Coronation
The stadium lights were much brighter than outside.
The sunlight streamed down in concentric circles, illuminating the entire space and making it appear bright and expansive. At the center was a large aisle covered with a red carpet, from which square sections of folding chairs radiated outwards, like neatly divided maps, awaiting the arrival of hundreds of names.
The auditorium was surrounded by a circular, tiered seating area, rising in layers like an inverted, giant well of light. The shouts of students, the clicking of parents' cameras, and the footsteps of staff all echoed and overlapped in this space, creating a lively atmosphere like the ocean tide.
Pan Qiu slowly walked in through the entrance with the group of doctoral students. Stepping onto the red carpet, the slight softness and the gentle sinking gave her a strange, real feeling—this path…she had really made it.
Each year, only a few dozen doctoral students are admitted; the entire university today has just over thirty. They were seated in the front left row, closest to the stage.
She stood at the very front of all the degree levels. She walked past the array of folding chairs, the tassels gently brushing her shoulders, her doctoral robes gleaming darkly under the lamplight.
When she looked up, the principal's face was lit up on the huge LED screen at the other end of the stage.
The sound surged down from all around—"Wee to the memorial ceremony."
Below the screen, several rows of folding chairs on the stage remained empty. Those were reserved for the professors. The professors who would be giving the doctoral graduates their hoods would enter last, as part of the "faculty team," after all the students were seated.
Panqiu's footsteps moved slowly with the procession.
Thousands of faces in the audience created a sense of undulating waves, but her heart remained as still as a lake.
Until she approached the area on the left front side of the stage. There were two rows of faculty members already seated there; they weren't in charge of hooding, they were just there to witness the students' graduation.
Pan Qiu glanced around lightly—he was sitting in the second row, near the aisle.
Ethan.
Dressed in a solemn doctoral gown, his hands were quietly folded on his knees, his gaze fixed on the process sheet in front of him, his expression calm, restrained, and reserved. He simply sat there quietly and cleanly—like a light that neither actively approaches nor ever leaves.
Pan Qiu lowered her head, steadied her breathing, and continued walking forward with the group. She didn't stop, didn't look back. Yet, a deep and pure feeling welled up in her heart—it was so good that he was there.
After all the doctoral students were seated, the stage lights were turned up slightly.
The host's voice came steadily from the speakers: "Now, let's begin the faculty procession."
The next second, a slight commotion arose in the stadium. Like a wave of anticipation spreading through the air. Some students quietly sat up straight, some began raising their phones, and some undergraduates were already excitedly whispering, "That's my professor—"
The first to enter were the department heads and college leaders, their steps steady and their expressions serious.
The applause from the audience was polite and orderly.
But when the actual "team of professors" appeared, the atmosphere suddenly became noticeably different.
Almost no one had planned it, yet it seemed as if everyone was in tacit agreement—a quiet, irrepressible cheer rose from the student ranks.
The undergraduates closest to the aisle shouted the loudest: "Professor Hall—!!" "We love you—!!"
Laughter and applause surged forth like tiny waves.
Further on, in the master's student section, some students also raised their hands and waved gently to greet their familiar professors.
Pan Qiu sat in the doctoral student area, turning her head slightly to watch the professors walk down the red carpet one by one. These shouts were not contrived, nor were they noisy. They were more like a genuine expression of affection from the students at the very end of the semester.
When the last few professors in the group appeared, the mood in the entire venue rose just right.
Because the final ones are always the teachers who have actually taught students and left their mark in laboratories and classrooms.
It was at that moment that Panqiu saw Chase. She was at the very back of the group, her steps steady, her demeanor clean and refined. Her doctoral robes were illuminated by the lights, resembling the deep blue of the sea, and the velvet stripes on her cuffs exuded a quiet reverence.
Chase didn't elicit cheers like undergraduate professors do, but a quiet murmur arose spontaneously within the doctoral section. Some gently patted her knee; some slightly raised their chins in acknowledgment; some straightened their backs—these people who knew her best expressed their respect in their own ways.
Panqiu sat on the left side of the first row. As she watched Chase walk down the red carpet, her heart skipped a beat. Her most important mentor in her final year of her doctoral studies would be on stage to crown her.
Chase's gaze swept across the student area, pausing briefly in the direction where Pan Qiu was.
Today's ceremony belongs not only to her, but also to everyone who helped her along this path.
Light streamed down from the stadium, illuminating the entire venue with a golden glow, clarity, and solemnity.
The big screen lit up, the host walked to the center of the stage, and the stadium lights went up another notch, instantly plunging the entire venue into darkness.
“Now, let us wee our mencement Speaker…”
A round of applause erupted from all around.
This year's guest is the CEO of a multinational corporation, a Time magazine Person of the Year for Innovation, and one of the school's distinguished alumni.
He walked onto the stage with brisk movements, stood in front of the podium, and looked around the entire venue—the applause gradually subsided, and the entire space returned to quiet from the noise, leaving only the occasional cough and the soft sound of flashing lights, like the lingering breath left after the tide recedes.
His first words were calm and clear, amplified by the speakers around the stadium: "When I was doing my doctoral studies, I thought the hardest thing was moving forward. Later I realized that sometimes what requires the most courage is not going to a farther place, but deciding where to put down roots."
There were soft gasps from the audience. In the undergraduate section, someone quietly raised their head; in the master's section, someone nodded; and in the doctoral section, as if struck by something, a circle of silent resonance arose.
Pan Qiu also slightly raised her eyes.
The large screen projected a large image of the speaker's profile, with light falling from his brow bone, making his tone sound particularly resolute: "Choose a place, choose a group of people, choose a life you are willing to spend ten or twenty years protecting. This is not retreating, this is taking responsibility."
These few words, like a pebble slowly falling from the sky into the stadium, created ripples. The speaker paused, giving everyone a chance to hear the echo in their own hearts.
Then, he raised his head, his gaze sweeping across the entire room—not calling out names, nor engaging in sentimentality, but with a look that showed he considered all the young people.
A calm and sincere entrustment.
"So remember—what you are being given today is not honor, but responsibility."
The lights shone even brighter and clearer at that moment. The golden tassels on the stage swayed gently, as if echoing the weight of those words.
His last words fell slowly, his tone unhurried, yet every word resonated deeply:
“Being crowned is not about being seen. Being crowned is a reminder that from today onward, it is your turn to shine the light on others.”
The stadium was silent for half a second—then applause began from the front of the student section and spread out like a tide.
As Pan Qiu listened from the doctoral chair, she felt a strange sense of ease.
It was as if everything she had done—the all-nighters, the denials, the repeated setbacks—had finally been affirmed by some grand voice.
Next came speeches from outstanding graduate representatives. One was an undergraduate representative, followed by a master's student representative, and then a doctoral graduate representative—a doctoral student from the School of Engineering. He recounted his low points in research, his supervisor's perseverance, and how his first paper was accepted by a top conference, describing it as "like fireworks suddenly lighting up in the night."
There was laughter, and there were also soft nasal sounds. This genuine interplay of emotions was one of the most moving aspects of the ceremony.
After the speech ended, the host's voice echoed from the speakers again: "Now, we will begin our Doctoral Hooding Ceremony."
The doctoral student's back was noticeably straighter.
Pan Qiu took a soft breath, letting the slight tension rising in her chest slowly subside. The lights focused on the center of the stage.
The name of the first doctoral student was read out, and applause erupted.
Screen switching, taking photos, shaking hands, and returning to one's seat—the ceremony flows forward like a rhythmic river.
When the list was read out alphabetically and started with "P", Panqiu's fingers went cold for a moment.
The next second—"Pan, Qiu."
She stood up.
The hem of her doctoral gown swayed gently, as if to steady her steps. The dozen or so steps she took onto the red carpet were quieter than she had imagined.
The floor was covered in a soft carpet, and the lights in front of me were so bright they were almost white. The applause from all around seemed to come through a thin film, and everything seemed to slow down.
She could only hear her own breathing.
She really did make it this far.
The steps are right in front of us.
Chase was already standing in the center of the stage, his doctoral robe in deep blue velvet shimmering like the surface of the sea under the lights.
She didn't smile, but her eyes held a familiar, unwavering certainty, as steady as a rock.
Panqiu walked up to her and gently lowered her head.
At that moment, the entire place was so quiet that it seemed as if only the sound of fabric rubbing together could be heard.
Chase lifted the hood with both hands, shook it smooth, and then steadily placed it on Panqiu's shoulders.
The moment the fabric fell, it was light, yet it felt like a silent weight—as if years of nights, failures, setbacks, perseverance, tears, and growth were all placed on her shoulders.
This is the coronation.
It's not a gold crown, but a velvet ribbon that symbolizes inheritance and responsibility.
Chase adjusted the final pleats and gently patted her shoulder.
His movements were steady and restrained: "Congratulations, Dr. Pan."
Pan Qiu felt a slight tightness in her throat, but she still straightened her back.
The two shook hands.
The flash went off at that moment.
The big screen zoomed in on her profile instantly—the black robe, the tassels, the hood that had just fallen off her shoulders, and those eyes that had finally calmed down. Applause spread outwards in circles around the stadium.
The photographer called out to her, "Look here—smile, Doctor!" Pan Qiu smiled slightly.
It's a clean smile, gently touched by time.
The camera shutter clicked.
As she turned to leave the stage, she couldn't help but glance to the left below the stage.
Ethan sat there. He simply raised his eyes quietly. The light fell on them, making his gaze exceptionally clear for that instant—a calm, almost tender focus. It was as if he had given her all his attention in that moment.
Pan Qiu's heart felt as if it had been gently touched. So gentle, yet enough to make her slow her breath.
She stepped off the stage gracefully, her doctoral robes swaying gently behind her. Step by step, she walked back to her seat.
The applause continued, and the big screen was still showing footage of the next doctoral student.
But she knew that the brightest light of the night had already fallen on her shoulder, and also on the eyes of someone sitting quietly in the audience.
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