"Robin Leads the People"

For the next month, Jingxing shut himself away in his studio.

Starting with the preliminary sketches, he built the composition bit by bit. Group portraits like this were the most painstaking—dozens of people, dozens of faces, each with its own expression and distinguishing features. He drew and tore up his work, then drew again, until discarded drafts piled up in the corner like fallen snow.

"Even after stepping onto a Path, there's no guarantee every painting I make will immediately capture the feeling I want."

Of all the faces, the one modeled on Robin took him the longest. Jingxing closed his eyes and brought the scene back from memory: she stood onstage, blood seeping from the side of her neck, yet she was still smiling. He painted her eyes, her slightly raised chin, and the hand she pressed against her wound.

The girl was not at the very center of the painting. She stood where the crowd's gaze converged, and the crowd followed her, like a rising tide following the moon.

While searching for reference material, he watched the footage the company had released afterward. The plaza on screen was clean and orderly, with an almost sacred air. The gauze on the side of Robin's neck had been edited out, as had the crowd's panic, as though the shot had never been fired.

Jingxing pursed his lips and turned off the footage. He added a soldier lowering his gun to the painting's lower left corner anyway. The muzzle pointed downward, and half a trampled flower still hung from the bayonet.

The soldier wasn't in the footage. But he was in Jingxing's painting.

Once he had settled on the final design, Jingxing began trying to channel Imaginary Energy into the tip of his brush. But he stopped after only a few attempts. Until he knew what problems might come from a painting whose brushstrokes were traced with Imaginary Energy, he thought it best to rely on the skills he had honed over more than a decade.

Even without training, though, Jingxing could feel the little flame deep within him grow a little stronger each day when he finished working.

It seemed that painting itself also counted as following his Path.

On the morning he laid down the final stroke, Jingxing stepped back a few paces to look at the painting he had created. The plaza, the sea of people, the soldier with his gun lowered, the woman holding a child, and the figure in a white dress at the far end of the crowd. There were no eye-catching fluctuations of Imaginary Energy, no miracles, only light falling from the sky, landing first on dozens of upturned faces before spreading out to envelop the girl modeled on Robin.

"Whew..." He let out a long breath. "That'll do."

On the day of the defense, five professors sat in the examination room.

When the painting was carried in, the faint rustle of turning pages stopped. Jingxing stood beside it and gave a ten-minute presentation on the composition, the colors, and the rhythm of the group portrait.

After the presentation, the room remained quiet for a long while. The elderly professor in the chair's seat removed his glasses and asked the only question unrelated to the subject: "The singer in the painting was modeled on that Miss Robin, wasn't she? We all saw the news about Vesna IV."

"Yes," Jingxing said. "I happened to be there at the time."

The old professor put his glasses back on and nodded.

A week later, the results were posted. Jingxing's graduation project had, without question, received the highest score in his class. The academy would also add the painting to its own gallery.

The weather was lovely on the day of the degree conferral ceremony. Dressed in formal attire, Jingxing received his certificate from the university president, bowed, turned, and walked off the stage.

He spotted Kamar in the crowd at once. The old man wasn't dressed formally today. He wore the same old paint-stained shirt and leaned against the wall behind the last row of the auditorium, lifting his chin toward Jingxing.

That afternoon, Jingxing went to Kamar's studio.

The old man stood by the window, holding two things: a dark green keycard and a wax-sealed letter.

"Take it." Kamar tossed him the keycard.

Jingxing caught it and looked down. The outline of a small vessel was engraved on its surface. It was clearly the startup key for a spaceship.

"Teacher, what's this?"

"The spaceship is in the hangar on the hill behind the school," Kamar said. "It has autopilot, and traveling between galaxies is no problem. It can also follow Akivili's Star Rails. As long as you don't go to some frontier galaxy or go looking for trouble with a Stellaron, you can go anywhere you like."

Jingxing's throat tightened. "Teacher, this is too valuable."

"Cut the nonsense." Kamar handed him the letter as well. "This letter is for the Zhuming Xianzhou. Don't you know General Huaiyan? Take it to the Furnace Palace and try your luck. The Xianzhou's artisans are among the best in the galaxy at crafting curios. Take something they make and see if you can use it to pay off your debt to Herta."

Jingxing took the letter. Kamar's personal seal had been stamped into the wax. He held it and looked at it for two seconds, but in the end he couldn't help saying, "Teacher, there's no need to use the favors you're owed..."

"I can't help you pay back thirty billion." Kamar cut him off and turned to tidy up his easel. "But I'm owed plenty of favors on the Zhuming Xianzhou. I don't have many chances to use them anyway, so I might as well pass them on to you."

Jingxing knew better than to say more.

"What if whatever they make doesn't satisfy Ms. Herta?" he asked.

"Then come back and tell me," Kamar said. "I'll keep an ear out for news of curios here."

Jingxing looked down at the letter and keycard in his hands. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he bowed deeply. "Thank you."

Kamar waved a hand and said nothing more.

The next day, Jingxing went to the hangar on the hill behind the school. A small, single-person spaceship stood inside. Its hull had an old-fashioned, streamlined shape, and its silver-gray paint seemed to have been recently redone.

Jingxing walked around it once. The portholes were intact, the service hatch on the engine compartment had a newly replaced seal, and the fuel gauge showed a full tank.

The ship had clearly been carefully maintained and filled with fuel, quietly waiting for him here.

He placed a hand against the cold hull and stood there for a long time.

"I'll call you Chasing the Moon."

That evening, Jingxing packed his luggage at home. Robin sent him another message.

[Robin: How did it go? I checked the date, and today is graduation day for the university on Klimt. Are you done?]

He sat down and replied with the important things that had happened that day: he had submitted his painting, his teacher had given him a spaceship, and he had also received a letter of introduction for Zhuming.

[Robin: Your graduation project got the highest score? Congratulations! Are you going to Zhuming next, then?]

[Jingxing: I'll go take a look first, anyway. Zhuming's artisans are amazing. They should be able to give me plenty of inspiration too.]

He had no desire at all to tell Robin about the thirty billion he owed Ms. Herta.

[Robin: When are you leaving?]

[Jingxing: Tomorrow. I'm packing right now.]

[Robin: What a shame. I have to stay in Thousand Stars City to prepare for a performance, so I won't be able to see you.]

Jingxing stared at the message. It had only been a little over a month since she was shot.

[Jingxing: Has your injury really healed?]

[Robin: I'm a Halovian, you know. I recover quickly! What about you? Have you been getting enough rest? Painting something that big in a month must have taken a lot out of you. You need a few days to recover properly.]

[Jingxing: Don't worry. I'm just like you now.]

[Robin: Hehe, I hope you won't have grown thinner the next time we meet.]

[Jingxing: You too.]