Zheng Jiahui felt that someone like Ding Ling, whose entire being was brimming with artistic spirit, looked terribly undignified fighting some brute.
It was practically a trampling and waste of art.
However, after chatting with Chen Birou for a while and looking through some of the edited footage the team members had sent over, the pain in her heart eased considerably.
Even when competing in combat, Ding Ling was highly artistic.
"It's simply too beautiful. Every single frame is beautiful—the very definition of beauty."
What the members had sent were images processed from special angles.
They were photographs taken while Ding Ling was competing against Xiong Lishi.
After processing, these photographs had now become works of art.
One of them looked like this:
In front of Ding Ling was an enlarged, Berserk fist. He watched it calmly, extending a hand to rest it against his opponent's arm.
He was unhurried and composed, like Mount Buzhou standing amid a raging storm, giving people an inexplicable sense of security.
Just one glance.
And one's heart seemed to calm along with him.
Without a doubt.
To Zheng Jiahui, works that could move people so deeply were works of art.
And there were more than a dozen such works.
She was thrilled. She studied them carefully, one after another, growing more and more excited:
My decision back then really was correct! Ding Ling himself is a work of art. As long as I capture him from a good enough angle, any random photograph can become a work of art!
She had been photographing people with her team for many years.
Yet she had never produced a single true work of art that could touch the heart.
Now, more than a dozen lay before her.
"Sure enough, no matter what you do, choosing the right