The banquet hall is a grotesque tapestry of opulence and horror. Golden lanterns cast a warm, flickering glow over the lavish feast, their light catching on the intricate carvings of the wooden beams overhead. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, mingling uneasily with the metallic tang of blood. Soft music plays, a delicate melody of strings and flutes, but it feels hollow, a thin veneer over the night’s true nature.
In the corner, the corpse of the man Dong Zhuo had tortured for sport lies discarded, a dark stain spreading beneath it. The streak of gore leading to its final resting place mars the once-pristine carpet, a grim reminder of the tyrant’s cruelty. The guests, high-ranking officials and generals, pretend not to notice. Their forced laughter and clinking cups ring out, brittle and insincere, as they toast to Dong Zhuo’s “generosity.”
“Look at that!” Dong Zhuo’s voice booms, cutting through the uneasy chatter. He leans back in his ornate chair, his massive frame dwarfing the delicate furniture. His greasy smile stretches across his face, his beady eyes gleaming with anticipation. “We’re being graced with a dance!”
The room erupts into half-hearted cheers, the guests’ faces frozen in strained smiles. They clap politely, their eyes darting to the bloodstain and then quickly away, as if ignoring it might erase its presence.
Then, she enters.
Soft footsteps echo through the hall, each one deliberate, measured. All eyes turn to the figure gliding across the floor, her presence like a breath of fresh air in the suffocating room. Diaochan moves with an otherworldly grace, her delicate pink hanfu flowing around her like the petals of a lotus. The fabric shimmers faintly in the lantern light, catching the gold embroidery that traces the edges of her sleeves. Her hair, styled in an elegant updo, is adorned with a single jade hairpin, its simplicity only enhancing her natural beauty.
She steps carefully, her embroidered slippers avoiding the bloodstain with practiced ease. Her expression is serene, her lips curved into a gentle smile that betrays none of the revulsion churning within her.
“My lord,” she says, her voice soft and melodic, like the chime of a distant bell. She bows deeply, her movements fluid and respectful. “Is there a dance you wished to see?”
Dong Zhuo’s laughter is a low, rumbling sound, his gaze raking over her with undisguised hunger. “Any dance is great,” he replies, his tone dripping with lecherous intent. “As long as it’s you.”
What a pig, Diaochan thinks, her smile never wavering. She straightens, her eyes meeting his for the briefest moment before she turns to the musicians. With a subtle nod, the melody shifts, the tempo slowing to a haunting, hypnotic rhythm.
And then, she dances.
Her body becomes an extension of the music, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next. Her arms curve like the branches of a willow, her steps light and precise, as if she’s floating just above the ground. The hem of her hanfu swirls around her, the fabric catching the light and casting faint shadows on the floor. Her hair, loosened slightly by the motion, cascades in soft waves, framing her face like a painting come to life.
The room falls silent, the guests transfixed. Even Dong Zhuo leans forward, his piggish eyes wide with fascination. But Diaochan sees none of them. In her mind, she is elsewhere—far from this hall of horrors, far from the man whose gaze makes her skin crawl. She dances for herself, for the freedom she dreams of, for the vengeance she will one day exact.
Patience, she reminds herself, her smile never faltering. The dance is not yet over.
