The gaming company had a confidentiality agreement in place, prohibiting any leaks about the project before the official posters and trailers were released. As a result, aside from the internal staff, no one else knew that Gu Ran would be cosplaying as Xing Yao for the promotional photoshoot.
"Spiritual Jianghu," the mobile game, was the company's most heavily invested and high-priority project this year. The marketing team spared no expense, allocating a generous budget for the promotional posters and short films. They hired renowned makeup artists, photographers, and post-production professionals from the industry.
Inside the photography studio, Gu Ran sat in front of the makeup mirror while the artist carefully painted her face with a small brush.
The makeup artist was somewhat famous in the industry, having worked with numerous celebrities and influencers before. Her biggest takeaway from those collaborations was that no matter how beautiful an online influencer was, there was always an unbridgeable gap compared to actresses. So when she first heard she’d be working on a livestream host this time, she assumed it would be a challenge—until Gu Ran sat down in front of her. At that moment, she began questioning her own "gap" theory. It wasn’t that actresses outshined Gu Ran; if anything, Gu Ran outshone them.
After finishing the eye makeup, the artist picked up an ultra-fine paintbrush and began drawing Xing Yao’s signature red floral emblem on Gu Ran’s forehead.
This was Gu Ran’s first time cosplaying. Watching herself in the mirror gradually transform into Xing Yao’s animated likeness, she puffed her cheeks slightly.
Meanwhile, the costume designer brought over the outfit, signaling for Gu Ran to change into it once her makeup was done.
Unlike traditional period drama costumes, this cosplay outfit was a one-to-one replica of Xing Yao’s in-game model—more exaggerated and anime-inspired. In the original novel, Xing Yao was described as wearing light purple robes with gold accessories, and the cosplay outfit followed the same design and color scheme.
Once her makeup and headpiece were complete, Gu Ran went to the changing room to put on the costume.
A short while later, she stepped out, dressed in full cosplay.
Nervous, she frowned slightly and asked Ding Ze, "What do you think?"
"Will this work?"
Ding Ze had been looking at Xing Yao’s 3D model on his tablet when Gu Ran spoke. He glanced up—and froze for a second.
Noticing his reaction, Gu Ran tilted her head. "Hmm?"
Ding Ze quickly snapped out of his daze, breaking into an excited grin. "I told you you’d nail it!"
The anime aesthetic was uncanny. She didn’t even need heavy makeup—just a few delicate strokes from the artist had maximized the natural beauty of her features and skin tone. The exaggerated cosplay outfit, which might have looked over-the-top on someone else, was effortlessly pulled off by her. For a split second when he looked up, Ding Ze almost thought Xing Yao’s 3D model had stepped out of his tablet.
And unlike the generic, forgettable beauty of most female game characters—where the only differences lay in outfits and hairstyles—real people had the advantage of unique, tangible charm. Gu Ran’s presence made Xing Yao feel less like a string of digital code and more like a living, breathing person with warmth and vitality.
Gu Ran took a deep breath. Unfortunately, Ding Ze’s approval didn’t matter much—what really mattered was the judgment of Xing Yao’s countless devoted fans.
The photographer was ready, and the shoot began immediately.
Against a pure white backdrop, Gu Ran followed the photographer’s directions, posing in ways that matched Xing Yao’s personality.
She had spent the past two days cramming the original "Spiritual Jianghu" novel. Xing Yao’s character was lively and playful, appearing carefree and optimistic on the surface but secretly burying her love for the male lead deep inside. She watched as he grew closer to another female character, heartbroken yet still smiling as she helped him level up and fight monsters—until her tragic end, where she died pierced by countless arrows, her body turning to ashes.
This was why Xing Yao had so many devoted fans.
"Good, perfect," the photographer murmured, continuously pressing the shutter.
After finishing a full set of shots—from close-ups to full-body poses—it was time for the second look: Xing Yao’s final moments, her white robes stained with blood as she met her tragic fate.
Gu Ran’s costume was splattered with varying shades of red, her hair loose and free of ornaments. A wind machine made her sleeves and strands flutter slightly.
She had been struggling with how to portray this scene. But when the photographer raised his camera, Gu Ran smiled—just as she had before, as if still brimming with joy.
The photographer paused, about to correct her expression, but then realized: Xing Yao, even in her last moments, remained her usual optimistic, spirited self. The contrast between her bloodstained robes and her bright smile only deepened the tragedy.
The shoot wrapped up in a day. The next morning, Gu Ran recorded a short promotional voice-over ("Come play with us!"). The rest of the time was spent on the gaming company’s side—selecting and retouching the final images.
Following the confidentiality agreement, Gu Ran didn’t mention her involvement in the "Spiritual Jianghu" promotional shoot or her Xing Yao cosplay during her livestreams. But one day, a fan brought it up in the chat.
["Spiritual Jianghu" is launching on XX/XX! I wonder how the damn game company’s character models will look… Oh, my Xing Yao…]
[So many gaming streamers have announced they’ll be live-streaming "Spiritual Jianghu" on launch day. Ran, are you gonna stream it too?]
[Dude, I suddenly really wanna see Ran cosplay Xing Yao. She’d be perfect for it.]
[Ran’s so pretty, she’d definitely suit it +1]
[Yo, guys, keep it down! I’m both a Ran fan and a Xing Yao fan, and while I secretly think she’d fit, saying this where other Xing Yao fans can see is asking for trouble.]
[Yeah, yeah, stay low-key. Don’t provoke them.]
Gu Ran’s palms grew sweaty as she read the chat. She typed: [Uh, I’ll be streaming that day too. Hope to see you all there!]
The conversation soon shifted to other topics.
"Spiritual Jianghu" officially entered its promotional phase. While Xing Yao’s design remained under wraps, the other characters’ models were gradually revealed. The marketing campaign was in full swing—even the homepage banner of the streaming app CatPaw now read: ""Spiritual Jianghu" launches on XX/XX. Stay tuned!"
The post-production work on Gu Ran’s poster was completed swiftly. The gaming company sent her the final retouched images, and according to insiders, several executives were so pleased with the results that they couldn’t resist teasing it early. The official blog released a silhouette of the character along with an announcement:
We’ve specially invited a spokesperson to cosplay Xing Yao for our promotional posters. Stay tuned for the reveal!
Attached was a "Stay Tuned.jpg."
Fans of the novel and Xing Yao, who had been cautiously optimistic until now: ???
They were caught completely off guard by this move.
Since when did companies just… announce things like this?
Didn’t they learn from last year’s drama adaptation disaster? Didn’t they know Xing Yao’s fans rejected any live-action portrayal of their beloved 2D character? Didn’t they realize that if they just played it safe, fans would support the game without complaint?
And yet, despite all these "didn’t they knows," they went ahead and hired a real person to cosplay Xing Yao—then had the audacity to hype it up on their official blog, telling fans to "stay tuned"?
What’s the difference between this and stealing your child, then enthusiastically inviting you to watch how miserably I’m bullying them?
Xing Yao’s fans were so infuriated by this move that they could only laugh bitterly. They didn’t even have the energy to channel last year’s fiery passion for storming the drama’s official Weibo or flooding social media. Now, they just felt that idiots weren’t worth their attention—arguing with them would be an insult to their intelligence.
Under the "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" official Weibo post that asked everyone to "stay tuned," aside from a few obviously cheap paid comments, there wasn’t a single real person expressing excitement.
【??? What the hell is this?】
【Holy shit, this is the first time I’ve seen someone so shamelessly ignore everyone’s objections, push their own agenda, and then ask you to praise them for it.】
【Is the person running this company’s Weibo a spy sent by their rivals?】
【+1, seriously suspect it’s a rival’s plant.】
【Do they even have an IQ above 50? My border collie is smarter than this.】
【Xing Yao’s fans won’t give them the time of day. Let this trash game rot in obscurity.】
【No one is worthy of Xing Yao! No one!】
【Guys, don’t engage. Just walk away.】
【LMAO this is the first time I’ve seen a game get boycotted into oblivion before it even launches.】
【Should I be grateful they gave us an early warning? At least I won’t have to suffer through this garbage on launch day.】
【Thanks for the heads-up. I’m out.】
【Same here. See you in the next game.】
【+10086. Next game it is.】
...
Soon, major gossip and entertainment accounts began reposting the story: the "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" development team was suspected of being infiltrated by rival spies, given their baffling decision to ruin their own character designs and then brazenly ask fans to "stay tuned" on Weibo. Instead of generating hype, the move backfired spectacularly—fans collectively abandoned the game before its launch, the official Weibo lost hundreds of thousands of followers, and the incident temporarily claimed the top spot on this year’s list of "Most Ridiculous News."
When Gu Ran saw the news: "..."
Only she knew the truth—there were no rival spies in the "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" development company. The higher-ups genuinely loved her promotional photos, which was why they couldn’t wait to hype them up on Weibo.
Unfortunately, the result was the exact opposite of what they’d hoped for.
After the Weibo post asking fans to "look forward to" the live-action cosplay posters for Xing Yao, the only thing that went viral was the absurdity of the situation. Despite being backed by a major IP and having launched a massive promotional campaign, the "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" mobile game suddenly lost all momentum overnight. Xing Yao’s book fans and stans refused to engage, and no amount of shouting from the official Weibo could revive interest. No one cared about the launch date, and no one was excited.
Gu Ran lowered her head, biting her lip in frustration.
She had tried her best with the shoot.
The first promotional campaign was crucial for any streamer. She’d accepted the sponsorship fee and wanted to do a great job, but she never expected things to turn out like this.
The game company probably never imagined their title would flop into complete obscurity before even launching. At least last year’s drama had the heat of fan wars—this time, all they got were a few mocking laughs about their stupidity, and the air was filled with gleeful schadenfreude.
Three days later, at noon, the silently doomed "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" launched its open beta.
At the same time, the promotional posters teased in that infamous Weibo post were finally revealed.
Gu Ran, refusing to give up, was among the first to repost the official Weibo’s update—which was so deserted it barely had any comments.
The game’s pre-purchased ad slots on app stores and major social media platforms also went live.
Many people saw the "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" ads on their feeds that day and, remembering the baffling Weibo stunt from days prior, scoffed at the sheer audacity.
This dead-on-arrival game still bought ads? What a waste of money.
Then, their eyes casually drifted to the promotional page—where the official Weibo had shamelessly urged everyone to "stay tuned" for the poster.
The poster featured Xing Yao in violet robes adorned with gold, a crimson huadian gracing her forehead.
Everyone who saw it froze for a second.
"...?"
HOLY SHIT!!!
