The Superstar Arrived

Jingxing stood in the forest clearing with both hands raised, not daring to move.

Although Yaoguang, who had just vanished, had affirmed his future as a painter, he had little fighting ability to speak of. If he could kill three people while they had him in their sights, he would have become a soldier king long ago.

After raising his hands, however, Jingxing glanced around out of the corner of his eye, taking in every detail he could see.

They had left no blind spots, aiming at him from different directions. The gunmen wore matching gray-green tactical uniforms, with no insignia identifying their affiliation. But he could tell they were no hastily assembled armed group. Their positions as they held their guns, the angles at which they covered one another, and the height at which they consistently kept their muzzles all showed that this squad had trained together for a long time.

Jingxing's heart sank. Having inexplicably arrived on this planet, he had no desire to be press-ganged into a war between the locals.

Jingxing still wanted to finish gathering inspiration and painting, return to school for an exhibition, and then travel the galaxy as a freelance painter.

The next second, the man in charge finally spoke. "Turn around slowly, then kick the suitcase over here."

His voice was kept low, and the tone relayed by the Synesthesia Beacon sounded strange. Jingxing guessed it was because the man had deliberately altered his voice.

Nevertheless, he did as instructed. With a gentle flick of his toe, he sent the suitcase sliding across the muddy ground until it struck a tree root with a dull thud.

The lid sprang slightly ajar, and a tube of cobalt blue paint rolled out, making the man's brow furrow almost imperceptibly.

"A painter?"

"A recent graduate," Jingxing answered calmly. "From the Central Academy of Fine Arts in the Klimt Constitutional Republic."

"Where's your identification?"

"In the inner compartment." Jingxing lifted his hands slightly. "You can check. I can't get it right now."

The man said nothing, merely tilting his head.

The tall, thin young man beside him immediately stepped forward and deftly opened the suitcase, without being particularly rough. Jingxing felt slightly reassured. At least they didn't look like the cruel sort of armed group.

The tall, thin young man quickly checked the contents—the drawing board, paints, easel, change of clothes, sketchbook... Only then did he retrieve the identification documents from the inner compartment.

He opened them and saw that they really were identification documents from the Klimt Constitutional Republic.

He looked up again and carefully compared them to Jingxing's face, then gave the captain a slight nod. "His identity checks out."

After gesturing for the tall, thin young man to put everything back in the suitcase, the captain looked at Jingxing. "Take your things and come with us. It isn't safe here."

Jingxing slowly lowered his arms, which were already aching, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Adrenaline was still coursing through his body, making his heart beat faster and faster. But at a time like this, he had to stay calm.

He picked up his suitcase again and obediently followed, though a gun remained trained on his back the entire time, without the slightest lapse.

Sure enough, they think I'm dangerous, Jingxing muttered inwardly. But I really can't fight.

In the quiet forest, only the sounds of breathing and footsteps remained.

Jingxing noticed that the group wasn't moving quickly, but their formation was highly organized—one person scouted ahead, Jingxing himself was sandwiched in the middle, the others surrounded him, and someone brought up the rear.

They always kept several meters between one another. No one chatted; they were all as silent as screws in a machine.

A little bored, Jingxing occupied himself by gathering information about his surroundings, growing more worried the more he saw.

I can't be unlucky enough to have landed on the front lines, can I?

As they continued forward, the air grew colder.

Beeches and spruces blocked out the sky, allowing only scattered fragments of sunlight into the forest, like shards of broken glass.

The river in the distance, stained dark red with blood, had long since disappeared from view. In its place came an increasingly strong smell of gunpowder.

Jingxing fell silent for a moment, but in the end he couldn't resist asking, "Excuse me, is there a war going on here?"

There was no answer. The man walking ahead merely glanced back at him—shut up.

Jingxing took the hint and said no more, turning his attention back to his surroundings.

A shrub had just been broken, sap still seeping from the break. At the base of a nearby pine tree were neat track marks, and a charred piece of metal lay in the mud, its edges curled by intense heat.

Along the way, there were no birdsong or insect calls, and scarcely any signs of animal activity.

War had turned this forest into a dead zone.

Jingxing let out a quiet breath, the last trace of hope in his heart vanishing completely.

Without a doubt, this was a real war zone.

More than an hour later, the trees finally began to thin, but the smells in the air grew more complicated—gunpowder, blood, disinfectant, and the acrid stench of burned plastic.

They rounded a mountain hollow, and the view suddenly opened up before them.

Jingxing paused for a moment. They were in a valley.

The valley floor was covered with tents—white, gray, and blue, some newer than others, several dozen in all.

A campfire burned slowly nearby, sending up cooking smoke. Some people lined up for food, some carried lumber, and others sat quietly waiting outside a medical tent.

It looked less like a military encampment than a refugee camp.

On the muddy path through the center, a little boy clutching a ball ran past unsteadily, only to be quickly scooped up by his mother.

Crying, conversation, and coughing mingled together, lending the valley a little of the air of the living.

Jingxing slowly withdrew his gaze. He estimated that the camp could hold around a thousand people.

Just then, he noticed that many of the people in gray-green tactical uniforms around him had dispersed after entering the camp.

Some carried supplies, some helped the refugees with repairs and mending, and several others were helping bandage the wounded in the medical area. But a closer look showed that every one of them remained ready to fight at a moment's notice.

The high-cheekboned man led Jingxing onward, heading toward the center of the camp.

People nodded to them all along the way. There were no salutes or forms of address; it seemed they weren't part of a regular army.

But their conduct is pretty professional, Jingxing thought. If they were rioting militants, they shouldn't be taking in refugees who can't fight.

At last, the two stopped in front of the largest tent in the center of the camp. A silver-gray alloy frame supported its structure, with waterproof fabric covering the outside. It looked much more elaborate than the other tents.

The two guards at the entrance saw the high-cheekboned man and, after a brief check, stepped aside.

"Go in."

Jingxing bent down and walked inside, where a wave of warmth greeted him.

The furnishings were simple—a folding bed, a desk, a map, and several boxes of medicine. A portable water purifier and a bookshelf stood in the corner.

Beside the desk, a girl was looking down, sorting through something.

She wore a simple white dress with a light gray knitted cardigan over it. Her sleeves were rolled up to her forearms, and traces of iodine that hadn't been completely washed away remained on her exposed wrists.

Hearing the footsteps, the girl raised her head.

The next second, Jingxing's breath involuntarily caught for a moment.

Long silver-white hair, emerald-green eyes, and features so exquisite that anyone who saw them once would never forget them.

He had seen that face in countless advertisements, news reports, and concert posters.

The girl before him was Robin, the most dazzling singer in the galaxy at present.