The Imaginary Tree's Response
Jingxing pointed to the faint light in the air. "An off-key song, a crookedly painted portrait, a sentiment left unsent. These unselfish, unquantifiable obsessions are the necessary antidote for life to resist the poison of nihilism."
He turned to look at the center of the platform, his words clear as the impact of pebbles. "You measure the universe, study physics, and build devices, believing you are pursuing the only truth in the world. We, on the other hand, write poetry, paint, compose music, and weave stories, simply to leave a mark of 'existence' in the boundless, cold void."
"In the eternal future, data will be destroyed, instruments will stop working, but as long as someone remembers a melody, a story, then civilization in the universe will not have truly disappeared."
"Your reason can accomplish many things, but it cannot conjure up a forgotten romance and empathy out of thin air. The art we pursue is not merely a pastime to add icing on the cake; it is the soul of civilization."
The tall, thin priest's face flushed red, his lips trembling as if all his words of rebuttal had been drained.
"Alright." A calm interruption came from the right side of the platform.
The Chief Examiner, who had kept his eyes tightly closed the whole time, finally opened his somewhat cloudy eyes, stared intently at the pattern Jingxing had created, and remained silent for a long time.
His withered fingers rubbed against the armrest a couple of times, as if he were contemplating something.
The lecture hall was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Hundreds of apprentices sat stiffly on the stone steps, holding their breath.
After a full half minute, the old man closed his eyes, his voice calmly landing in the center of the hall. "In this debate, student Jingxing wins."
The tall, thin priest was startled. "Chief Examiner! This is completely illogical and illogical—"
"The topic of debate is 'irreplaceable intrinsic value'," the old man said calmly. "He proved that no one in this room could replace his argument with a formula, Vaksya also agreed with his statement. If you cannot disprove it, then accept this verdict."
The tall, thin priest's lips trembled, and he clenched his palms tightly, unable to utter a single word.
"The event is over. The scrolls are archived and recorded in the unofficial journal." The old man waved his hand and said no more.
Jingxing didn't reply. He rolled up the hem of his robe, turned the pen upside down, and gently brushed the teardrop-shaped jade pendant against the light screen in mid-air.
A soft buzzing sound.
The countless figures, stone tablets, snow, and firelight, as if swept back by an invisible gale, folded together and contracted towards the center, instantly forming a palm-sized piece of black silk that landed steadily in his palm.
The painting is just a pure black mass, but within it shines a tiny, faint light.
Jingxing casually tossed the silk onto the stone table on the high platform. "Here, you can enjoy it—if you even know what 'appreciation' means."
As for himself, Jingxing now needs to study the inspiration that had just flashed through his mind.
The crowd left the lecture hall like a tide, their footsteps fading into the distance along the corridor, leaving the empty stone hall soon utterly silent.
Just as he was about to turn and leave, the several beams of cold light hanging in the hall suddenly went dark without warning.
Jingxing looked up abruptly, and the solid, heavy stone dome that had been hanging over his head was gone.
Without any sound of collapse, the stone and beams seemed to have had their material properties erased, revealing an indescribable void behind them. It was a vast ocean woven from endless high-dimensional light threads, each thread as fine as dust, yet within it, the afterimages of countless worlds surged and boiled.
And that "light," woven from countless streams of information, was hanging down a slender branch, three feet above his head.
There was no bark, no tree rings, not even a decent patch of green. It was a bundle of the purest Primordial Imaginary Energy, like a strand of translucent silver thread, hanging quietly in mid-air, within easy reach.
A sharp, almost tearing sensation suddenly welled up deep in Jingxing's eyes. The silent question he had felt before returned, even heavier than before, like a cold blade pressed against his brow.
He gritted his teeth and refused to take even a single step back.
The next instant, his palm felt heavy.
It was very light, without any warmth, like an invisible fishing line falling from the void, and with a snap, it landed on his lifeline.
Jingxing bowed his head.
His palm appeared empty to the naked eye, but he could clearly sense that a thin line extending upwards from between his fingers, piercing through the makeshift ceiling of the lecture hall, and plunging straight into the depths of that endless, high-dimensional sea of light above.
The colossal Creator offered no divine pronouncements, nor did it issue any summons as if Aeon were gazing down upon Emanator.
He simply tied the line there, like casually tossing a loose end of rope into the wilderness, letting the mortals on the other side test its weight.
Jingxing tentatively mobilized a trace of Imaginary Energy.
The "Cloud-Washing Ink-Tracer" brush in my palm trembled slightly, and the color spreading from the brush tip subtly changed.
In the originally pure, black ink, a very faint, thin layer of bluish-gold light inexplicably appeared, like a stream breaking through the ice in early spring, lively and unfathomable. This energy was pitifully small, as insignificant as a drop of water in the face of the enormous tide of Path, but when held in the hand, it carried a kind of inexhaustible vitality.
Jingxing's expression changed slightly. He raised his hand and casually sketched a line in the air.
A leaf the size of a palm detached from the tip of the pen and floated lightly onto the stone slab at my feet.
Unlike other imaginary creations, it did not dissipate into specks of light. Instead, it remained firmly attached to the cracks in the stone, its color fading from pale gold to gradually transforming into the most solid and intense emerald green. Even the serrated hairs on the edges of the leaves trembled slightly in the cold wind that swept through the room.
On the stubborn rock, a vibrant life force has been carved out.
In the shadows at the very edge of the lecture hall, a few young apprentices who hadn't gone far witnessed this scene. One of them buckled in the knees and slumped straight down on the stone steps.
Above the platform, the Chief Examiner, who had been lying with his eyes closed, had somehow stood up again. He placed his hands on the edge of the stone table, leaned slightly forward, and for the first time, a look of near-collapse and horror appeared on his withered face. The tall, thin priest stood frozen to the side of the platform, his throat making gurgling noises, unable to utter a single syllable.
The "creation from nothing" that Yaxche could not overcome even after hundreds of years of logical computation was casually brought to the ground by a single paintbrush stroke.
Jingxing looked down at the tender green leaf at his feet, then at the faint, ethereal thread in his palm, and suddenly chuckled softly, "So you really find these people too boring, huh?"
The Imaginary Tree remained silent. Only the fine thread of cause and effect in the palm trembled slightly, as if, from the other side of deep space, across an endless sea of stars, He held the other end of the pen.