At the other end of the exhibition, at the A-01 gold booth, the atmosphere was electrifying.
“God Takeshi!
God Takeshi, look at me!
I’ve been your fan for ten years!” “God Takeshi, your Dante this time is too handsome, please take a photo with me!” The man referred to as “God Takeshi” was none other than Takeshi, the undisputed king of the domestic cosplay scene.
Today, he was cosplaying Dante from “Devil May Cry,” with silver hair, a red outfit, and even the cynical curve of his lips perfectly replicated.
He was enjoying the adoration of his fans and the baptism of flashlights, which he deserved.
For this costume, his studio’s top tailors had worked three consecutive all-nighters; for this Rebellion blade, he personally created the mold and meticulously polished the details for half a month.
This was the pride of a technical master.
Cosplay is an art, not child’s play.
“Don’t push, one by one,” Takeshi leaned languidly on the throne at his booth, a prop he had specially arranged to be brought in, showcasing his kingly demeanor.
Just then, his assistant, a chubby young man with black-rimmed glasses, rushed over as if his pants were on fire, his phone screen almost shoved into Takeshi’s face.
“Brother Takeshi!
This is bad!
Something big has happened!” Takeshi frowned, displeased with such a flustered attitude.
“What’s so important that you’re being so disrespectful?” “Brother, look!” The chubby assistant handed over the phone.
“The internet…
the internet has exploded!” Takeshi carelessly took the phone.
On the screen was a photo.
Under the moonlight, silver hair, a cold and elegant woman.
“Jing Liu?” Takeshi raised an eyebrow.
His first reaction wasn’t awe, but a critical assessment born of his professional habit.
“Hmph, a publicity stunt,” he tossed the phone back to his assistant, his tone full of disdain.
“The lighting is fake.
Look at the junction of her cheek and hairline; the ambient light fill is too deliberate, impossible to achieve in reality.
And the material of this outfit must be Photoshopped; the physical folds of the fabric couldn’t possibly be so perfect.” Like the most discerning quality inspector, he condemned this “divine photo” in a few short sentences.
“But…
but Brother Takeshi,” the chubby assistant wiped sweat from his brow, “the blogger who posted the picture said this person is right here in our venue!
It was shot live, unedited!” “What?” Takeshi sat up straight.
Live?
Unedited?
What kind of international joke was this?!
Takeshi had reigned as king in the cosplay world for so many years precisely because of his extreme control over details.
He knew the limits of human ability, and he knew the limits of props and makeup.
What was in that picture had already surpassed the word “limit.” “A Photoshopper addicted to editing, now daring to come offline to deceive people?” Takeshi sneered, standing up from his throne.
“Interesting.
I’d like to see who this ‘divine’ being is, daring to stir up trouble right under my nose.” His movement immediately caused a stir among the surrounding fans.
“God Takeshi is going on a tour?” “Go, go, go!
Follow him!” Takeshi waved his hand, with a regal air befitting a monarch going to war.
“Brothers, follow me.
Today, I’m going to teach some newcomers in the circle a lesson, show them what ‘respect’ means!” “Yes!” His “Takeshi Family Army” fan club behind him immediately responded.
A group of Cosers dressed as various game and anime characters followed him in a mighty procession, marching menacingly towards the photography area.
The entire convention atmosphere grew tense with the movement of this group.
Everyone knew that the king of the cosplay world was going to meet the suddenly appearing “god.” A major confrontation was imminent.
When Takeshi led his entourage to the photography area, he was stunned by the sight before him.
There was no chaos or clamor as he had imagined.
Instead, there was a long line spontaneously formed by people, each holding a camera, yet as quiet as if they were in a library.
At the very front of the line, that silver-haired figure stood amidst the moonlight backdrop.
“What’s going on?
They’re even lining up?” One of Takeshi’s followers, a muscular man cosplaying Kratos from “God of War,” scoffed disdainfully and tried to push forward.
“Hey!
What are you doing!
Get in line!” A photographer waiting in line immediately spoke up to stop him.
“Line up?
Are you blind?
Don’t you see God Takeshi is here?
If you know what’s good for you, move aside!” Kratos, relying on his height and build, pushed the other person away.
This action instantly ignited the powder keg.
“Why did you push him!
Don’t you know the rules!” “So what if he’s God Takeshi?
Does God Takeshi not have to queue?
Our Old Asahi is still queuing here!” The “spontaneous fans” around Nari, conquered by her charismatic aura, now transformed into the most loyal guardians, forming a standoff with Takeshi’s fan club.
The atmosphere on the scene instantly became tense and hostile.
Takeshi ignored the squabbling of these small fries.
His attention was entirely drawn to the person at the very front of the line.
He pushed through his own crowd and walked straight ahead.
He wanted to use his discerning eyes, honed by ten years in the industry and countless viewings, to personally find the flaws of that “Photoshopper.” Was the makeup caked?
Was there glue showing at the wig’s edge?
Had the colored contacts slipped?
Did the costume props have loose threads or a cheap plastic feel?
He had already listed a checklist of thirty-seven common errors in his mind.
One step, two steps.
He passed through the crowd and stood at the edge of that “sacred domain,” just three meters from Nari.
The air solidified.
Takeshi’s steps also solidified.
He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but all the harsh words he had prepared in his mind were instantly cleared, leaving only an unmanageable, avalanche-like stream of information.
Flaws?
First item on the list: makeup.
On her face…
there was no makeup at all!
It was a transparency that surpassed the texture of any foundation, so real that one could see the faint blue veins beneath her skin.
Second item: wig.
Did those silver strands grow from her scalp?
Each one reflected a different luster under the light, and even the tiny downy hairs at the roots were clearly visible.
Third item: props.
That sword…
the patterns on the blade, that sense of age left by metal forged through a thousand refinements, was something no coating technique could replicate.
Takeshi felt his worldview being shattered, punch by punch.
All the professional knowledge he was proud of, all the technical standards he relied on for his fame, became a joke in the face of this “existence.” This was not cosplay.
This was not imitation.
This was a descent.
The king among mortals was, after all, still mortal.
When he truly faced a “god,” he could do nothing but tremble.
The arguments around him continued.
“Let us pass!
We’re looking for that Jing Liu!” “Why should we let you pass!” The Kratos Coser behind Takeshi was still shouting.
Just then, everyone heard a loud “clank.” The sound was crisp and sudden.
Everyone looked towards the sound.
They saw the king of the cosplay world, the emperor of technical mastery, the arrogant Takeshi, drop the prop “Rebellion blade” from his hand, a custom piece that cost him twenty thousand yuan and was his prized possession, onto the ground.