One post tagged with "One Eternal Moment"

Author / Rabbit

This article is republished with permission from “Reliable ACG”

There are countless undervalued animations, but relatively few can earn a genuine “good” review from the majority who watch them. A Will Eternal is definitely one of them.

With nearly half of the original novel remaining unadapted, and the project planning directly pivoting Season 4 into the final arc, the currently airing A Will Eternal animation progresses through the plot at a rapid pace, yet the production team has still maintained its footing.

That means, after six years of broadcasting across four seasons with 175 episodes aired so far, this traditional 2D animation, the sole annual 2D series in Chinese donghua, hasn't collapsed, deteriorated, or been grotesquely altered. It features effects, fight scenes, and traditional Chinese aesthetics, frequently delivering plot highlights and animation showcases. Stacked with these buffs, it is nothing short of a miracle in the contemporary domestic online animation industry.

Yet it doesn't seem very popular.

While it hasn't completely fizzled out, its popularity does not match its quality. We usually say an animation's quality falls short of the hype, meaning it doesn't live up to its reputation, but the A Will Eternal animation is the opposite: despite boasting near-flawless completion and high polish, it hasn't garnered the corresponding heat it deserves.

Bullet comments fly across almost every episode saying: “So good, why is the audience so small?” “No one's watching, what a pity,” and the official Weibo comments section always has people posting, “Why can't it go viral?”

Yeah, why?

Though more than half of the final season remains unaired and drawing conclusions now would be premature, we're even more afraid it will just end like this, quietly fading away without a sound.

It's 2026. For such a scarce, high-quality work in the market, what makes it receive praise but fail at attracting viewers?

The A Will Eternal animation seems to possess all the traits that today's hit domestic donghua should have, with practically no major red flags.

First, the IP is solid. Adapted from Er Gen's novel of the same name, it didn't start from scratch; its sibling works include Renegade Immortal and Beyond the Verse. Overall, the adaptation stays faithful to the original. Aside from a slightly fast pace, there are no bizarre alterations, and most original fans approve.

The production is arguably top-tier within the industry — VSG Animation, a domestic T0-level 2D studio, known for past works like Mo Dao Zu Shi, The King's Avatar S1, and Minediao Bureau Strange Records. Over the past six years, the core creative team behind A Will Eternal has remained highly stable, with almost no major personnel changes in key roles. The team cares deeply about this project, and you can tell the characters were loved by their creators. Handsome men, beautiful women, whether grand scenes or close-ups, daily life or peak moments, animation rarely collapses, plus there are cute chibi mini-theaters.

The scheduling is also flawless. It premiered in 2020, right when the annual donghua concept was heating up domestically. Having the capacity for a 2D annual series genuinely surprised the industry, setting off on a great note. Concurrent 3D annuals like A Record of a Mortal's Journey to Immortality and Perfect World also held the top spot in Chinese animation. The currently airing final season slots into the summer broadcast window. Although this year's summer slot is fiercely competitive, with decent quality works across various platforms, A Will Eternal's quality absolutely holds its own.

Even though it updates every other year, production quality is guaranteed, making the cycle understandable. This isn't rare in the industry; 3D annuals like Mortal's Journey and Cang Yuan Tu also take breaks between seasons to prepare materials, yet both become platform anchors.

In terms of story themes, A Will Eternal follows classic fantasy cultivation, just like most top-tier domestic donghua today._ It checks all the standard boxes: male-protagonist power fantasy. Bai Xiaochun's character design is flawless—gifted, overpowered, hardworking, naturally witty and humorous, punctuated with comedic moments, loyal, cute as a child and reliable grown-up. It's hard not to like this eccentric, spirited character.

Harem-leaning but not marketing pure romance. Each female character has distinct visual and personality traits, with independent facets rather than being mere props; romantic pacing is handled just right, neither forcing CP dynamics nor leaving too much ambiguity, instead offering a balanced space for subtle sweetness.

The supporting cast ensemble is fascinating, helping complete Bai Xiaochun's growth arc. He evolves from a little boy who cultivates solely for immortality into a mature young patriarch capable of standing alone and protecting his masters and friends. Every character boasts unique personalities and charming quirks: Uncle Lǐ Shū is reserved and resilient; Quē'er speaks contrary to his feelings; Xiǎo Mèi is cute and playful; Sòng Jiějiě is responsible yet gentle; Dà Shīxiōng is honest and simple; Zǐ Mò is powerful yet detail-oriented. Character development is never perfunctory.

The narrative pacing is incredibly viewer-friendly. Protagonist comebacks never happen at the worst possible moment, emotional climaxes aren't jarring, thanks to proper buildup and foreshadowing. It virtually eliminates those plot points that make you feel “either the writer or the audience needs a brain wipe.” In Episode 4 of the final season, Bai Xiaochun returns to his sect. Using a transmitting jade slip to gather information rapidly covers past flashbacks and introduces new conflict backgrounds. His subsequent return for vengeance is both satisfying and stylish, packing this highly anticipated key sequence neatly into one episode.

Emotional handling balances directness and passion with restraint and suppression, rather than mechanically applying templates and prop characters. In Episode 10, Bai Xiaochun's reunion with Senior Sister Dǔ uses a few lines of dialogue and alternating interior/exterior carriage shots to beautifully convey years of bond and long-separated distance. Sweet yet angsty, the emotional expression is complex yet delicate.

Everyday storylines are packed with modern memes that resonate with audiences. Season 3 features livestream e-commerce script performances for selling pills and starting chain stores; Bai Xiaochun creates his own cultivation mantras for slacking off to survive, essentially serving as a workplace survival guide for modern employees. Though set in the cultivation world, the underlying tone aligns with contemporary youth values: featuring rebellion, counter-culture, and anti-trope exciting sequences.

Highlights multiply in art and production. 2D fights are stunningly choreographed, settings oscillate between ethereal and classical elegance, and costume/prop details are meticulously crafted.

Effects are distinctive, color usage is eye-friendly—brilliant without blinding glare, lacking almost any harsh lighting pollution. Grand scenes boast imposing presence, high-tier battles carry visual pressure, storyboard compositions are dynamic, and everything looks cool.

In recent years, domestic 3D donghua favor pursuing Eastern aesthetics, often pausing ink-wash paintings or performing silent-movie-style segments. What A Will Eternal lacks least is precisely this kind of flexing technique. Within this traditional 2D piece, stylistic shifts come effortlessly. When tired of steady conventional 2D art styles, it switches to ink-wash, and internal monologues even feature chibi cuts. One could say the production team expresses the advantages of 2D animation to the fullest.

Highlights abound on A Will Eternal. These are exactly the promotional selling points current domestic donghua blockbusters chase. But why hasn't A Will Eternal, gathering all these strengths, caught fire? It shouldn't be this way.

Some might wonder: In the era dominated by 3D, is 2D animation original sin?

Obviously not.

2D animations boast numerous hits and strong monetization capabilities. In fact, during this era of hyper-homogenized 3D tech competition, producing 2D animation becomes a form of differentiation, making quality 2D easier to break into the mainstream. Whether it's VSG's earlier masterpieces Mo Dao Zu Shi and The King's Avatar S1, Bilibili's recent hits Link Click, Scissor Seven, and Non-Human, or theatrical releases Langlangshan Xiao Yaoguai and The Legend of Hei, they are all refined 2D works achieving success across heat, reputation, and commerce simultaneously.

Stopping updates certainly isn't the reason either. Plenty of seasonal hits exist, and many non-renewed works are still long-awaited under the label “until we die”.

Then why isn't it popular? I think the core reason is simply that A Will Eternal’s quality hasn't had the chance to be seen by more people. To ignite word-of-mouth, being good isn't enough; it needs talking points and fandom guidance, requires a vibrant secondary creation ecosystem and uninterrupted IP development updates.

Perhaps A Will Eternal is too ordinary, and so is VSG Animation itself: beautiful and strong but not pitiful. Viewers who enjoy it won't turn to social media pushing it out of sympathy-driven “save our donghua” logic, and because its completion rate is so high, there are hardly any flaws to complain about or roast. Thus, discussions remain confined within niches, becoming a niche blockbuster: watchers keep watching, finishers move on.

But it's already 2026. Surely no one expects a show's broadcast outcome to rely entirely on itself and its fans' efforts alone. Our domestic animation industry has already formed mature promotion/distribution, marketing, and commercial development models, backed by experienced teams, third-party vendors, and extensive supporting infrastructure. Don't even mention standard tactics like online/offline events, PR drafts, short videos, or fandom guidance; even less legitimate methods like hired trolls, anti-black ops, and smear campaigns are readily deployed.

We used to constantly debate whether “good wine fears not deep alleys”, because audiences are growing smarter, watching more films/shows, and accumulating richer viewing experience. For average productions, marketing gimmicks can't fool anyone; short-term hype cannot guarantee long-tail effects.

And now we suddenly realize: when the phrase “even good wine fears deep alleys” strikes back like a boomerang, piercing a truly excellent work, it feels utterly heartbreaking, regretful, and angering. Unknowingly, the alleyways of domestic animation have somehow become this deep.

A Will Eternal isn't an isolated case. Also airing this summer, Cha Ah Er Zhong Season 6 is another high-completion-rate animation trapped in a small circle. Its differentiated school setting, Northeastern dialect comedy elements, wonderful youth ensemble, and 12-year evergreen IP… Most importantly, it's one of China's scarce original 3D animations, with complete narratives, excellent pacing, main plots interwoven with side units, full of youth, memories, fun, and tears.

Just brainstorming brings up countless highlights for Cha Ah Er Zhong, yet Seasons 5 and 6 seemed to air and finish too low-key, failing to break out and leaving few memorable footprints. I believe its quality shouldn't be confined to niche status either. Comparing it to the cinematic IP earning 300-500 million RMB at the box office, which followed the same “series-to-movie-and-back-to-series” path, The Legend of Hei achieved broader mainstream breakthrough, with derivative products scattered everywhere. Cha Ah Er Zhong has already solidified its foothold in lower-tier markets and deserves more opportunities to expand, achieving greater IP commercial development results._

Regrettably, asking animation studios to proactively handle this is extremely difficult. Most companies' skill trees currently point toward creation rather than the market. Just nailing the creative process itself is already outstanding. Perhaps buried in creation, they lack negotiation skills or aren't particularly sensitive to the shifting tides of external IP commercialization. This is normal; everyone has weaknesses.

Therefore, the heavy burdens of distribution/promotion and IP development are mostly handed to video platforms, which share co-production status.

So here's the question: as distribution channels, isn't a platform's primary duty to ensure quality works reach more eyes, and help different projects find their matching audiences? Could it really be this batch of audiences failing? For a piece akin to a perfect-stat powerhouse, receiving zero response… with platforms feeding so many staff, what are they actually doing? What exactly are they protecting? Hard to guess.

I don't know if anyone outside the production team and fandom truly cares about the fate of such works. After all, the industry's torrent rolls onward. Over a hundred titles update annually, many suffer sudden cancellations and forced endings, yet only a handful can etch themselves into history books, repeatedly savored, becoming timeless classics.

So beyond recommending the work, this article aims to explore a deeper question: as scarce industry assets, how should premium production capacity and elite creative teams leverage existing industrial resources to secure reasonable attention for their works, thereby realizing a positive feedback loop for quality output and preventing vicious cycles where inferior drives out superior?

Platform responsibility is unavoidable. Interestingly, reviewing current mainstream video platforms investing most heavily in domestic donghua reveals stark differences in how they treat varying works.

Fortunately, most platforms within the industry maintain positive and flexible attitudes toward premium capacity and excellent works. We can observe that when a series performs well, platforms immediately upgrade to annual formats and increase funding/resources; standout plot points and memorable characters trigger boosted internal/external traffic pushes, ad placements, and reputation management to attract new fans and retain veterans; favorable audience feedback accelerates IP development plans, merchandise production, and licensing partnerships; if a title truly flops in quality, resource allocation flexibly adjusts to cut losses promptly, avoiding forced fake virality.

Most platforms accurately grade annual and flagship slot titles. S+ and S tiers guarantee highest quality, meriting matched resources. While differing S-tier animations each shine uniquely, none commit egregious errors or basic mistakes.

Only a minority of platforms suffer poor flexibility, grinding routines regardless of quality or release cadence. If a series starts as platform transparent, it stays invisible forever, whereas favored darlings receive top-tier resources to sweep under the rug even when production and reputation crater. Ironically, ignoring ROI and dumping resources yields inflated metrics, yet universal audience reception and commercial validation never lie. Then again, given strategic mandates for cost-cutting efficiency alongside long-termism, can cost-performance really be ignored?

In essence, a platform's current actions—or inactions—dictate the lifespan of most animations, and even their studios. Low popularity guarantees cancellation; poor metrics might trigger payment withholdings akin to live-action dramas. Originally leveraging platform advantages for domestic donghua IPs, platform inaction now directly backlashes upon creation, compressing opportunities and spatial margins.

Should a premium animation partner with the wrong platform, its fate is sealed from day one. It squanders hundreds of people's years of sweat, drains creative passion, and mortgages future opportunity costs. The domestic animation sector accelerates rapidly, particularly in commercial development; the IP value of tier-one animations long transcends mere millions or tens of millions in production budgets.

Having contacted numerous animation creators, most diligently binge-watch their entire series post-release, meticulously reading bullet comments and reviews—a highly ritualistic act for them. Production cycles stretch long: 2–3 years typically, sometimes 4–5. Throughout repeated, drawn-out creative hibernations, immense positive audience feedback becomes essential sustenance to persevere, maintain passion, and prolong the vitality and creative spark of the industry.

I wonder if they catch bullet comments asking “So good, why isn't it popular?” and what they'd feel upon seeing them. Calm? Regret? Sorrow? Anger? Or, like me now, mainly a accustomed sense of powerlessness.

We wholeheartedly hope excellent creators enjoy pristine environments, that quality works secure rational resource allocation and wider visibility—they deserve broader affection. As ordinary viewers limited to writing articles, our agency remains minimal. But we consistently believe worthy animations merit us deploying numerous essays to fight for something on their behalf.

Hopefully this piece arrives before it's too late. Rest assured, however: this isn't the first, nor will it be the last.