From everything that had been building since the very first episode, the atmosphere surrounding JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Phantom Blood was no longer just one of anticipation. There was something heavier in the air, a nearly collective sense of scrutiny. The audience wasn't simply following a new series anymore - they were watching, measuring, and comparing every detail against everything Alex had created before.
That was the cost of having set the bar too high.
When a creator gets the audience used to repeated creative peaks, anything that isn't another leap forward is easily mistaken for a stumble.
It was in that context that the first major battle between Jonathan and Dio finally reached the screen.
The clash ended with Jonathan claiming a narrow victory, earned less through superiority and more through sheer stubbornness and willpower. But JoJo had never been a story about clean victories or comforting conclusions, and the series made that clear almost immediately.
Flames engulfed Dio. For a brief moment, some viewers genuinely believed that was the end - or at least a longer pause. The narrative refused to grant them that relief. Dio returned. Burned, twisted, alive in a way that felt wrong, almost offensive to common sense.
And then came the cut.
The screen went dark. The music began to play.
Roundabout.
A left-pointing arrow appeared, followed by the phrase that seemed to mock the very idea of closure:
To Be Continued.
The reaction wasn't exactly shock. It was something stranger, harder to define.
A shared sense of discomfort.
The aesthetic choice was exaggerated, theatrical, almost provocative. The song, the timing, the abrupt cut - everything gave the impression that the series was fully aware of how over-the-top it was and had decided to embrace it rather than apologize for it. It didn't ask for permission. It didn't try to soften the blow.
It was impossible to take entirely seriously.
And yet, just as impossible to forget.
In university dorms, in quiet living rooms, in bedrooms lit only by the glow of a screen, people sat frozen for a few seconds after the episode ended. They didn't comment right away. They tried to make sense of what they were feeling.
After the second episode, something curious happened.
Many viewers who usually watched with comments turned off gave in. Maybe they just wanted to confirm they weren't alone in that strange sensation. One by one, the live chats were turned back on.
And the messages began to scroll.
Not in chaotic bursts, but in steady waves.
"I can't explain it… the story didn't completely hook me, but Dio won't leave my head."
"Same here. The way he talks is annoying and addictive at the same time."
"Whenever he shows up, it feels like the whole series changes frequency."
"If this were by any other director, I'd give it an 8.5 without thinking. But since it's Alex… I'm stuck at a 6.5."
"That's just persecution. That score makes no sense."
"That's the price of having a big name."
Among the general audience, the tone was still relatively fair. Many acknowledged the show's strengths but struggled not to compare it to Bleach. Others were unsettled precisely because JoJo didn't seem interested in being comfortable. It was exaggerated, theatrical, and at times outright disorienting.
None of that was unreasonable.
When audiences grow accustomed to exceptional works, their standards rise with them. Their gaze becomes sharper - and far less patient.
The problem was that this window of reasonable criticism didn't last long.
As soon as the first cracks appeared, people who had been waiting for this moment began to move. Not through direct attacks, but through carefully placed remarks, rushed analyses, and forced comparisons - framed as if they were merely "sharing opinions."
Rival producers dropped vague comments in interviews. Critics known for maintaining close ties with certain studios published pieces that felt more eager than thoughtful. New accounts appeared online, repeating the same arguments with slightly different wording.
Nothing was explicit.
But everything lined up.
The president of Bronze Pavilion distribution followed it all with barely concealed satisfaction. To him, this only confirmed a belief he had held for years: no one stays at the top forever. All it took was waiting for the right moment - that brief instant when public confidence wavered - to give a little push.
It wasn't really about promoting his own film.
It was about taking advantage of this specific situation. The growing doubt. The inevitable comparisons. The frustration of viewers who didn't feel the same immediate impact they were used to. In an industry driven by narratives, planting uncertainty was already half a victory.
The internet responded quickly.
"I'm just a regular viewer, but this is clearly a bad production."
"This is without a doubt the weakest work of Alex's career."
"Compared to Bleach, it's honestly embarrassing."
"Dio is a poorly written villain. Next to Aizen, who felt like an untouchable sovereign, he's just a common scumbag."
"I heard Penguin paid a fortune for exclusive rights. In that sense, Alex was clever - he fooled Penguin with a weak series."
These comments didn't appear in isolation. They piled up, echoed each other, and created the illusion of consensus - even when they didn't represent the majority.
And that was when something shifted.
Alex's fans, who had been watching in silence until then - some disappointed, others simply cautious - finally hit their limit. The criticism was no longer about taste or analysis. It had become opportunistic.
The comment sections turned into battlegrounds.
"Do you really think you have the standing to attack Alex? Even on his worst day, this series still crushes ninety-five percent of the trash you defend."
"It's like mocking a student who always scores 100 because this time he got a 90, while people who never passed 5 think they have the right to laugh."
"I saw disguised marketing bashing JoJo while praising Rebeca Verne's new movie. I laughed out loud. She's been stumbling for years and still wants to compare herself to Alex?"
"Fans of flavor-of-the-month idols celebrating like it's a championship final. First get your idol past a five-point rating, then try talking about Alex."
At the same time, smaller but revealing discussions began to surface.
Some content creators defended JoJo not out of blind loyalty, but out of exhaustion with the industry's sameness. Others openly admitted they didn't like it - and still defended Alex's right to experiment, to fail, to step outside his comfort zone. In older forums, veteran fans reminded everyone that JoJo had always been like this: strange at first, rejected by many, and later revered.
And amid all that noise, a quiet realization started to form among the more attentive viewers.
Maybe the audience hadn't fully understood JoJo yet.
Maybe Dio still hadn't shown everything he was capable of.
Maybe that exaggerated, almost absurd aesthetic simply needed time to settle.
But one thing could no longer be denied.
Alex hadn't failed.
He had provoked a reaction.
And in entertainment, provoking a reaction was often more dangerous - and far more promising - than pleasing everyone.
After everything that had been building since the previous episode, one truth was clear: JoJo might divide opinions, but no one could ignore it.
And the story was, without question, only just beginning.