Why did the system take my request to take photos with a cosplayer seriously?

The satin shoes, adorned with pom-poms at the toes, made the ankles appear even more slender.

As she straightened up, she looked up at the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside the window is the night view of Changsha, with thousands of lights shining like a starry river.

Her reflection was shown in the windowpane.

Her hair was a mix of crimson and gold, her long hair was loose, and her eyes were lowered.

Like someone who stepped out of an ancient painting.

It's like when I was twelve years old, standing in front of the mirror.

She stared blankly at the reflection, motionless for several seconds.

Then she remembered something, turned around, picked up the tube of ointment, bent down, and carefully applied it to her left ankle.

The transparent paste melted, felt cool, then heated up, and sensation gradually returned.

She straightened up and took a deep breath.

"Okay."

Ding Heng remained silent.

He simply took out his phone and connected it to the speaker in the living room.

A few seconds later, the music started.

That was a melody she knew all too well.

Ten years ago, she listened to this music and won her first major award.

The guzheng begins, the pipa is gently plucked, and the xiao follows softly.

Hua Qing closed her eyes.

one second.

two seconds.

She opened her eyes.

The moment she raised her arm, she was no longer Hua Qing.

She was Yang Yuhuan.

Yang Yuhuan, drunk.

The initial momentum.

The wide sleeves slid down her forearms, revealing half of her fair wrist.

Her eyes became hazy, as if she had just drunk some wine, her mind hazy, yet carrying a hint of languor and a touch of coquettishness.

They moved with light steps.

The upturned shoes glided almost silently across the solid wood floor.

Her skirt swayed gently with her steps, and beneath the golden-red hem skirt, her deep purple wide-sleeved blouse fluttered like clouds.

She began to spin.

The spinning was very slow, as if the person was drunk and unsteady on their feet, yet every step was perfectly in time with the beat.

The shawl billowed as she spun around, forming a purple ring around her.

She raised her hand and gently touched her cheek with her fingertips.

Her eyes held a touch of innocent charm.

It's as if they're asking the Tang Emperor, "Your Majesty, do you think I'm beautiful?"

Then she laughed.

A very light and shallow smile, with the corners of her mouth slightly upturned and her eyes sparkling.

But that smile carried a hint of drunkenness, a touch of self-mockery, and the loneliness of a favored concubine who ultimately had to drink alone.

He stumbled a little.

She leaned back as if she was about to fall.

But at the last moment, he was pulled back by his own shawl, and spun around to his feet.

The skirt swirls open like a blooming peony.

Ding Heng held up his camera, the lens following her figure.

From the front to the side, from the side to the back.

The sound of camera shutters clicking could be heard from time to time.

But she can't hear.

She can't hear anything.

Only music.

Only the rhythm flowing through my body.

She started to speed up.

Her steps quickened, her spins accelerated, her skirt billowed, her shawl danced, and her long hair scattered and fell in the air.

Her arms stretched out, her waist twisted, every movement was precise to the extreme, yet it revealed the casualness and languor of being drunk.

Her head was tilted back slightly, revealing her slender neck.

His gaze was fixed on the void, both hazy and clear.

It's like looking at someone who doesn't exist.

It's like watching one's own destined loneliness unfold.

The music reached its climax.

She began her final spin.

a circle.

Two laps.

Three laps.

The skirt spun out completely, like a flower in full bloom.

Crimson and gold intertwine, with silver threads flowing in the light.

She closed her eyes, letting the spinning motion create a breeze that ruffled the stray hairs at her temples.

then.

The music stopped abruptly.

She froze.

At the last moment, she leaned back slightly, stretched out her arms, and let the shawl slip from her arms, drawing an arc in the air before slowly falling.

Lower your head.

Eyes closed.

Her eyelashes trembled slightly.

She just stood there, motionless.

Like a sculpture.

Like a flower in full bloom.

Like myself when I was twelve years old, dancing my last dance.

The room was extremely quiet.

The lights outside the window flowed silently.

long time.

Maybe it will only last a little while.

"You've worked hard, wipe your sweat."

A voice pulled her back to reality.

Hua Qing opened her eyes and saw Ding Heng standing in front of her, holding a neatly folded towel in his hand.

His expression was calm, without the greedy, burning gaze she had imagined.

"Go wash up first, and I'll have them bring some food up."

Hua Qing took the towel, paused for a moment, and then nodded.

"Ah."

Hua Qing turned and walked towards the bathroom.

After taking a few steps, she suddenly paused.

She had thought Ding Heng would come in and force her to play in the water with him.

But Ding Heng didn't; he just stood there looking through the photos.

The bathroom door closed gently behind her, and Hua Qing began to fill the bathtub with water, taking off her clothes as she did so; the sound of the fabric slipping off was particularly clear.

Then lift your legs, step into the bathtub, and slowly sink into the water, letting the warm water lift your body and moisturize your skin.

She closed her eyes.

In a daze, Hua Qing felt that she was still immersed in the role of the dancer.

Waiting...

The hot spring water smooths and cleanses the skin.

It was at the beginning of the new imperial favor.