“‘Xian Yu’ Romance Boom: Chinese Fantasy Drama’s Kiss‑Heavy Trend Sparks Cultural Debate Ahead of 2025 Premiere”
The upcoming Chinese drama “献鱼” (Xian Yu), a romantic fantasy set to hit screens in 2025, is already generating a buzz that rivals the most‑watched summer blockbusters. Adapted from Fuhua’s novel “献上咸鱼给师祖” (To Master with a Salted Fish), the series stars Chen Feiyu (known internationally as Arthur Chen) as the enigmatic Sima Jiao and Wang Yinglu as the quick‑witted Liao Tingyan. Their on‑screen chemistry is proving to be the story’s most magnetic force, not least because the pair have turned a single plot device—a “salted‑fish” mindset—into a marathon of kiss scenes that has ignited social media across the People’s Republic.
23 August 2025
At its core, Xian Yu follows the centuries‑old legend of Sima Jiao, an ancestral master sealed for five hundred years within the Gengchen Immortal Mansion. When Liao Tingyan, a reluctant newcomer to the world of immortal cultivation, stumbles into the mansion’s inner sanctum, she confronts a figure whose power is as volatile as it is potent. Liao’s “咸鱼” (literally “salted fish”) attitude—lazy, unassuming, and oddly disarming—softens Sima’s destructive impulses, and the two embark on a reluctant partnership that spirals into a three‑lifetime saga of love, hate, and redemption.
What makes Xian Yu stand out from the ever‑growing catalog of Xianxia dramas is not just its mythic premise but the way it weaponises romance. The phrase “献鱼吻戏好多” (Xian Yu has many kissing scenes) has become a trending tag on Weibo, where fans post endless compilations of the series’ intimate moments. From the “potato‑chip kiss” that sparked a viral meme to the “flower‑sea kiss,” “forehead kiss,” and “flip kiss” that have been catalogued in fan‑made glossaries, the sheer volume of on‑screen affection is unprecedented for a Chinese production that traditionally leans toward conservative depictions of romance.
The social‑media frenzy is not merely a celebration of chemistry; it is a cultural barometer. Viewers’ comments—“I can’t believe how many kiss scenes there are!” and “It’s not enough to watch!”—signal a hunger for more explicit, emotionally charged romance on Chinese television. For a generation that spends hours on Douyin, Bilibili, and short‑form video platforms, the series’ blend of “slice‑of‑life” workplace humor with classic cultivation tropes feels both familiar and refreshingly modern. The “salted‑fish” mindset, a tongue‑in‑cheek nod to the lazy protagonist archetype, provides a comedic foil that lets the romance breathe without drowning in mythic gravitas.
Industry insiders see Xian Yu’s kiss‑heavy strategy as a calculated shift in content strategy. By foregrounding physical affection, producers are tapping into a proven driver of virality—much like the “potato‑chip kiss” that turned a single 31‑second clip from episode seven into a looping sensation. The approach also serves as a branding catalyst for its leads. Chen Feiyu, already a rising star after his breakout role in “The Wandering Earth,” now finds himself synonymous with the “intense romantic lead” archetype, while Wang Yinglu’s portrayal of Liao Tingyan positions her as the new face of empowered, witty femininity in Chinese drama. Yet the gamble is not without risk; the “forced intimacy” accusations that surfaced during a promotional event have sparked a broader conversation about consent, both on‑screen and off‑screen, reminding studios that the line between performance and exploitation remains razor‑thin.
Beyond the studio floor, the series’ romantic excess is prompting a subtle re‑examination of regulatory boundaries. China’s State Administration of Radio, Film, and Television (SARFT) maintains strict guidelines on depictions of affection, and while Xian Yu’s kisses have so far cleared the censors, the sheer frequency and intensity could test the limits of future content controls. If the trend continues, regulators may be forced to issue tighter directives, potentially reshaping the narrative latitude granted to domestic productions.
The cultural ripple extends further. As China seeks to expand its soft‑power through media, shows like Xian Yu become cultural ambassadors. The way romance is framed—balancing traditional gender dynamics with modern, consent‑aware storytelling—offers an image of a society in transition, one that can both honor its mythic heritage and embrace contemporary values. Internationally, the series could either cement a perception of Chinese drama as bold and innovative or, if misinterpreted, reinforce stereotypes of sensationalist content.
For the audience, the impact is immediate and palpable. Young viewers, especially those active on short‑form platforms, are internalising the series’ stylised intimacy as a new romantic template. The “not enough” sentiment that dominates the #献鱼吻戏好多# conversation underscores a collective desire for more, suggesting that future productions may feel compelled to outdo Xian Yu’s romantic choreography. Simultaneously, the discourse around gender dynamics—how a “gloomy, crazy master” like Sima Jiao navigates vulnerability with Liao Tingyan—has opened space for nuanced debates about power, emotional labor, and the evolving portrayal of relationships in Chinese media.
In short, Xian Yu is more than a fantasy romance; it is a cultural flashpoint. Its prolific kiss scenes have ignited a conversation that traverses entertainment economics, actor branding, marketing ingenuity, genre innovation, societal norms, and even the subtle machinations of state censorship. As the series prepares for its 2025 debut, the industry—and the public—will be watching not just for the next kiss, but for the broader narrative it signals about the future of Chinese television.
