Mrs Gong

— my honest, probably too-long thoughts after 20 episodes of Ashes to Crown (The review for the final four episodes is included at the bottom of this review.)

I went into Ashes to Crown with sky-high expectations. Chen Duling leading a rebirth revenge epic? Born as the daughter of a frontier general and later crowned Empress, she was ultimately murdered on her birthday by the husband she had loved and trusted for years. wakes up three years earlier, and decides to systematically destroy the ambitious prince who used her? Sign me up. The MDL synopsis promised political scheming, battlefield grit, and a love line with the black sheep of a powerful clan. I thought I was getting The Story of Minglan meets Nirvana in Fire with a desert aesthetic. What I actually got was a drama so riddled with lazy storytelling, baffling production choices, and plot holes you could march an army through that I spent half my watch time genuinely angry.

Let’s start with the thing that slapped me in the face within minutes: this show does not trust its audience to have a single working brain cell. The entire first episode is basically an audiobook. Chu Zhao’s voice drones over scene after scene, narrating her entire tragic backstory — her mother’s death, her marriage to Xiao Xun, the betrayal, the strangulation, the rebirth — while the visuals basically act as wallpaper. I kept waiting for the drama to actually show me something: a flashback triggered by a specific object. This nightmare bleeds into waking, a conversation where someone else reveals a piece of the puzzle Chu Zhao missed. Nope. Just Chu Zhao’s disembodied voice explaining everything like she’s reading her own Wikipedia entry. I’m not exaggerating when I say you could close your eyes for the first forty minutes and miss absolutely nothing important. That’s not television. That’s a podcast with pretty people standing around.

And speaking of pretty people — can we talk about the male lead’s makeup? Because what on earth was that? Zhou Yiran’s Xie Yanlai is supposed to be a hardened soldier who’s spent five years on the brutal frontier under General Chu Ling. He’s the guy who shows up in a fight and kills a hostage and her captor with a single arrow because he’s ruthlessly efficient. But the makeup department decided that what he really needed was a ghostly pallor that made him look like he’d wandered off the set of Word of Honour’s Ghost Valley. I kept expecting him to pull out a soul-sucking flute. It was so distracting that every time the drama tried to sell him as this dangerous, physically imposing warrior, my brain just went “that man needs some sunlight and probably a sandwich.” It’s a small thing, maybe, but it’s emblematic of a production that never quite figured out what tone it was going for — gritty desert epic or ethereal romantic fantasy — and ended up failing at both.

Then there are the plot holes. Oh, the plot holes. Within the span of about two episodes, Chu Zhao transforms from a naive girl who was literally tricked into her own murder into a political mastermind who outmanoeuvres a prince who’s been orchestrating a coup for years. She single-handedly saves the imperial grandson, talks her way past a corrupt guard commander, convinces a dying emperor to change his succession decree, and gets herself named Grand Princess with the power to oversee the new child emperor. All of this happens so fast that my head spins. The emperor’s logic — that making this random frontier general’s daughter the Grand Princess will somehow bind her father’s 200,000 troops to the throne — is the kind of reasoning that only works if everyone in the room is contractually obligated to agree. And don’t get me started on how Xie Yanlai, who just a few scenes earlier was pointing a sword at the emperor’s neck, ends up as the commander of the Imperial Guard. The drama just… moves on. It happens, and you’re supposed to nod along.

And yet. And yet. I can’t say I hated all of it. Because buried under the audiobook voiceovers and the ghost makeup and the logic that crumbles if you breathe on it, there are moments — real, genuinely affecting moments — where Ashes to Crown remembers it has a soul.

When the drama leans into its emotional core instead of its plot mechanics, it can be genuinely moving. The revelation that Chu Zhao’s mother, Mu Mianhong, was not the refined Capital noblewoman she’d been told about but a fierce Northern Desert warrior who faked her death to protect her daughter — that arc landed. Chu Zhao’s reaction isn’t triumphant or even grateful. She’s furious. She confronts this woman who abandoned her, demands she perform the calligraphy and painting of a proper lady, and when Mu Mianhong can’t, Chu Zhao throws her out. It’s messy and hurt and completely honest about what it feels like to discover your entire origin story was a lie. And when Mu Mianhong later rides into battle, explosives strapped to her body, to clear a path for her daughter’s army, the tragedy of it hit me square in the chest. She spent nineteen years hiding to keep Chu Zhao safe, only to die in a blaze of fire to keep her alive one more time.

Chu Ling’s death is another moment where the drama stops rushing and lets the grief breathe. His final letter — dictated to Xie Yanlai on his last night — apologises for nineteen years of warfare that made him a hero to the empire but a distant stranger to his own daughter. “I wish I could have simply been your father,” he writes, “not a general, not a legend.” Chu Zhao, reading those words, realised all the years she spent resenting him for his absence when he was silently dying to protect her future — it’s the kind of emotional payoff that a revenge story needs to feel earned. That scene justified a lot of the earlier mess for me, at least temporarily.

I also have to give credit to Chen Duling, who does her best with material that often lets her down. When the script actually gives her something to play — grief, cold fury, the desperate fear of losing another person she loves — she delivers. The moment in Episode 13 where she confronts Xie Yanlai about the Bloodburn Pills, an arrow aimed at his heart while memories of everything he’s done for her flash across her face, is a genuinely tense, emotionally complex scene. She’s not just angry; she’s devastated that the one person she trusted might have helped kill her father, and she’s fighting herself as much as she’s fighting him. The dubbing does her no favours — it creates an emotional distance that her face is working hard to overcome — but she’s visibly trying, and that counts for something.

The political chess game between Chu Zhao and Xie Yanfang (Xie Yanlai’s older brother) also has its moments. Xie Yanfang is that rare antagonist who isn’t cartoonishly evil; he’s just terrifyingly pragmatic. He saved Xie Yanlai’s life as a child, gave him medicine that seemed miraculous, and has spent years cultivating loyalty — all while quietly manipulating everyone around him. When Chu Zhao and Xie Yanfang acknowledge their “tacit understanding” across the battlefield of court politics, recognising that they’ve been playing the same game from opposite sides, it’s a genuinely satisfying beat. The drama is at its best when it lets its smart characters be smart, showing us their calculations through actions rather than telling us through voiceover.

Even some of the smaller players shine. Deng Yi, the venal Grand Tutor who openly admits he doesn’t care who sits on the throne as long as he keeps his position, is a refreshingly honest portrait of political survival. His scenes with his elderly mother — who mistakes Chu Tang for Chu Zhao and cheerfully encourages her son not to “let such a good match slip away” — are oddly endearing. And Xiao Xun, before the script defangs him, has moments of genuine menace. When he whispers, “I will not make the same mistake twice” after being outmanoeuvred at the coronation, you believe him. For a while.

But then the drama has to do plot things, and it fumbles — repeatedly. The pacing is a mess. The first half barrels through major events so fast that character deaths barely register before we’re on to the next crisis. The Emperor dies, the Crown Prince dies, the Third Prince dies, and it all happens in such a blur that I felt like I was watching a highlight reel rather than a story. Then, around Episode 17 or 18, the drama suddenly slams on the brakes. We get an extended subplot about an exam cheating scandal that, while thematically relevant to Chu Zhao’s consolidation of power, eats up screen time that should be building toward the Northern Desert confrontation. The literary club storyline with Chu Tang, while providing nice moments for a supporting character, feels like wheel-spinning. After hurtling through the plot at breakneck speed, the drama suddenly seems unsure where to go.

Xiao Xun suffers the most from this aimlessness. He starts as a genuine threat — a man who orchestrated a coup, murdered a crown prince, and strangled his own wife when she outlived her usefulness. But as the series progresses, he’s outmanoeuvred so consistently that he stops feeling dangerous. By the time he’s reduced to hiding in Xiaonan, hoping his father and Deng Yi will somehow salvage things, I’d stopped worrying about him altogether. A revenge story where the villain isn’t scary isn’t satisfying — it’s just the protagonist punching down.

Characters who seemed important in early episodes also drift into irrelevance. Zhong Changrong, Chu Ling’s loyal deputy, fades into the background after a strong start. The mysterious Longwei Army, introduced with great fanfare as a secret elite force, gets mentioned occasionally but never becomes the game-changing element it was set up to be. The mirror visions of Chu Zhao’s past self — a genuinely intriguing device that could have externalised her trauma and inner conflict — appear sporadically and then vanish, as if the drama forgot about them.

review for last four eps -

And then I watched the last four episodes, and honestly, I wish I hadn't bothered. The ending left me feeling absolutely nothing — which might actually be worse than hating it, because at least hatred is an emotion. Everything played out exactly the way this drama has been operating since episode one: the princess gets cornered, the odds are impossible, and then — surprise! — the hero swoops in at the literal last second to save the day. It's a move that might work once or twice, but by the finale, I'd seen this exact rescue beat so many times I could have choreographed it myself. Tension doesn't exist when you already know the cavalry's going to show up because the script can't think of anything else.

And speaking of the hero — where did Xie Yanlai go? He was practically a guest star in these final episodes, reduced to popping up occasionally to swing a sword or deliver a longing look before vanishing again. For a drama that spent twenty episodes building this central relationship, the back half seemed to forget that the male lead was supposed to be, well, a lead. His absence drained whatever emotional stakes the finale might have had. By the time the credits rolled on episode 24, I wasn't moved or satisfied or even particularly angry. I was just tired. Tired of the same beats repeating, tired of the drama promising intensity and delivering predictability, tired of watching a show that had every ingredient for greatness and still managed to serve up something this flavorless.