from The Legend of Zang Hai—the character Shi Quan.

Shi Quan's first appearance is a neutral shot of him pausing and turning back. As the story progresses, Shi Quan is filmed as an ordinary person, until the instant his true nature is exposed. In fact, Shi Quan even performs a ritual honoring Chu Huaiming—only later, when the full truth is revealed, do viewers realize subtle foreshadowing was present all along.

"Viewers nowadays are extremely sharp," Cao remarks. For him, this kind of narrative "deception" isn't just a clever plot twist, but an authentic portrayal of human complexity. In real life, those who appear desireless and don't try to curry favor often gain the most trust.

After discussing various technical aspects, when asked about the relationship between technology and the human element in the industry, Cao was firm: "Technology is merely a vessel—the core will always be the creator's expression."

Contradictions, Humor, and Obsessive Perfectionism

The airing period of a project is always a major team effort. When the interview with Cao Yiwen started, it was nearly 7:30 PM—after more than ten hours of continuous work, Cao said he felt like his mind was "fried." By the end, the journalist encouraged him to clear his head and just chat freely.

Cao then shared many habits straddling work and life: He describes himself as a bundle of contradictions, admitting to being lazy but only willing to "power up" for things he loves. While filming The Legend of Zang Hai, he could work days on set and then spend nights polishing scripts, full of endless energy despite the nonstop schedule.

Sometimes, socializing feels painful to him, yet on set, he becomes the most lively member of the crew—his humor drawn from all sorts of dry jokes. He also revealed a streak of obsessive perfectionism during filming. Cao and Xiao Zhan, who plays Zang Hai, often told each other, "Cut yourself some slack," only to dive back into the same routine again.

After The Legend of Zang Hai wrapped, Cao quickly dove into new projects. Whether the genre is suspense, revenge, or something fresh, repetition or challenge doesn't matter. The constant is Cao Yiwen's unwavering dedication—he's always ready to pour all his energy and passion into what interests him.

And so, we wait eagerly for what's next.