Heartthrob Game was a flagship online variety show launched by Leyuan Video. It had exploded in popularity over the past few years, boasting an incredibly high level of national recognition.
Its fame stemmed largely from its generous budget, which allowed it to invite just about anyone—from A-list idols to niche influencers. The show spared no expense, pulling together a roster of buzzworthy guests and letting their fans clash like gladiators, shipping couples left and right. Then everyone waited to see if any pairs would actually couple up and continue playing the role of contract sweethearts after the show wrapped.
Deep down, everyone knew the truth: real love was rare among the couples it produced. Most hyped things up for a year or two before the scandals hit—cheating, blowups—and they parted ways after purging their fanbases, moving on without a backward glance.
Critics slammed the show as the pinnacle of mindless entertainment, hogging public bandwidth and allegedly harming viewers’ health—not to mention the calls for it to be yanked off the air tomorrow. But the production team dared to film anything, the guests dared to play along, and it still commanded a massive legion of die-hard fans.
Sure, it got accused of fleecing viewers, but the perks were hard to resist. Leyuan VIP members could watch the unedited raw footage, while SVIP subscribers enjoyed 24/7 on-demand access to live camera feeds. Leyuan Video wasn’t just raking in profits; it was pocketing hefty PR fees from stars desperate to manufacture couple hype, catapulting several floundering fan ships straight to diamond super-topic status.
Every promo cycle for Heartthrob Game was shrouded in mystery, leaving fans torn between love and hate. On one hand, they dreaded their idol being exposed on live cams—puffy and out of shape from too many buns. Worse, what if the whole thing was just promo, but they came back with a real partner in tow?
On the other hand, fans adored the chance to watch their idols potentially skyrocket to fame overnight. They could peek into their daily lives up close, scripts or no scripts—and those scripts were always juicy, with acting so convincing it felt real.
Everyone had a voyeuristic streak; it was a flaw etched into human nature, nearly impossible to shake.
So on May 20, 2025, at noon sharp, the official teaser trailer dropped on the Leyuan platform—and it grabbed everyone’s attention.
After the teaser, they’d unlock the SVIP live feeds for the first episode.
Casual viewers eagerly awaited the drama, while fans in the know geared up to control the narrative for their faves. The air crackled with tension.
A silhouette poll had quietly launched in the video comments below.
“It’s here! Dare to drop the full ep half an hour early and freak us out?”
“We’re all VIPs—talk big!”
“Aaaah, I heard Fu Yanzong’s coming—is it real? Just binged Spring Tide Undercurrent for him and got a membership… Can’t wait to see him date!”
“Real Fuyan sis or fake? Didn’t they say Fu Yanzong’s too fan-servicey off-screen, and now the dating show backlash from his solo stans is biting him? Lol, y’all must be fuming.”
“That Shenlan kid whose ID was ‘Only Love Little Sugar’ three days ago—switching to Nova groupie now? Too late, and what’s with the act? Yanzong debuted as an actor—no solo stans here. He’s a legit passerby, okay?”
“If ‘fan-servicey’ just means Fu Yanzong always looks out for fan safety and delivers on their wishes… so what? Your fave doesn’t? Jealous much?”
“I remember Daddy Su topping the charts for hospital discharge while ignoring fans? How’s it your fans’ fault for wanting to date him, then whining online? Liking a guy like that? My sympathies.”
“So thrilling, so satisfying—is this Heartthrob Game’s no-morals, fans-only battle royale? Can’t wait for the real show…”
“Fight! Fight! Go Fuyan sis—I got my VIP from your retweet giveaway, after all.”
“Enough—it’s noon!”
…
The teaser’s voiceover kicked in alongside swelling BGM, and the first guest to appear was, no surprise, Fu Yanzong.
To hook viewers, the footage opened with a snippet of the soaring piano theme from his award-winning debut film, Spring Tide Undercurrent.
Against a pitch-black screen, titles of countless roles he’d played flashed by, while the voiceover shifted to lines he’d delivered in various movies.
Voices ranging from boyish innocence to seasoned depth wove a web in the darkness. Fragments of dialogue—playful, solemn—collided in the void. Every character he’d breathed life into stirred awake, invading the audience’s memories.
Even without actual clips, viewers found themselves picturing old theater seats, heads tilted up in rapt attention, watching Fu Yanzong’s every expression on the big screen.
Fu Yanzong had graced screens for just seven short years, but without exaggeration, he’d etched countless unforgettable characters into hearts.
To many, he wasn’t just the actor—he was the sum of all those iconic roles.
Some forever saw him as the clear-eyed, beautiful boy Xiao He at nineteen. Others met him first as the manic, brooding Li Gu. And plenty pieced together his off-screen self from media snippets.
Whatever the case, everyone had framed their own perfect snapshot of him in their minds. Today marked the first time Fu Yanzong stepped into the audience’s world as his true self, up close.
This unique montage-style intro showcased Leyuan’s promo prowess. As the voices—fervent, somber, tender—faded, one remained: Fu Yanzong’s own voice, calm, genuine, unadorned.
No character filter, no scripted polish—just his simple words.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Fu Yanzong.”
The bullet comments blanked for a split second, then flooded the section in a tidal wave.
They echoed back: Nice to meet you, Fu Yanzong.
The teaser cut to other guests next. Unlike Fu Yanzong’s sleek, innovative entrance, they opted for backstory recaps and Vlog-style intros.
Su Tang and Cheng Yan showed off behind-the-scenes contrasts, while civilians shared slices of their everyday jobs.
As per tradition, two guests remained under wraps, with only program hints provided.
Mystery guests were always a highlight. One of Heartthrob Game’s big gimmicks was inviting secret big shots from various industries.
Season one had roped in a hot entertainment company’s GM to date their own employee—hilarious chaos that drew crowds of onlookers.
To clarify: Fans could vote live under the show for their dream CP pairings, any gender combo. Producers picked the top-voted ones to deliver.
Pairing mystery guests with fan faves in episode one was standard—it often sparked killer contrasts like boss-employee or superfan-celeb.
After guest intros, the teaser rolled out interviews with their industry friends and family, who’d later critique from the observation room.
For buzz, guests often tapped ex-promo partners, blurring lines for that “missed lovers” vibe and double-dipping on ships.
For Fu Yanzong, they brought in Yang Wan. Budgets strained for Movie Emperor and Actress pairing, but when she heard he was doing a dating show, she jumped at it—zero pay. They snapped her up.
In her pre-taped bit, the host asked if she was curious about Fu Yanzong dating. She shook her head frantically.
“Our Little Young Master Fu… well, let’s just say I’m betting he’s no perfect boyfriend.” Half for the camera, half sincere, Yang Wan gestured with a grin. “No clue who the other guests are, but I’ll be praying for you all from the observation room.”
Bullet comments went feral with anticipation. As the teaser ended, even chill viewers planning to “just watch promos and catch episode one next week” scrambled for SVIP and dove into the live feed.
Truth be told, Fu Yanzong had figured Su Tang would move fast post-discharge, but he hadn’t expected this rushed. Song Wen had barely picked him up when Heartthrob Game production kicked off—no breather.
Xiao Sun had packed two suitcases overnight. Come dawn, he drove Fu Yanzong to the meetup spot for the production bus.
The apartment was a trek from the pickup point, so Fu Yanzong arrived last. The other guests were already aboard.
Per rules, he surrendered his phone for a new one loaded only with cast contacts. He handed it over quick, but glancing at the new device, he tilted his head with a smile. “Who loaded Match-3 Game on here? You’re spoiling me.”
Bullet comments cracked up at his instant “Match-3 Game spokesman” vibe, then zeroed in as he stowed his luggage and boarded.
The production team quickly cut to the shot inside the car.
Fu Yanzong bent slightly at the waist as he entered the compartment. His light gray athletic wear accentuated his tall, upright figure. His long hair was tied into a high ponytail that slipped out from the back of his black baseball cap and swayed gently.
The fabric of his clothes rippled subtly with his movements, and the exposed lines of his wrists were smooth and powerful. He looked like a white poplar stretching toward the morning breeze—refreshing and straight-backed, a truly pleasing sight.
Fu Yanzong smiled at everyone. Sunlight streamed through the car window, falling across his clear brows and eyes. The small bluish mole at the corner of his eye sparkled beautifully in the morning light.
“Good morning, everyone.”
His words brought the entire compartment to life.
“I’m done for. How does this guy look exactly the same after seven years? Why does this outfit make him look so damn handsome? It’s killing me…”
“Oh no… Fu Yanzong, stop smiling with that face! Shouldn’t you ten be scheming and trash-talking each other right now? Don’t turn this into a fan meet-and-greet!”
“My screen’s all wet… lemme lick it…”
After the greetings, Fu Yanzong received a card adorned with faint floral patterns.
This was part of the show’s format. The guests would have their first meeting on the bus. Once everyone had arrived and exchanged hellos, the production team would hand out one such card to each person.
Guests could write flirty lines or a bold self-introduction on it, then give it to their first “heartthrob” pick before arriving at the villa. If the mutual selection succeeded, those guests could skip straight to a painless half-day date.
Importantly, guests would be ranked based on the number of cards they received. The highest-ranked one got to decide the room assignments, and higher ranks meant more choices in the upcoming games.
Typically, during this bus ride, some guests would stand up to mingle, play little icebreaker games, and natural leaders often ended up with more cards. Others might even agree to swap.
Of course, the backstabbing of swapping cards at the last second was always a crowd-pleaser for the viewers.
Now that all ten cards had been distributed, the production team silently urged them into the first round of icebreakers.
