That big fantasy drama Feud just wrapped up, hitting major streaming numbers, but man, the reactions were all over the place.
The head honcho at the studio, Yu Zheng, is proudly claiming his first foray into "Xianxia" (Chinese immortal hero fantasy) captured "authentic Chinese mythological essence." Meanwhile, folks outside this bubble are scratching their heads: "What was that? Xianxia? Seriously, who even watches this stuff anymore?"
Here's the weird spot Xianxia dramas are in: they do pull big numbers sometimes, no question. But their audience feels super niche. Outside that dedicated fanbase? Barely a blip on the radar. Forget about breaking into the mainstream like other hits do.
Creatively? They're stuck in a serious rut. Critics have been hammering this for ages:
Predictable world-building checkboxes.
Costumes and sets that look copy-pasted.
The endless re-runs of the "three lifetimes, sweet-then-bitter romance" template.
Way too much "love story," not nearly enough actual "heroics" (the 'Xia' in Xianxia).
But maybe the real reason Xianxia feels out of step is simpler: it's not matching the current mood.
Think about it. Xianxia's core stories haven't really changed in 20 years. It's always about cultivating immortality and saving the world. The Legend of Sword and Fairy (2005) had Li Xiaoyao fighting demons. Feud had Hua Ruyue and Bai Jiusi divorcing three times over philosophical differences. Same old grand themes.
The Journey of Flower (2015) proved Xianxia could be huge online back then. Audiences then might have bought into those grandiose settings and talk of cosmic peace. Now? That stuff often feels hollow. It doesn't connect. Especially after recent TV trends peeled back the glossy romance layers – these ultra-intense, world-forgetting Xianxia love affairs feel like they're actively going against the grain of what people want now.
What is working? Other period dramas hitting the sweet spot: stories about power struggles within families ("Zhai Dou"), rebirth plots, business scheming, or legendary figures. Why?
They mesh easily with the current "strong female lead" trend.
They're perfect for short clips: Packed with intense emotions and quick, satisfying payoffs. One killer confrontation scene can go viral fast.
Look at the hits from last year to now: The Double, Noble Blooms, The Glory, The Fading Fragrance. They all tap into this vibe. They tackle stuff that feels real and now, even in a historical setting:
Fighting toxic family dynamics? That speaks to modern frustrations with patriarchy.
Getting a "do-over" in life? Wish fulfillment for past mistakes.
Focused on getting rich? Relatable hustle, maybe with a power-couple romance later.
The core appeal? These shows are grounded in specific, relatable struggles. The "thrill" is superficial; the real hook is how personal and immediate the stakes feel ("small" in scope, big in impact). Xianxia? It floats way up in the "Ninth Heaven." Gods having relationship drama? Cool visuals, sure... but honestly, what's that got to do with us?
Xianxia: Floating Too High?
Xianxia: Floating Too High?Xianxia dramas have been around for 20 years, ever since The Legend of Sword and Fairy (2005). But looking back, the genre's evolution feels like a history of power creep and emotional inflation.
You know how inflation makes money worth less? Well, in Xianxia-land, it makes the big emotions and epic stakes feel cheaper. Everything starts blurring together.
Those early Xianxia shows – Sword and Fairy, Gu Jian Qi Tan, Xuan-Yuan Sword – were born from Wuxia (martial hero) traditions and borrowed RPG quest vibes. They constantly talked about chivalry, saving the world, sacrifice, destiny, and reincarnation. Think Zhao Ling'er sacrificing herself for her kingdom in Sword and Fairy 1, or Jing Tian locked in a thousand-year rivalry with the Demon Lord Chong Lou in Sword and Fairy 3.
But here's the key: these older shows balanced the "big" themes with "small," relatable characters. Our heroes usually started as ordinary village kids. They spent most of their time on earth, dealing with human stuff. The romances felt innocent and genuine. Even the grand destiny plots, viewed through nostalgia goggles, don't feel as hollow now.
The game changed with the massive hits The Journey of Flower (2015) and Eternal Love (aka Ten Miles of Peach Blossoms, 2017). These two basically set the modern Xianxia playbook:
The Forbidden Master-Disciple Torture Romance: Where the disciple is the master's destined calamity (e.g., The Journey of Flower, Zhu Yan, The Longest Promise).
The Multi-Life Sweet & Bitter Cycle: Star-crossed lovers destined to find and lose each other across multiple lifetimes (e.g., Eternal Love of Dream, Love and Destiny).
Once these templates took hold, Xianxia went into overdrive on three fronts:
Power Levels: Forget "mortal cultivates to immortality." Leads now start as top-tier gods or instantly ascend. The village boy becomes a Demon Lord; the innocent girl is revealed as an Ancient Goddess.
Setting Scale: The mortal world wasn't enough. We went from the "Three Realms" to the "Four Seas and Eight Wastes," then to the "Six Realms and Ten Directions."
Relationship Stakes: Love wasn't epic enough with just one lifetime. We got millennia-long cycles (Immortal Samsara), seven lifetimes (Love You Seven Times), even ten lifetimes (Love and Redemption).
It's like love only counts if it involves repeated memory wipes and reboots. This triple-layered inflation pushed Xianxia to its extremes – and disconnected it from its audience. It floated right off the planet into the "Ninth Heaven," feeling less and less human. The "save the world" theme? It got reduced to a flimsy excuse to create obstacles for the main couple. "Gods can't fall in love!" or "Immortals and demons can't mix!" – weak justifications for manufactured angst, feeling increasingly empty.
Feud didn't escape this. Its leads are the "two strongest gods in the Ninth Heaven." Their three marriages and divorces are a twist on the multi-life trope. The show even dedicates chunks of time to characters lecturing about the "Great Dao" (the cosmic principle/path). Li Qingyue gets sermons on "mortals have their path, gods have theirs" at her own wedding. Hua Ruyue and Bai Jiusi split because their understanding of the "Dao" clashes: she wants to actively save mortals, he believes in a non-interventionist approach.
This obsession with the "big" and cosmic stands in stark contrast to the themes dominating other popular period dramas:
Power struggles (宅斗) tackle toxic family dynamics head-on (The Glory's Zhuang Hanyan uniting women against a patriarchal father).
Business-focused dramas (Noble Blooms) mirror modern women's drive for financial independence.
Rebirth stories (The Double, The Fading Fragrance) tap into female frustrations with relationships and offer wish-fulfillment do-overs.
These shows feel timely and emotionally relevant. They're surreal wish-fulfillment, but they focus on specific, personal struggles – micro, not macro.
The core crisis? The "Xia" (hero/chivalry) in Xianxia originally came from Wuxia – it was the vital thread connecting the immortal fantasy to human concerns. But "Xia" got drowned out by an overflow of "Qing" (love/emotion). And now, in an era where romantic fantasies are being scrutinized ("disillusioned"), Xianxia's detached "save the world" platitudes feel utterly unmoored. It's lost its footing, caught between two worlds and serving neither well. The genre's in deep trouble.
Can Xianxia Land?
Writing off Xianxia after 20 years feels rash. Yes, its "epic love" rings hollow and its romances feel recycled, but its fanbase hasn't vanished. The genre isn't dead—it's just floating untethered. To survive, it needs to crash-land back to human reality.
Recent years show fledgling attempts to drag Xianxia down from the clouds. Three paths emerge:
1.Comedy: Poking Holes in the Pompous
Why it works: Laughter dissolves pretension. When gods act ridiculous, their "world-saving" gravitas cracks – and suddenly, they feel almost human.
Love Between Fairy and Devil (2022): Opened with a body-swap farce. The mighty Demon Lord Dongfang Qingcang stuck in a weak fairy's body? Watching him rage at sticky rice balls was comedy gold. It mocked Xianxia's self-seriousness while keeping its magic.
The Starry Love (2023): A deliberate genre parody. Twin sisters swapped at marriage? Chaotic "immortal sister wives" bickering over palace rules? It leaned into absurdity, earning praise as Xianxia's answer to "Wrong Sedan Chair, Right Groom" (a classic mistaken-identity rom-com).
Back From the Brink (2023): Dropped ancient prose for modern snark. A dragon prince complaining about "unpaid overtime"? A heroine quipping "I'm just a NPC in your boss battle"? Director He Shupei called it "grounded Xianxia" – not by ditching fantasy, but by letting its characters sound like us.
The catch: Comedy can't just be garnish. It needs to undercut the genre's worst tropes (endless brooding, recycled angst) – not just add "silly sidekick demons."
2.Nostalgia & Gamification: Back to Basics
The move: Ditch cosmic overlords. Return to scrappy mortals, RPG-like quests, and earned power – the vibe of early Sword and Fairy (仙剑系列).
Sword and Fantasy: The New Beginning (2024): Scaled back to village teens hunting local monsters. No instant godhood – heroes leveled up through tangible struggles, map in hand.
Sword and Fairy 4 (2024): Yun Tianhe, raised in wilderness, felt alien in heaven. His cluelessness ("Why can't I eat that sacred peach?") made gods seem less divine, more dysfunctional.
Immortal Samsara (2023) & Love in Pavilion (2024): Embraced video game logic. "Reset points" after failed battles? Team-based "dungeon raids" on demon lairs? This turned linear destiny into a playable struggle – where victory felt achieved, not preordained.
Why it resonates: Gamification injects stakes. When heroes can "game over," their choices matter. It's the anti-"born god" narrative.
3.Yu Zheng's Chaotic "Reality Injection"
His method: Blast Xianxia with the fever-dream logic of short-video dramas – hyper-concentrated emotional crack.
Divorce over household chores? Baby drama? Grief over mortal illnesses? Feud made deities suffer trivial human fates.
Yu Zheng demanded every scene force a reaction: "Laugh or cry – no neutral moments." Plot holes? Who cares.
His Short-drama trope dump:
Stand-in trope: Li Qingyue as Hua Ruyue's disposable double.
Whirlwind marriage + emotional abuse: Married in Ep 1, icy silence by Ep 3.
Revenge + memory chaos: "Who ruined my life? Was it you… or me?"
Quick Transmigration: Timeline jumps so frenetic, it felt like channel-surfing through a telenovela.
The result is a surreal mashup.
These experiments aren't elegant. Sword and Fairy 4's "faceplant landing" was clunky. Feud's short-drama graft felt desperate. But their struggle is the point: Xianxia must reconnect with human-scale emotions to live.
Comedy punctures pomposity. Gamification restores tangible struggle. Even Yu Zheng's chaos forces gods to feel rage, pettiness, and grief we recognize. The genre won't survive on "destined love across 10 lifetimes" alone – it needs heroes who sweat, bleed, and trip over their own robes.
The path down from the Ninth Heaven is messy. But it's the only way back.
Does Our Small Era Still Need Big Xianxia?
Xianxia's identity crisis isn't random—it mirrors a seismic shift in audience psychology. "Big Xianxia" clings to saving the world, battling destiny, and defying heavenly tribulations. These were once vessels for viewers seeking purpose or catharsis through sacrifice. Today? Audiences are too exhausted by cosmic stakes. They crave stories about personal survival and private emotions.
This isn't unique to TV. Look at film:
2017–2018: Wolf Warrior 2 broke box office records. Operation Red Sea earned 3.6 billion RMB ($500M).
Same period: Eternal Love's finale hit 2% TV ratings; Ashes of Love peaked at 1.5%. Both amassed 10+ billion online views.
2023: The Volunteers: To the War topped its release window with 1.2 billion RMB ($168M)—respectable, but dwarfed by past highs.
2024: Operation Mekong 2 (sequel to Red Sea) earned just one-tenth of its predecessor's revenue.
Xianxia followed the same arc. After 2022's Love Between Fairy and Devil, no title achieved true mass appeal. Patriotism and cosmic heroism rose and fell together.
Despite its fantasy veneer, Xianxia replicates a rigid, hierarchical society:
Immortals, humans, demons—each group is strictly segregated, pre-assigned moral value.
The formula: The most powerful beings fall in the most dramatic love, while mortals live/die at their whim.
The "cultivation journey" itself mirrors social climbing:
Talent → Suffering → Ascension → Heavenly Trial → Godhood
Ten or twenty years ago, this resonated as aspirational fantasy. Today? With Maslow's hierarchy collapsing downward (survival > self-actualization), this path feels less like escapism and more like bitter irony.
Shows about rebirth, power struggles, and revenge thrive because they diagnosed the mood:
They ditch grand destinies for personal vengeance, self-made power, and clawing back control.
If Xianxia floats in the heavens, these plant feet firmly on the ground—or deep in a pit. Their focus: getting up, staying alive.
They deliver small, sharp, potent satisfaction—micro-wins for a micro-era.
Today's audience doesn't want a god who protects the masses. They want a human who fights vicariously for them. "Big Xianxia" keeps selling expired fantasies. No wonder it struggles to birth new hits.
This doesn't mean Xianxia must vanish. But producers, platforms, and fans must abandon the dream of universal hits. Instead: find your core niche and maximize it.
For Feud, that niche was:
Lead actors' superfans.
Short-drama addicts (craving hyper-emotional whiplash)
Plot-twist junkies (here for the chaos, not the lore)
Landing isn't about conquering the mainstream. It's about connecting fiercely with your corner. Hit the right audience, sync with their emotions, and even a bumpy descent (Feud's faceplant included) counts as a survival.
Xianxia won't rule the Ninth Heaven again. But it might carve out a patch of earth.
