A Breakdown of Wang Yi (Ghostblade)
I won’t be theorizing here, this is how I interpret the character based on the episodes and my personal experiences. My point is neither attacking nor defending him. I repeat a few things at different points to reinforce ideas that are connected but explained in separate parts. I’ll talk about the technical aspects of the episodes (direction, atmosphere, cinematography, etc.) in a separate post.
I’ve been active in the TBHX fandom since the very beginning of the project, and back when Ghostblade’s first PV came out, most of us were led to believe that Wang Yi had been experimented on as a child, possibly as a reason why he became a hero and an assassin. So when his episode was released, many of us were surprised by how different, yet deeply compelling, he actually is. It’s now obvious why Li Haoling, the director, was the most anxious about how this character would be received by the public. Wang Yi is complex, not only difficult to understand, but also hard to depict in a way that allows for that understanding.
First of all, he has an affective disorder, and we also see signs of sensory overload. Later, he says, “I don’t know how to express emotions, because I can’t even tell what emotions are,” which possibly points to alexithymia, a condition where someone struggles to identify or describe their own emotions. This is common among autistic or otherwise neurodivergent individuals.
It’s important to distinguish terms here: affective disorder refers to a mental health condition that affects mood and emotional regulation, while neurodivergence describes naturally occurring differences in brain function and behavior, not deficits or disorders. Sensory overload is a neurological response that can result from neurodivergence, affective dysregulation, or even momentary stress. In Wang Yi’s case, it’s very likely that these traits and conditions are co-occurring. I’m not a doctor, so I won’t diagnose him, I’m just interpreting what is shown.
Secondly, Wang Yi grows up in a multi-generational household, a close-knit family with constant activity, background noise (TV, meals, conversation), and little privacy. While this can feel warm and supportive for some, for a neurodivergent or sensory-sensitive person, it can easily become overwhelming or emotionally exhausting. In many families, especially those that run a business, it’s normal for children to help out early and learn the trade hands-on, often with the unspoken expectation that they’ll eventually take over. But this can overlook the child’s individual temperament, interests, and needs, especially if the child is neurodivergent, which can already make daily functioning more difficult in overstimulating or socially demanding environments.
In such households and cultures, neurodivergent traits have often been misinterpreted, ignored, or pathologized. Sometimes there’s an intense pressure to “save face” and maintain the family’s reputation, and symptoms may be brushed off as “bad behavior” or “poor manners.” I’m not blaming his family or his culture, but it’s fair to say that his environment didn’t support him in the ways he may have needed.
In Ghostblade’s original PV, it was hinted that he may have been tested or evaluated, though the show hasn’t shown that. It’s possible his family noticed he was “different” and had him checked out, but since that would be speculation, I won’t dig into it. What we can see is that he didn’t receive the kind of early support that could have helped him better manage his internal world.
In the flashbacks, Wang Yi seems to be about 13–16 years old. We see him helping with the family business, and while we don’t watch him explicitly kill the pig, it’s heavily implied through his narration and body language (he’s also holding a knife). His description even includes a series of chemical reactions that happen in the pig’s body, which suggests a functional understanding of biology/biochemistry. This may reflect his present knowledge being layered over the flashback narration, or it could just be that he learned things through practice. Either way, the point is clear: Wang Yi, as a teenager, is used to the idea of killing.
More than that, and this is crucial, if he is both neurodivergent and dealing with a mood disorder, his entire perception of life, empathy, and identity may function differently. For someone like him, the boundary between humans and animals may not be emotionally or philosophically distinct. People with overlapping neurodivergent traits often interpret the world through patterns, emotional consistency, and nontraditional moral logic. He may not see killing a person as worse than killing an animal, not because he lacks empathy, but because he values life in a fundamentally equal way, outside of social norms.
That’s not coldness, that’s consistency in his own worldview.
I’ll take a slight detour to explain this further...
He says: “I come from a family of butchers, but I always thought they could’ve done better. A proper butcher should be like an assassin, minimal talking. Because the more you talk, the more people will know. And even if pigs don’t have the power to take revenge on you, they could still curse you after they die. So I swore to become the coolest assassin.”
In the first part, he’s not demeaning his family’s work as butchers. When he says they “could’ve done better,” he’s referring specifically to how they talked too much while performing their duties, not to the profession itself. The next sentence makes that clear: “A proper butcher should be like an assassin, minimal talking.” To him, taking life, even animal life, is something that demands seriousness, silence, and restraint.
Why silence? Because “the more you talk, the more people will know. And even if pigs don’t have the power to take revenge, they could still curse you.” This is where we see how thin the line is, in his mind, between animals and humans. He equates butchering animals with killing people, not in a casual or careless way, but with a strange kind of solemnity. To him, both are morally weighty acts, and while he still chooses to do them, he understands there's something inherently “wrong” or “shameful” about it.
The idea that the dead can curse the living implies that he feels some guilt or spiritual consequence, something a person completely lacking a moral compass wouldn’t worry about. This belief points to an internal code: he may not stop killing, but he knows it isn't “right.” He copes with this by treating the act with ceremony and silence, dissociating from it emotionally.
Silence becomes his way of self-protection. If he talks about it, he risks acknowledging the wrong, and with that comes vulnerability, shame, and guilt. To speak of it would be to “confess,” to let that guilt materialize and solidify into a part of his identity. If he says it out loud, he’s no longer just doing something wrong, he becomes someone wrong. This is why he sees doing it quietly as the “cool” way, not because he enjoys killing, but because he’s figured out the most emotionally manageable and “cleanest” method for it.
When he says, “So I swore to become the coolest assassin,” it’s not out of a childish desire to murder people or a belief that violence is glamorous. It’s about performing that violence in a controlled, silent, “proper” way, unlike the noisy chaos he grew up in. Silence, for him, is discipline, escape, and a shield against the internal and external noise that triggers his distress. And if he was being trained to take over his family business as a butcher, which to him equals the work of an assassin, then why not just become an assassin instead, when presented the option? That's why he took the offer from Mr. Shang, in his head he'd be doing the same thing, but in a different environment. And living with his family was so traumatizing that the change in his routine, although scary, was worth the effort.
So why doesn’t he say any of this outright? Because he doesn’t fully understand his own emotions. He experiences things deeply, but he can’t express them clearly or in neurotypical terms. He’s not explaining his thoughts to us, we’re watching them unfold as they occur in his head. His emotional logic makes perfect sense to him, even if it isn’t explicit. The words he uses and the words we might use for the same feeling are different, but the emotion underneath is the same.
TL;DR (Short Scheme):
He likely has at least one mental health condition and may be neurodivergent.
He experiences sensory overload and was raised in a chaotic, noisy, overstimulating butcher shop.
He may conflate butchering animals with killing people, not out of coldness, but internal moral consistency.
He shows signs of a moral compass (worry about being cursed) → suggests he feels guilt.
He believes talking about the killing turns it into a “confession,” which threatens his emotional detachment.
He does it silently to avoid triggering distress or moral/emotional chaos, and this “coolness” is a protective, dissociative style, not actual pride in killing.
He struggles to verbalize emotions, so his thought process isn’t cohesive to us, but internally, it’s fully consistent.
Now, back on track. Because Wang Yi’s family couldn’t provide the support he needed as a child, he likely never went to therapy, didn’t take medication, and lived in an overstimulating environment with a lifestyle that offered no accommodations to help him cope. Naturally, he didn’t develop effective coping strategies or self-awareness.
He struggles to connect with others, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he simply doesn’t know how. Others don’t know how to approach him either. He becomes easily overwhelmed by noise (not just any noise). To speak to his family, he would’ve had to raise his voice just to be heard, and even then, being heard wouldn’t have meant being understood. So, why speak at all?
Maybe he did try when he was very young. But gradually, after repeatedly being misunderstood, or realizing that his words didn’t convey what he felt, he stopped. Perhaps even the sound of his own voice, forced louder than he was comfortable with, became unpleasant to him. Like I mentioned earlier, speaking could also feel like a kind of confession. Imagine if every time you opened your mouth, you felt like you were revealing guilt, even when you weren’t guilty. That kind of vulnerability is incredibly heavy.
There are many, many reasons why a person may stop talking. And when it comes to neurodivergent individuals, selective mutism is a common response, not because they don’t feel things, but because they’re often not taken seriously, are made fun of, or dismissed entirely. Talking becomes burdensome. Whether mutism becomes disabling depends on the person, their environment, and what support they have. In Wang Yi’s case, with an overstimulating home and likely no support, he shut himself off.
The Launch of FOMO (Year 19 AC)
When Wang Yi was 19, the social media platform FOMO was launched.
This is when the show’s critique of our society becomes loud and clear. Wang Yi quickly became one of FOMO’s first top stars, not for something he chose to do, but for simply existing: being handsome, being silent. His quietness was seen as a "cute little quirk."
Finding someone attractive isn't inherently bad, and misunderstanding a stranger isn’t either, in isolation. But it becomes a problem when someone’s privacy is stripped away without their consent.
FOMO is basically our real-world social media. On platforms like this, anyone can go viral, often without knowing, sometimes just for being in the background of someone else's video. I have my own reasons for disliking this reality, and I imagine many people do too. Most of us don’t appreciate having our faces or lives shared publicly without consent.
With Wang Yi, it goes further. People don’t just stop by his shop to gawk, they film him, take photos, and post them online, crafting entire made-up stories about who they think he is. It’s heartbreaking to watch him see those numbers climb, realizing that not only does he have to deal with his existing struggles, but now there’s a whole new challenge, forced upon him without warning.
Even his family doesn’t handle it with care. They comment on his “success” without considering how he feels. They didn’t mean harm, but the truth is, intent doesn’t erase impact, and it’s likely they’ve been doing this, unintentionally hurting him, for 19 years. If the people closest to him don’t get it, how can we expect strangers who only see him through a screen to?
To many, going viral might seem like a dream, but for Wang Yi (and for people like me), it would be terrifying. And I’m not even talking about Trust Value yet. Just the unwanted attention alone would be suffocating.
Even for someone who wanted to be famous, it would still be disturbing to have that happen at the hands of strangers, without agency. This is ultimately about consent, or rather, the lack of it. It’s about how predatory our imaginations can become when we stop seeing people as people, and instead view them as products of our own fantasies.
Isn’t that what the show is really about?
When Wang Yi asks, “But who was doing the deceiving?”, the answer is: us. People. We deceive ourselves constantly, because nothing can compete with our own imagination. Often, the wondering brings more satisfaction than the actual truth. Expectation versus reality will always be a losing battle, and Trust Value is a system that capitalizes on that very gap.
And then there's this: who likes being reduced to a single moment, action, or trait? No one. Human beings are much more than what can be seen through a narrow lens. But more often than not, that one trait is all other people choose to, or can, see, and everything else gets erased.
It’s worth emphasizing again: Wang Yi was 19 at this point. He had been struggling in silence for years. And when the world finally noticed him, it wasn’t for who he really was, but for a version of him they invented, without his consent.
At 20 years old, Mr. Shang invites Wang Yi to join Mighty Glory.
In this scene, it's telling that Wang Yi doesn’t reply. Instead, he begins stuffing his mouth with food over and over until he chokes. This moment speaks volumes. The idea of change triggers his anxiety, and paired with possible sensory sensitivities to texture or light, it becomes physically overwhelming, even nauseating. We see him nearly vomit twice in the series, both times when he’s confronted with the pressure of change.
His sensitivity to light becomes more apparent later, when we see him alone in his apartment. He keeps the lights off, something we can assume he didn’t do before, when Zhang Lan and Nuonuo were still living there. Now that he’s alone, his environment reflects his personal comfort: low light, minimal stimulation.
Food texture is another clue. A family member’s comment about pork jelly, and Wang Yi’s own diary entry complaining about the “rubbery” texture of squid, both hint at textural aversions, something very common in neurodivergent individuals with sensory processing differences.
This moment also marks the beginning of his work as an assassin, and there’s a lot to unpack.
When he says, “I never searched for any information on my mission targets, because I know that they are definitely the ones in the wrong,” he isn’t expressing certainty, he’s expressing avoidance. By refusing to learn who they are or why they’re targeted, he spares himself the moral complexity of the act. It’s a way to emotionally detach. No backstory means no empathy. This is both a coping strategy and a form of dissociation, a way to protect himself from the psychological weight of what he’s doing.
His internal moral code, “Greed is wrong, weakness is wrong, violence is wrong, lying is wrong, betrayal is wrong, and knowing too much is also wrong”, isn’t shaped by universal values. It’s rigid, heavily filtered through personal trauma and an urgent need for psychological control. To Wang Yi, the world is overwhelming, unpredictable, and hostile. He craves clarity and order because ambiguity is unbearable. Moral absolutes give him a framework, a simple rulebook to survive in a complex world. This is especially clear in the line “knowing too much is also wrong”, which reveals that he equates knowledge with danger. Silence becomes a form of safety. The more you know, or allow yourself to know, the more vulnerable you become.
Later, he says: “Sheng knows that I'm not the one who wants him killed. So I hope he won't curse me in his death.” This line is key to understanding his psychology. He doesn’t enjoy killing. He sees it as a job, a task he dissociates from. But he still hopes the person dying won’t blame him, emotionally or spiritually.
He knows he’s the one pulling the trigger, yet he clings to the hope that he won’t be cursed—a concept rooted in the guilt and superstition we saw earlier in his butcher-family origin story.
This isn’t just emotional distance, it’s a compartmentalized conscience. He wants to be absolved, even while he continues doing the very thing he believes is morally questionable.
Do I like the fact that he killed Sheng? Of course not. Sheng seems like a great person. But that doesn’t make Wang Yi a villain to me. He already learned something from the encounter: “I also understood what was left behind in Sheng’s words and eyes right before he died.” And something tells me he will learn much more, soon. A lot of people want Ghostblade to pay for what he did, but honestly, I think he already is.
Wang Yi is an unreliable character, not because he lies, but because he misinterprets or avoids his own emotions. His self-narrative is warped by trauma, possible neurodivergence, and an affective disorder. He presents the world through a distorted lens, one that makes perfect sense to him, but might not to us.
His rationalizations are not deceitful, they are protective. They shield him from collapse, but also prevent growth and insight. He speaks sincerely, but the “truth” of what he says is often buried under layers of emotional detachment, black-and-white moral logic, neurodivergent processing and trauma adaptations.
All his defenses, like silence, detachment, and strict moral boundaries, aren’t about power or cruelty. They’re about survival. He’s not evil. He’s someone who has made intense, morally grey adaptations to navigate a world that has consistently overwhelmed and misunderstood him, a world that has not been kind to either his brain or his heart.
Wang Yi with Zhang Lan and Nuonuo
When they meet, we already know Wang Yi’s background, but we know almost nothing about Zhang Lan. What we do see is that she’s constantly on her phone. Her reasons are never made explicit, maybe it was a form of escapism, maybe she was struggling emotionally, maybe it was just a phase or a habit carried over from her teenage years. The important thing is that despite their differences, she and Wang Yi connected strongly enough to build a relationship, though not necessarily for the same reasons.
I don’t want to over-speculate, since we’re not shown Zhang Lan’s internal world, but to me it never felt like she preferred silence or struggled with interaction the way Wang Yi did. Rather, it seemed like she didn’t want to be bothered, like she wanted to remain in the digital world she found comfort in. That doesn’t mean she was disengaged all the time; it’s just that the show emphasized her screen use to signal she was often emotionally absent. Life happened around her more than through her. Still, she did look at Wang Yi. He didn’t demand much, and she didn’t either. In that mutual lack of pressure, they found a kind of ease. Their silence wasn’t cold, it was comfortable. If they hadn’t wanted to be together, they simply wouldn’t have been. But they did, and in their own ways, they loved each other.
Eventually, they even got married. That could’ve been for any number of reasons, legal, cultural, personal. Since I don’t share the cultural context, I won’t assume the exact motivation. What matters more is that a year later, when they discover Zhang Lan is pregnant, it’s the first time we see her fully present. It’s as if she wakes up from a long, dreamlike state. Interestingly, Wang Yi’s first reaction isn’t focused on the pregnancy itself but on Zhang Lan’s unexpected emotional shift. Her intensity confuses him, and as with all other major changes in his life, it scares him.
There’s some debate about whether they should’ve talked about the possibility of having a child beforehand or taken more precautions. But honestly, given the state they were in when they met, is it really surprising that the idea of a baby might not have even crossed their minds? What seems “obvious” to some people isn’t always obvious to others, especially for those living in dissociative or emotionally withdrawn states. And isn’t that exactly how it often goes in real life? All around the world, children are born to people who weren’t prepared, caught off guard by a reality they hadn’t anticipated. Whether it was “right” or “wrong” is beside the point, the baby is here, and that’s what matters. The focus has to shift to what happens next.
By Year 23 AC, Zhang Lan and Wang Yi divorce. Nuonuo was around two years old by then, so they clearly tried to make things work for a while. We don’t know much about what their life looked like as a family, and we still don’t get any real insight into Zhang Lan’s point of view. But based on what is shown, it’s not hard to understand her frustration. She changed, he didn’t. It’s possible she ended up taking care of Nuonuo mostly on her own, effectively living as a single mom despite being married. That kind of dynamic can wear a person down.
That said, I don’t think she was supposed to “parent” Wang Yi. But once she had a shift in mindset, could it have helped to gently encourage him toward professional support? Maybe she tried and he wasn’t ready. Maybe she didn’t know how. Because we don’t see her attempt to truly understand or support him on that level, it’s easy to frame her as the “villain,” but I don’t think it’s that simple. Even if she had taken him to therapy, it would have required immense time, patience, and a total unlearning of the only survival strategies he’s ever known. Therapy isn’t a quick fix, especially not for someone like him.
From Wang Yi’s side, the divorce clearly disturbs him. As we've seen before, abrupt shifts in routine or environment aren’t just inconvenient, they can be physically and emotionally destabilizing. He likely depends on predictability to feel safe. Sudden change can trigger anxiety, panic, or shutdown. For someone who struggles to identify and regulate emotions, the emotional fallout from change can feel overwhelming or even paralyzing. He can’t always process or verbalize what he’s feeling in the moment, and without tools or external support, even small changes can feel catastrophic. That’s why he clings to Nuonuo’s bunny after Zhang Lan leaves, just like a child would. It’s a regression to a comfort behavior from earlier stages of development.
But it’s important to recognize why he struggles this way. Wang Yi was already silent for most of his life. He never developed speech, and when someone can’t or doesn’t speak, whether due to selective mutism or another condition, they miss out on key experiences: emotional expression, social negotiation, and the feedback loops that support emotional growth. Without verbal interaction, it becomes so much harder to name, process, or regulate feelings.
Emotional maturity doesn’t just happen. It usually requires modeling from caregivers, practice in safe social environments and support in understanding one’s own inner world. Without those things, a person may stay stuck in developmentally delayed ways of reacting, struggling with boundaries, engaging in black-and-white thinking, or withdrawing completely when overwhelmed.
And when a neurodivergent person is repeatedly misunderstood, dismissed, or punished for their struggles, the result is often the same: they shut down even more, stop trying to explain themselves, and rely on self-protective behaviors, like staying silent or acting like they don’t care. It can make them seem emotionally immature or detached, when in fact they may feel very deeply but have no safe way to show it.
Wang Yi’s silence isn’t passive, it’s protective. It’s the safest place he’s known his whole life. So when Zhang Lan tries to push him out of that silence, even if it comes from a place of care or desperation, it shatters him. He’s left raw and vulnerable, because he doesn’t know another way to exist. And when someone’s only coping strategy is stripped away, it doesn’t create growth, it creates panic.
I think that if she isn’t happy, then yes, ending it is for the best. But if you love the person you’re with, wouldn’t you at least try to understand them a little? The truth is, Zhang Lan never really knew Wang Yi. In fact, they probably never truly knew each other. And they didn’t have to, not at first. Ironically, their bond as a couple was built on a connection that didn’t rely on deep understanding. But once she changed, what once wasn’t a problem became one.
And I’m glad she changed, otherwise, Nuonuo’s childhood might have been a lot worse. Zhang Lan became a caring mother who gave her daughter warmth and love. None of them are villains here. They’re like real people who made mistakes and, sometimes, the wrong choices, “wrong” according to each of their perspectives.
Wang Yi couldn’t be a father, not because he didn’t want to be, but because he didn’t know how. People grow at different paces, and some carry issues so deeply rooted that even realizing something basic can take decades. That’s just reality.
The heartbreaking part wasn’t Zhang Lan leaving Wang Yi. That was probably the right decision, she wasn’t happy, and forcing things would’ve made them both miserable, which would have affected Nuonuo too. What was heartbreaking was Zhang Lan telling Nuonuo that her father was dead, denying both of them a chance to connect, something Wang Yi already struggled with.
His means weren’t perfect, but his brain works differently, he lives by an entirely different set of internal standards. In the scenes where he follows Nuonuo, he says, “I began to understand why my father observed more than participated when teaching me to butcher pigs.” I think that’s his way of realizing that, like his own father couldn’t connect with him, he’s now unable to connect with her. So all that’s left is observation.
Zhang Lan rejecting the plushie he brought for Nuonuo also broke my heart. Honestly, I’m 27, and I’d cherish anything my dad gave me, especially a plushie. But after telling Nuonuo that her father was dead, it’s not like she could give her that gift without unraveling the story or pretending it was someone else’s gift.
In real life, what Zhang Lan said at the park could be extremely damaging to someone like Wang Yi. “She’s already an adult, and you picked that as her birthday present.[...] You don’t know a damn thing about her![...] Did you ever really care about her at all? Have you ever really understood her?[...] It’s fine, you’re already dead to her, anyway.” But within the show, Zhang Lan had to serve as the catalyst for Wang Yi’s development. This role unfortunately casts her in a “villain” light, not because she is one, but because of how her actions serve the narrative. And to be fair, many people in real life act just like she did, some might grow from the fallout, like Wang Yi did, and others may not.
Wang Yi didn’t take it lightly. Remember when he went home, visibly in pain and frustrated? He says: “It appeared to me that I really didn’t know anything about my daughter anymore. Not what she was thinking, nor what she wanted to do. Turns out there are some questions that can only be answered when they’re answered out loud. At that moment, I felt the urge to open my mouth, but I still couldn’t manage to say anything.”
He realizes that just when he thought he was starting to understand things, he isn’t. It’s disorienting and painful. And he’s right, some questions can only be answered out loud. Verbalizing thoughts often reveals what we really think or feel. Until we speak it, we might not fully grasp it ourselves. Speaking something makes it real and invites understanding from others. But for people who struggle with self-expression, like Wang Yi, this is incredibly difficult. Verbalizing isn’t just expression; it’s a tool for clarity, and it’s one he doesn’t have.
That’s why, in his own way, he tries to know Nuonuo through observation, following her, mimicking her. It’s not ideal, but it’s what he can do.
Also, we need to remember that speaking and expressing yourself are two different things. Even if he started talking, he likely wouldn’t be able to communicate what’s in his mind clearly or comfortably. At 39 years old, after at least two decades of silence, it’s unlikely he’d regain expressive speech easily, if at all.
The same goes for writing. I’ve seen people ask, “Didn’t he ever think of writing down what he means?” — but that misses the real issue: he can’t express himself. Not verbally, not in writing, not even through drawing. He doesn’t know how to make himself understood, and sometimes, he doesn't even understand himself.
Is it really that hard to grasp?
The reason he writes in his diary is because it’s something only he is supposed to see. Writing to someone else is entirely different. He does know basic gestures, but unfortunately, people often talk over his gestures or put words in his mouth, so they’re not very effective.
Ironically, he can’t willingly express his emotions, but his facial expressions are very expressive. He didn’t seem like this in the past, but now he is. What changed? Many things. As time passed, he probably developed new coping mechanisms, and his desire to connect with Nuonuo only grew stronger. By following her, mimicking her actions, and doing other things we probably didn’t see, he naturally became more expressive over time. It’s still not a change that helps him communicate clearly, and it’s mostly subconscious, but it shows that gradual change is, indeed, possible.
Also, and this may sound strange, it’s actually very common for people with selective mutism to be talkative in their heads and keep a personal diary like his. These are just two of many coping strategies that help neurodivergent people organize their thoughts and maintain a sense of control and order.
Because his brain needs a strict sense of order to function, he clings to his rituals and actions. That can come across as controlling, even toward others. That’s why he’s so overprotective of Nuonuo, and why he sees Luo Li as a threat, she brings unpredictability, which makes it harder for him to process and increases his anxiety.
And yes, it should be obvious to us and to Nuonuo that he’s the “creep” she and Luo Li are talking about. But it’s not obvious to him. Not even close. He’s never been taught how to “read the room.” That’s just one more way his childhood neglect left lasting damage. Had he been supported growing up, he could’ve developed into a functional adult. But in many ways, he didn’t, and that’s not his fault.
Could he have sought help later in life? Sure. But when you don’t even understand what emotions are, when you can’t tell what you’re feeling or whether your actions are problematic, you don’t have the foundation to seek help. That’s what makes it so hard for him.
His acts of service, like protecting Nuonuo from afar, gifting Zhang Lan whisper flowers, or eating the squid so Nuonuo wouldn’t have to, show us that even if his methods aren’t perfect, his intentions are full of love. Whatever love means to him, he loved Zhang Lan, and he loves Nuonuo more than anything.
I’m so glad Nuonuo read his diary. He couldn’t have expressed those feelings directly if he tried; it likely wouldn’t have come across as genuine. But in his diary, writing just for himself, he could finally be honest. No pressure. No fear. Just the truth. That’s why what she read felt so real. It wasn’t meant for anyone else to see.
Nuonuo didn’t just bring joy into his life, she gave him a second chance at experiencing the basic things he missed as a child and teenager. Through her, he learned things that should have come naturally but didn’t, simply because no one showed him.
I’ve seen people online say Ghostblade is hilarious, an “edgy middle-aged boy failure.” And yeah, I get that a lot of it is said in jest, I laugh too, sometimes, of course we're allowed to. But honestly, I don’t find him funny. Yes, some scenes with Nuonuo are cute or awkward in a charming way. But the intentional exaggeration, despite funny, also feels unsettling, a direct contrast to the loneliness and pain underneath. It makes it less funny and more melancholic to me.
Sure, he’s got cute things about him, but he’s also deeply traumatized, and to me, trauma isn’t cute. I see fans treating his behaviors as endearing quirks when, in reality, he’s a product of lifelong neglect, and that’s exactly part of the show’s critique. But again, everyone is entitled to their interpretation. Some hate him and think he deserves to die alone. You’re free to think that too. I just, personally, disagree with treating him either like a baby or a monster, the extremes.
I’m not saying he’s excused for destroying other people’s lives just because he doesn’t know better. He still has to face the consequences of his actions. And by “face the consequences,” I mean emotionally dealing with the weight of what he’s done once he chooses to confront it, it’s a kind of self-inflicted punishment. Some people might think he deserves to be punished directly, but that’s not the point here. The goal isn’t to frame or absolve him, but to explain why he does what he does, regardless of whether those actions are seen as good or bad.
The very idea of “good” and “bad” is already quite arbitrary; neurodivergent or not, everyone is different and will have their own opinion about what those terms mean. In other words, Wang Yi isn’t excused for doing harmful things, but he absolutely has the right to be human and make mistakes, like all other characters do. All of them are very realistic and relatable in one way or another.
It’s really sad that his intentions aren’t bad, yet they sometimes lead to actions that are irreversibly destructive. Talk about realistic...
I wish he’d go to therapy. I love him so much. It breaks my heart.
To be quite frank, all characters could benefit from some therapy.