WBSGVS Chapter 229 V1

[Is screenwriter Liuli the real director behind the scenes?]

This question came from a well-known blogger who specializes in critiquing TV shows and films. To back up the claim, the blogger even made a detailed video and long-form post breaking it all down.

They took scenes from Feng Sha and dissected them frame by frame, explaining to viewers—especially those without technical knowledge—what kinds of filming techniques were used, what they meant, and where similar methods had been seen before in other shows or films.

By the end of the breakdown, one key point emerged: Liuli’s directing style leaned heavily toward that of a filmmaker rather than a TV show director.

If it weren’t for the complexity of the storyline, the visuals alone could easily hold up on a movie theater screen.

Most importantly, the overall visuals were incredibly smooth—every shot had a purpose. At least through the currently aired 24 episodes, nearly everything introduced in episodes 23 and 24 during the major Tide Uprising arc had a role. Anything that hadn’t come into play yet? The blogger firmly believed it would be relevant in the future.

There was also an internal rumor floating around: apparently, the director had a hand in the editing process as well. That would explain how faithfully the script was brought to life. Since it was her script, now that she was directing, all of her work carried one overarching theme—the struggle for freedom under a feudal monarchy.

It wasn’t just about palace intrigue, petty rivalries, or cutesy romance.

Based on all this, the blogger’s whole team found it hard to believe that this was Liuli’s first time directing—unless she wasn’t the one directing at all.

But the behind-the-scenes footage from Feng Sha clearly showed Liuli directing the actors herself.

Which led them to this bold but reasoned guess.

Of course, since the theory hadn’t been confirmed, the hot search topic included a question mark, to show a little restraint rather than stating it as fact.

Once this trending tag appeared, a wave of playful agreement followed:

“Hahaha, that explains it! No wonder Liuli writes the way she does—turns out she’s a boss behind the camera too!”

“I knew it! My queen is the best!”

“Beautiful and talented—she writes, she directs. All those years letting He Tianzhu take the spotlight were such a waste!”

“No wonder He Tianzhu only does well when he’s directing her work. Liuli is the real MVP!”

“Okay, okay, talent is one thing, but let’s not go overboard about her looks.”

“Hold on—check out this pic! That’s Liuli! She used to keep things low-key, but now that she’s all styled up, she’s stunning!”

“Whoa, I thought she was some actress at first! This is Liuli?!”

“Now that I’ve seen this, I believe the rumors. She stayed in the background for years, letting He Tianzhu take all the credit—it wouldn’t be shocking if she gave up directorial credit too!”

Everyone was laughing, mostly in good fun. No one was taking it too seriously. Even if Liuli came out and admitted it was true, people might still be skeptical, especially since there had been behind-the-scenes footage of He Tianzhu directing as well.

It was more likely that Liuli had offered creative input or guidance, not that she did everything herself.

But He Tianzhu didn’t see it that way.

Ever since Feng Sha had its massive comeback—great reviews, exploding viewership, endless fan recs—while his show’s numbers kept dropping day by day, to the point that even paid bots couldn’t cover the rising criticism, he’d felt the chill.

He had lost.

He had lost to Su Qingli.

In this silent war, she had completely outshone him—and that meant he no longer had the upper hand to push back.

And now this trending topic? It was salt in the wound.

Worse yet, he didn’t even discover it himself. A friend sent him a screenshot just to mock him.

His hands were shaking.

As far as he was concerned, Su Qingli had already humiliated him by staining his name, cheating on him, and now she was even coming after his accomplishments?

What gave her the right?!

Without thinking, he fired off a tweet:

“All filming was completed by me and the rest of the production team. The screenwriter only participated in script discussions and had no involvement beyond that!”

Netizens:

“Whoa… is he really this mad?”

“Why does it feel like he just got hit where it hurts? Could it be true?”

“Damn, just reading that reply, you can feel the shame and rage… Maybe it is true?”

“Can we talk about that tone? I get the feeling this marriage is about to implode.”

“Cheating scumbag has the nerve to act up now? If he weren’t physically incapable, he’d probably have a half-dozen love children by now. They should’ve split up ages ago.”

“Scumbag alert! Seriously, why are people still watching Imperial Power? Did y’all forget he cheated? That was five years ago, come on!”

The conversation veered off course quickly. He Tianzhu had no idea how it even got to the topic of cheating. Wasn’t this about who directed the show?

His expression shifted.

He rushed to have his team handle the situation.

In the end, though, he deleted the tweet.

So naturally, “He Tianzhu deletes tweet out of guilt” went straight to the trending list.

After all that, even more people started to believe that maybe—just maybe—Liuli was the one directing Feng Sha. What started as playful speculation turned into a collective epiphany:

“You know what? I believe it. She is the one.”

He Tianzhu: “…Sh*t!”

What else could he even say at this point?

If it weren’t for the platform’s backing, most dramas would typically be ready for sale as soon as post-production wrapped.