Chapter 233: Risk Assessment

The director of the Jueguan Bureau’s office window was cracked open a sliver, but the air remained stagnant.

Winter afternoon light slanted in, cutting a bright patch on the dark carpet, dust swirling silently within it.

Director Zhou was not seated behind his large desk, but stood beside Feng Liancheng in front of the wall-mounted display.

The screen silently played footage of a protest in Diego’s central square: crowds surged, banners blazed with slogans, and the twisted, furious faces—though mute—radiated searing emotion.

A small window pane replayed the edited, highly inflammatory audio clip: Yang Yi’s voice, distorted, screamed, “...I wish this broken world would explode right now!”

Feng Liancheng’s fingers unconsciously scraped the edge of his tablet, his lips tightly pressed.

Director Zhou held an unlit cigarette beneath his nose, inhaling its scent repeatedly; the deep crease between his brows—long carved by work and stress—now twisted into a knot.

The screen’s glow flickered across his face, revealing the complex emotions in his eyes—shock, confusion, and a suppressed, deeper unease.

The door opened softly; Yang Yi entered. She wore a sharply tailored casual white shirt, paired as usual with slacks and white sneakers, her steps as steady as ever, her expression calm and unreadable, as if she had merely come for a routine meeting.

Her gaze swept over the frozen protest footage on the screen, pausing nowhere—as if it were irrelevant background.

“I need to go to Blood Moon Star this afternoon. The No. 3 base unearthed relics from the previous civilization’s race; they’re worried about possible anomalies and asked me to check.” Her tone was ordinary.

A few seconds of awkward silence filled the office.

Director Zhou cleared his throat, not replying immediately, but pointing at the screen, his voice lower than usual: “Yang Yi, this... the situation in Diego—you’ve seen it, right?”

“I’ve seen it.” Yang Yi’s tone was as flat as answering, “Nice weather.”

“Those recordings...” Feng Liancheng couldn’t hold back, sighing repeatedly, “...I suspected Chris was an Akan embassy honey trap all along. If only he hadn’t been exposed to radiation in London trying to find you... damn, they got to him anyway. Look at these outbursts...”

“It’s true,” Yang Yi interrupted him, meeting his gaze directly, admitting it. She even tilted her head slightly, as if recalling, “Those were my words when I broke up with Chris. I was emotionally unstable then, and my phrasing was harsh.” She offered a brief explanation, using “harsh phrasing” to describe the destructive, Bengkui outburst.

Director Zhou and Feng Liancheng froze.

They had expected Yang Yi to admit it, to explain—but never this calm, this Pingdan , reducing that terrifying content to “emotional instability” and “harsh phrasing.”

This was more chilling than any defense, because such calm implied she didn’t consider it a matter requiring serious attention—at least, not one affecting her work.

Once, she had cared deeply about others’ opinions; even being blamed by a family member at a Jueguan Bureau colleague’s funeral had left her shattered.

Now, facing public hatred and rebellion, she calmly scheduled her afternoon work, as if nothing had happened.

Director Zhou took a deep breath, trying to reclaim his old leader’s tone—mixing concern with an instinctive urge to keep things within familiar bounds: “Yang Yi, I understand you’ve carried immense pressure, endured many... injustices. Emotions are normal. But look—now these words are being weaponized, placed in this context, and their incitement is too strong! The public doesn’t know the context; they only hear those words and link them to Diego’s devastation...”

“So?” Yang Yi asked, her gaze level on Director Zhou.

Director Zhou hesitated under her stare; his prepared soothing words faltered.

“So... your public schedule may need adjustment, to lie low. Public opinion is like wildfire—the more you stand in the wind, the fiercer it burns. Once the investigation is clear, or a new hotspot diverts attention...”

At that moment, Feng Liancheng seemed to make up his mind. He stepped forward, operated his tablet, and sent a schedule change notice to Yang Yi’s phone.

“Yang Yi,” he avoided her eyes, “according to emergency protocols and... some risk assessment recommendations, I’ve canceled your scheduled attendance at the European Lisburg ‘Regional Resource Integration and Awakened Personnel Deployment’ senior symposium. You’ll participate via holographic livestream, or your deputy will attend in your place.”

Yang Yi’s gaze settled on the red-marked cancellation notice for several seconds.

The air in the office seemed to thicken further.

“Whose risk assessment?” she asked, her voice still flat.

“It’s... a comprehensive evaluation,” Feng Liancheng struggled to say. “Diego’s protest is just the beginning. Several European nations’ civil groups and some lawmakers have seized on it, raising strong objections. Your personal presence makes security impossible to fully guarantee, and it might... inflame the scene, hindering substantive outcomes. Temporarily avoiding public appearances, letting public sentiment cool slightly, is a safer choice—for the plan, and for you.”

Given their familiarity, he even used “you” in formal honorific form—trying to make it sound purely rational, work- and safety-driven—but the unspoken intent to “isolate” and “protect” her leaked through.

Director Zhou nodded in agreement: “Liancheng has thought this through. Yang Yi, your status is unique—every move affects the whole picture. Sometimes, stepping back temporarily is to move forward better. Your safety, your image, are now tied to the credibility of the Civilization Continuity Plan.”

Yang Yi listened silently, her gaze shifting from Feng Liancheng’s face to Director Zhou’s, then back to the canceled schedule.

Her face showed no offense, no anger at being questioned, no gratitude for being “protected”—only a complete, impenetrable calm.

After a few seconds, she gave a slight nod.

“I understand,” she said.

Director Zhou and Feng Liancheng both exhaled inwardly.

But Yang Yi’s next sentence choked that breath back in their throats.

“However,” she reached out, tapped her phone a few times, and pulled up another document, “the core agenda of the Lisburg talks is to finalize the direct energy supply agreement between the Nordic grid and the Southern European Awakened Training Camp, and establish a joint command protocol. Online participation or deputy representation cannot respond to contingencies on-site or create necessary deterrence.”

She turned the tablet toward them: the draft agreement and the crowd of attendees.

“Public opinion is public opinion. Work is work,” Yang Yi’s voice was clear, calm, and absolute. “The Civilization Continuity Plan cannot be paused because someone somewhere feels provoked. They can protest, question, fear—but the agreement must be signed, and local resources must be preliminarily integrated before next quarter.”

She picked up her tablet and turned toward the door, her steps as steady as ever.

At the door, she paused, without turning back, and simply left these words:

“Schedule unchanged. Security protocol upgraded to S+. Notify Lisburg—I will attend on time.”

The door closed softly behind her.

Silence returned to the office, save for the silent, looping footage of Diego’s protest on the screen.

The sunlight shifted slightly, illuminating more drifting dust motes.

Director Zhou slowly sat back in his chair; the wrinkles on his face seemed deeper—a mix of exhaustion, confusion, and heavier unease.

He suddenly wasn’t sure if the calm, decisive woman who had just left—stripping all personal emotion and external interference from her work—was still the same “Little Yang” he once knew: gifted, yes, but still human, still subject to emotional fluctuations.

Feng Liancheng remained standing, staring at the closed door, his brow slightly furrowed.

The despair and hatred in that recording had been so real; when Yang Yi admitted it was true, yet showed such indifference, an unfamiliar, chilling sense of distance instantly stretched between them.

He had tried to shield her with the shield of work—but she had torn it open herself, choosing to face the storm head-on.

She no longer needed, or no longer accepted, this kind of protection based on ordinary logic.

Feng Liancheng suddenly remembered Yang Yi’s glance at him just now—calm, unrippled, yet as if she had seen every unspoken worry and calculation within him.

That question—“Whose risk assessment?”—was a tiny thorn lodged in his heart.

The storm may never have ceased; it was just that before, they thought they were guarding a “person” at the eye of the storm. Now, they weren’t sure what they were guarding—or facing.