A Conflict with the Locals

The tree trunk in front of me is definitely not made of wood and cells.

It was an endless, interwoven stream of light falling from a higher dimension.

Each optical fiber is as thin as a hair, yet within it flows a vast river of information; the rise and fall of countless civilizations, the collapse of stars, the birth and death of worlds, are flattened and imprinted like thin slices on layers of translucent light films, climbing wildly upwards along the main trunk, branching out, until infinity.

Jingxing tilted his head back, a tearing, throbbing pain shooting through the depths of his eye sockets.

Unlike the oppressive feeling of staring directly at Aeon, it was more like a sense of "emptiness" after throwing one's consciousness into an endless abyss.

He had looked up at Qlipoth's high walls during the locust plague, a thick, solid, Order iron wall that separated life and death; he had also felt the unbearable hunger of Voracity, disorderly, and frenzied thirst.

But this tree in front of us is different.

He is both cause and effect; the cradle of all Path's flow, and the Origin from which the entire galaxy is woven.

Its name is the Imaginary Tree.

Jingxing's throat was dry, and he felt as if he were choking on his breath.

Just as he subconsciously took half a step back, a tiny ripple seemed to gently undulate within the stream of light.

A silent question struck the core of his mind, then vanished like sand into the sea.

Jingxing was covered in cold sweat. He forcibly cut off all his senses and didn't dare to stop for even half a step. He retreated quickly in the shadows of the forest.

When I returned to the Academy dormitory, it was already pitch black outside.

Jingxing slumped against the edge of the bed, utterly exhausted, his chest heaving violently, his right hand, hanging at his knee, still trembling uncontrollably.

The book "Fundamental Number Theory" on the desk remained quietly open, its pages filled with rigorous formulas that gleamed coldly and lifelessly under the solitary lamp.

He stared at the textbook for a long time, then finally reached out and slammed the heavy cover shut with a loud "smack".

"This isn't a test of knowledge..." Jingxing rubbed his throbbing temples and let out a soft sigh. "What exactly is the Imaginary Tree looking for here, masquerading as the World Tree?"

The night outside the window was as dark as ink, and a section of the tree crown, gleaming with a cold, silvery light, stretched across the void, silent since time immemorial.

Jingxing patiently spent another four days in the school.

In four days, he filled two notebooks with notes, memorized dozens of definitions, and even guessed many topology questions correctly in a pop quiz.

The priest grading the papers drew a dry circle on the paper with red ink, tossed out a "Passable," and then slammed the next stage of advanced knowledge onto the podium.

That night, Jingxing flipped through the notebook from beginning to end and casually threw it into the wastepaper basket.

This place is a vicious cycle. You memorize one formula, and the questions evolve into two more sets of trickier questions. The tree sets the questions in front, and people chase after it relentlessly. As long as you follow its pattern, even if you drain your brain dry, in the end you will only end up like the dead ghosts on the cemetery slope Back Hill, year after year, until you rot into the sand.

On the seventh day, as soon as the bell rang to signal the end of class, Jingxing, feeling restless, grabbed his sketchbook and left the Academy.

He didn't take the main path, but wandered to a shady, rocky slope outside the wild forest. He chose a flat rock to sit on, where he could see the silvery-white tree crown piercing the void in the distance.

After sharpening the charcoal pencil, the lead ash slid smoothly across the rough paper, and Jingxing's nerves, which had been constricted by various symbols for seven days, finally relaxed.

He painted very slowly. The light emanating from the Imaginary Tree was too cold; if the outlines were too heavy, it would look like a dead lump of coal, and if they were too light, it wouldn't be able to support that boundless sense of emptiness.

Jingxing wasted two sheets of toilet paper before finally managing to bite into that feeling on the third sheet.

But just as he finished adding a few strokes of shadow, he heard the sound of orderly footsteps behind him.

Five white-robed priests stepped over the gravel and surrounded him, trapping him in a semi-circle in front of the stones. The leader was a tall, thin man with deep-set eyes, wearing a silver badge from the Examination Affairs Office on his chest, and looking at people as if he were taking inventory of misplaced scraps in a warehouse.

"Student Jingxing." The tall, thin man looked down at him. "Absent from the comprehensive deduction class, demerit recorded according to regulations."

"Oh." Jingxing didn't even look up, but with a slight twist of his wrist, he added a hard ribbon line to the corner of the paper.

"What are you doing?"

"Draw."

The tall, thin man glanced at the paper, a cold, contemptuous smile playing on his lips, "Illegible scraps of paper drawn in the sanctuary of truth. Confiscated."

Jingxing closed the picture album, patted the lime on the cover, and said, "Who am I bothering by sitting here in the sun?"

"Yaxche doesn't keep useless things." The tall, thin man stepped forward and reached out to snatch it. "What you've drawn can neither derive formulas nor slow down entropy. Occupying a student's seat to produce unquantifiable garbage is a waste of the opportunity Vaksya has given you."

Screw you, it's not like I asked for this opportunity myself.

Jingxing cursed inwardly and instinctively moved his right hand half an inch to his side.

The sachet was right there. But a sudden jolt ran through his palm, a sharp, tingling sensation spreading through it—the planet's feedback was as cold and hard as iron; the moment he picked up the pen...

Jingxing withdrew his finger, casually slipped it into his pocket, and chuckled, "Well, this run-down place is actually quite protective of you guys."

The tall, thin man, thinking he had shown weakness, grew even more sarcastic. "Want to fight? You can try, and see if Vaksya's laws are based on might or reason."

"It's not worth it." Jingxing Xing stood up casually. "You can't reason with a brainless guy."

"It doesn't make sense because you know you can't provide logical proof." The tall, thin man took a half step back and raised his chin. "Since you're not convinced, tomorrow afternoon in the Central Lecture Hall, the Examination Affairs Office will set up a section for your defense. If you can logically prove that these graffiti have irreplaceable value, then so be it; if you can't prove it, burn the manuscript in public, copy the school rules a hundred times, and then go back to the study room and stay there obediently."

"Okay." Jingxing tucked the notebook under his arm and squeezed through the gap left by the five people, looking at him like he was an idiot. "See you tomorrow."

Back in his single room, Jingxing didn't even turn on the lights.

He didn't bother flipping through those well-worn math books, nor did he intend to prepare a defense according to the other side's rules. He leaned back in his chair, chewed on two pieces of compressed rations, and, by the cold, silvery light streaming in from the window, slowly finished sketching the tree canopy and called it a day.

To try to prove the "value of art" by following the logic of a bunch of academics whose brains are filled with formulas is to fall into a trap from the very beginning.

The next afternoon, at the Central Lecture Hall.

The stone door made a dull thud as it was pushed open, grinding against the groove. The circular staircase classroom was filled with apprentices dressed in uniform white and gray robes, densely packed and piled up to the dome. The entire stone hall was dazzlingly white and so quiet that only the hum of the circulating air conditioning could be heard.

Three Chief Examiners sat side by side on the high platform directly in front, their faces gaunt and serious. The tall, thin priest from yesterday stood on the far left, looking down at the people below.

Jingxing, wearing a slightly worn trench coat and loosely holding a sketchbook, stepped down the stone steps to the open space at the bottom.

"I have my own way of explaining the value of art to you."