When the fourth episode of Phantom Blood finished airing, something subtle but undeniable settled over the audience. The rating climbed to 8.5, and while the number itself was respectable, what it represented mattered far more. This wasn't the result of aggressive marketing, mass hype, or blind fan loyalty. It was the kind of recovery that only happens when a story finally lands where it was meant to.
Zeppeli's death did not explode on screen with cheap shock value. It lingered. It stayed. Viewers didn't rush to comment right away; many simply sat there, staring at the black screen after the credits rolled, replaying the scene in their minds. It wasn't sadness alone - it was a heavy recognition, the kind that reminds people why they ever cared about stories like this in the first place. For many, that single moment quietly dismantled the loud narrative that Phantom Blood had already failed.
And yet, the most fascinating shift wasn't in the reviews or even in how people talked about the plot. What truly spiraled out of control were the lines.
Almost overnight, the internet began to behave strangely.
Open any trending drama, any popular episode, any unrelated clip, and you'd see it - comments drifting past the screen with no warning, no explanation, no concern for context.
"MUDA MUDA MUDA MUDA!"
"Flat underwear! Flat underwear!"
They appeared when a protagonist made a pointless decision. When a villain overacted. Sometimes when nothing important was happening at all. To those in the know, it was hilarious. To everyone else, it was baffling.
Then came the endings.
Before the screen even faded out, the comments would flood in, synchronized as if rehearsed:
[← To Be Continued]
People who had never touched JoJo stared at their screens in confusion.
- Is this… an ad? A joke? Some kind of glitch?
If Bleach had given birth to a king of iconic dialogue in Sosuke Aizen, then JoJo was something else entirely. It wasn't a single character dominating the conversation - it was the series itself, endlessly producing phrases that refused to stay contained.
Alex understood this phenomenon intimately.
In another life, he had watched JoJo references seep into every corner of the internet. You didn't need to like anime. You didn't even need to know where the quotes came from. If you spent enough time online, you would encounter them - detached from context, reborn as pure cultural noise.
That was the terrifying strength of it.
Absurdity.
Repetition.
Confidence bordering on arrogance.
JoJo never asked for permission to be strange.
Still, when the meme wave began to overwhelm even unrelated content, Alex stepped in. A brief message appeared on the studio's official account - lighthearted, almost playful, but clear in intent. Memes were fine. Fun was fine. But restraint mattered too.
For most people, it was just another post.
For others, it was confirmation that something real was happening.
...
Across the city, in a polished office bathed in warm lighting and expensive décor, that realization hit very differently.
CRASH.
The sound of shattering glass cut through the silence as a wine glass met the wall with brutal force. Red liquid streaked downward like an accusation.
The head of Bronze Pavilion stood there, breathing heavily.
The rebound of Phantom Blood made his skin crawl - not because the series was flawless, but because of the timing. His own film was set to release that very week. The window he had been waiting for, the moment when public confidence in Alex might finally crack, was closing faster than he'd anticipated.
- This doesn't add up… - he muttered, rubbing his temples.
Just days earlier, the criticism had been loud. Comparisons to Bleach. Claims of decline. Whispers that Alex had finally peaked. Everything had pointed in the right direction.
Then the story found its footing.
He even entertained a paranoid thought - that Alex had planned this. That he'd intentionally let the opening feel uneven, only to tighten the noose later. The idea irritated him almost as much as it scared him.
But the truth was far simpler, and far crueler.
Phantom Blood had never been bad.
It had merely been judged against miracles.
Against a creator who had trained his audience to expect perfection every single time.
Compared to the average productions flooding the market, this was still leagues ahead. The criticism felt less like honest judgment and more like an excuse - an outlet for resentment.
Like mocking a student who scored eighty-five because you've forgotten what real failure looks like.
When the secretary finally arrived with the opening-day box office numbers, the tension eased - just a little.
- Twenty-two million. First day.
The executive allowed himself a smile.
- Good. Very good.
But relief built on shallow ground never lasts.
Alex would've told him that opening days were illusions. Faces sold tickets once. Stories carried them afterward.
...
A week later, the illusion collapsed.
- Thirty-three million total.
The room went quiet.
- You're telling me… the next six days combined didn't beat day one?
The secretary didn't answer. He didn't need to.
With a production cost of one hundred and forty million, the math was unforgiving. To break even, they'd need nearly triple that amount. Marketing costs, distribution cuts, theater shares - it all drained the numbers dry.
Online, the verdict had already been passed.
"Feels like a watered-down Hero."
"Why did Rock even take this role?"
"Rebeca Verne is consistent… consistently decorative."
"I'd rather rewatch City Lights. At least Emily has presence."
"Watch Phantom Blood instead. It's not perfect, but it has heart."
"The best thing this winter isn't that movie… it's KONO DIO DA."
Reading through the chaos, the executive finally understood a line he'd heard years ago and dismissed as arrogance.
I may have grown weaker - but that doesn't mean you've grown stronger.
...
- HAHAHAHA! - Emily's laughter burst through the phone. - Do you know how much Rebeca's movie made in its first week? Thirty-three million! I can't breathe!
Alex stared at the screen, unimpressed.
He didn't remind her that City Lights hadn't exactly escaped criticism either. The difference was that Emily had always been honest about her choices. Some projects were about expression. Others were about survival.
And survival paid well.
- Are you free tonight? - she asked casually. - Your episode dropped, right? We could watch it together.
Alex hesitated, already aware of the path that conversation would take.
- Emily… that might not be a good idea.
Her voice softened, deliberate.
- I put on Chun Li's outfit.
Silence.
Alex straightened.
There were lines he could defend against. Logic he could argue with. But nostalgia, combined with very specific tastes, was a different battlefield entirely.
- …I'm on my way.
Emily smiled to herself after hanging up.
- Still easy.
...
Meanwhile, Phantom Blood continued forward, indifferent to the noise surrounding it.
Some loved it.
Some hated it.
Many didn't know what to feel yet.
But no one could deny this anymore:
It wasn't being ignored.
And in an industry built on attention, indifference was the only true failure.
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