The biggest regret of "Young and Promising" is that even though they bought a big house, their parents never lived in it for a single day.

Tengda’s entire staff holds 49% of the shares, but the small portion that Pei Qian owns actually belongs to Mr. Sima. Tengda’s entire staff owns 49%, but the part under Pei Qian’s name is actually Sima’s property.

This sentence is like a knife. It pierces through the glamorous celebration banquet. Everyone on stage is cheering. Pei Qian sits in the corner, his eyes full of emptiness.

The story begins with Lin Wan. She is the daughter of Shenhua Group, the sole heir. Shenhua has assets across various regions, far more substantial than the Jinghong Group of the Sima family. Zhou Muyan’s Tianhuo, Pei Qian’s Tengda—all rent Shenhua’s office buildings. Lin Wan is the only heir of Shenhua Group. She resigned from Tianhuo to join Tengda, and her parents eventually supported her to develop in Jinchuan.

Initially, Lin Wan’s parents disapproved of her entering the gaming industry. They preferred her to return to the group early for training. But Lin Wan wanted to make a game she loved. She resigned and went to Tengda. Seeing her happier, her parents moved to Jinchuan to support her. All this sounds like an ideal turning point.

The emotional thread quietly unfolds. The sister duo based their characters on themselves for a novel. Lin Wan paid more attention to Pei Qian. Pei Qian also understood her. But don’t misunderstand—liking isn’t an equal sign. Reality has gaps. Pei Qian regards Lin Wan as a colleague and partner. Even with natural interactions, sparks didn’t turn into love. Although feelings developed naturally, Pei Qian and Lin Wan never got together.

This is the most heartbreaking part. Many viewers think that “rich daughter + talented young man” must end happily. But the drama has no fairy tale. Pei Qian’s ideal is to “become the richest by losing money,” but the ending is an open-ended celebration of Tengda’s growing stability and scale. The stage is filled with laughter. Behind the stage, he wears a bitter smile like a hidden dagger. Pei Qian is just a nominee holder, earning more but still working for others.

There’s an even more realistic pain. Pei Qian has wanted to give his parents a good life since he was young. Their old neighborhood has no elevator, and his parents are getting older and have trouble walking. The promise of a luxury apartment became his motivation. He finally bought that large flat. But he couldn’t afford the renovation costs. To pay for renovations and the mortgage, he started driving for rideshare, exhausted and turning into walking bills. The large flat he bought for his parents remains unrenovated, while he spent two years living in a tent, working as a rideshare driver.

Two years is a cruel milestone. There’s no romantic heroism in the tent. It’s a money-saving tactic rooted in reality. Every fare he earned was like a ticket to bring his parents into the city. But the script didn’t give him a perfect ending. In the end, he had to sell the house. That moment of helplessness was more difficult to swallow than any failure.

Even more absurd, his shares are still held in proxy. This means his name is prominent in the company, but key decisions are still made by others. Even though Tengda’s share structure looks good, in essence, he’s still contributing value to the Sima family. He is nominally the chairman, but in reality, his fate is tied to others through proxy holding.

Memory fragments jump around. Pei Qian once was full of ambition, full of ideals. He dedicated his youth and strength to his dreams. But when reality and emotions intertwined, the outcome wasn’t the happy ending he expected. His parents eventually moved in to support him, praising his ability. But that praise didn’t translate into crossing social classes. The gap in status and pre-set identities created an invisible wall. Shenhua Group’s background and his daughter identity became obstacles rather than advantages.

Some say that stories detached from reality are more comfortable. But “Young and Promising” chose a path closer to harsh truth. Unrenovated houses, two years of rideshare, failed house sales, proxy shares, unfulfilled love—these fragments combine into a sense of realism’s pain. The audience’s emotions are tugged, not soothed.

Looking again at Pei Qian’s parents. They ultimately didn’t move into the city’s luxury home. The old neighborhood finally got an elevator, but they said they didn’t want to go to the city. That seemingly “solved the problem” ending actually left Pei Qian with a huge sense of guilt. Filial piety didn’t change, but anxiety grew. The warmth he thought money could buy often isn’t something money can fix immediately. Despite all his efforts, he still feels he owes his parents.

The show didn’t tie all the storylines into a sweet ending. This makes many uncomfortable. Viewers are used to being comforted by plots and expect clear rewards for effort. But life doesn’t always give answers, and the drama chose to leave room for interpretation. This approach sparks discussion and controversy.

The last line is like an unstabbed knife: when we applaud and celebrate “the company’s growth and impressive shares,” do we forget to look at the person in the corner bleeding for his ideals? Is this a faithful reflection of reality, or are we deliberately dramatizing our struggles? Do you think he deserves our celebration, or should we feel sorrow for him?