Chapter 412: Sorry

Fifteen minutes after the school bell rang.

Most of Class C's classroom was empty; Chen Yao packed her textbook into her bag, zipped it up, and stood to leave.

In the Corridor, small groups of students moved toward the Dormitory Building; some discussed what to eat for dinner, others complained that the afternoon physical test was too extreme. Chen Yao kept her head down, walked close to the wall base, her steps neither fast nor slow, like a small fish gliding along a riverbed, disturbing no waterweed.

She turned into the women's restroom on the east side of the teaching building and pushed open the innermost stall door.

The door hadn't closed yet.

"Yo, you came right on time."

Zhao Lingfei's voice came from behind, carrying a long‑planned delight.

Chen Yao turned her head.

Four people stood at the restroom entrance. Zhao Lingfei was in the middle; to her left was the double‑ponytail girl from yesterday, and to her right were two classmates of Chen Yao whose names she couldn't recall. One kicked the cleaning sign at the doorway outward, and the other locked the restroom door from inside.

Clack.

The sound of the latch returning echoed twice off the tiled walls.

Zhao Lingfei was wearing a new pair of white platform sneakers today, the uppers bearing a subtle logo of some trendy brand. She crossed her arms, leaned against the edge of the sink, and scanned Chen Yao from top to bottom with an inspecting gaze.

"I thought about yesterday's incident all night."

Zhao Lingfei tilted her head, her tone casual, as if talking about pleasant weather.

"I tore up your notes, you didn't say a word, and you didn't report it to the instructor. I originally thought you were quite sensible."

She paused, drawing a small circle on her chest with her index finger.

"But you know, something still feels off. You didn't report me, not because you're scared of me. From that expression, I can tell—you think I'm not worth your attention."

The double‑ponytail girl chimed in, "Exactly, yesterday you looked so disgusting. Like the whole world owed you money."

Chen Yao said nothing.

Her backpack strap slipped off her left shoulder; she grabbed it with one hand, took a half‑step back, and her back pressed against the stall door.

Zhao Lingfei stepped forward two paces.

The restroom's fluorescent tubes buzzed, the stark white light striking Zhao Lingfei's face, making her meticulously drawn eyebrows appear especially sharp.

"I've looked into your background," Zhao Lingfei lowered her voice, each word enunciated clearly, "Special enrollment student, no guardian, the family section in your admission file is completely blank. You can't even fill out an emergency contact."

She smiled, a smile without warmth.

"To put it bluntly, you're an unwanted orphan."

When that sentence landed, Chen Yao's eyelashes twitched.

The movement was tiny, so slight the girl beside her didn't notice, but Zhao Lingfei saw it.

She found a crack.

"Qiu Ce Yuan only has a handful of Special recruitment slots each year, and you took one. Do you know how many people you displaced? My father told me about a businessman's son who had better grades and a higher overall score than you, but because you claimed the slot, he ended up in a regular middle school."

Zhao Lingfei took another step forward, the soles of her shoes emitting a short squeak on the floor tiles.

"On what grounds?"

Chen Yao kept her head down, fingers tightening the backpack strap.

She gave no answer.

It wasn't that she didn't want to answer; she couldn't. She knew why she could get into Qiu Ce Yuan—the recommendation letter came from a name she could never mention, via a channel she could never expose.

In Zhao Lingfei's eyes, silence meant consent.

"See? Even you feel guilty," Zhao Lingfei lifted her chin toward the people behind her, eliciting a few mocking snickers.

Her gaze fell on Chen Yao's head.

That hairpin.

It was old. The silver metal had oxidized and darkened, the edge patterns worn to vague outlines. The spring was loose, requiring an extra press to snap shut, so Chen Yao would repeatedly press it with her fingers each time she wore it to ensure it wouldn't slip.

Zhao Lingfei had noticed the hairpin on the first day.

Throughout Qiu Ce Yuan, no other student wore such cheap, stall‑bought items. Yet Chen Yao wore it daily. She removed it during showers and placed it beside her pillow; the first thing she did upon waking was put it back on.

Someone who cherishes an item to that degree would only find it interesting when it breaks.

Zhao Lingfei didn't hesitate.

She raised her hand, pinched the hairpin's tail with two fingers, and yanked hard.

Several strands snapped, and the hairpin came away from Chen Yao's hair.

Chen Yao's head tilted slightly.

"What a crappy thing," Zhao Lingfei held the hairpin up, flipped it, wrinkled her nose in disgust, "Only you treat it as a treasure."

She released her grip.

The hairpin fell from a height of about 1.2 meters, clanged against the floor tiles, producing a crisp metallic clang.

Then Zhao Lingfei lifted her right foot.

The sole of her white platform sneaker landed precisely.

Snap.

The crack was slight.

Lighter than the sound of paper tearing yesterday, as light as stepping on a fallen leaf.

But the entire restroom's atmosphere changed.

The change came without any sign. The temperature didn't drop, the lights didn't dim; nothing physical altered.

What changed was the person.

Chen Yao's hand, reaching toward the floor, froze.

The motion hung suspended mid‑air, her five fingers slightly spread, as if something had cut off all commands from within.

Then she lifted her head.

Very slow.

So slow that Zhao Lingfei could see every inch of skin on her neck tightening, could see her Adam's apple—no, a girl has no Adam's apple, but the swallow she made tugged the entire line of neck muscles, dry and stiff, like a string about to snap.

Her bangs slipped away from her sight.

Two eyes emerged.

Zhao Lingfei saw them.

Those eyes were still those eyes; the iris color hadn't changed, the pupil size hadn't changed.

But everything inside had completely changed.

No anger, no grievance, no hatred, not even sadness.

Nothing at all.

It's like throwing a stone into a deep well: you hear no echo, see no splash, only bottomless, all‑consuming darkness opening its mouth at you.

Chen Yao looked at Zhao Lingfei.

It was "looking," not "staring."

No aggression.

But Zhao Lingfei's scalp felt like it exploded.

That feeling is indescribable. It's like getting up at night to use the bathroom, passing the living room and catching a glimpse of someone sitting on the sofa in the peripheral light. You know no one else should be at home. You turn to look, and that person is also looking at you. Neither moves, neither speaks, just sitting in the darkness with a silence that doesn't belong to the living, watching you.

Zhao Lingfei's heel knocked against the washbasin.

She stepped back half a step.

That half‑step was uncontrolled. Her body reacted before her brain, some instinct etched deep in primate genes frantically sounding the alarm—

Danger.

Zhao Lingfei was stunned for less than two seconds. Those two seconds were enough for the other three girls in the restroom to sense that something was off. The girl with twin ponytails had her smile freeze on her face, and the other two involuntarily edged toward the door.

Then Zhao Lingfei recovered.

The fear faded quickly, replaced by an overwhelming anger. She wondered, "Am I scared of an orphan brought in by Special recruitment? If this spreads, will I still be able to survive in Class C?"

"What are you staring at?"

Zhao Lingfei stepped forward a pace, both hands forcefully pushing on Chen Yao's shoulders.

Chen Yao was lighter than her and had a higher center of gravity; the push made her stagger backward, collide with the stall door panel, and she slid down to sit on the floor.

Her backpack fell to the side, the zipper burst open, and a few pens rolled out.

From her elevated position, Zhao Lingfei's chest rose and fell violently, but her voice rang high:

"How can someone with no background dare look at me like that? Who do you think you are?"

Chen Yao didn't stand up.

She sat on the floor, her gaze slowly shifting to the hairpin beneath Zhao Lingfei's foot, broken into two pieces. Its metal frame had been deformed by the pressure, the spring popped out from the break and bent into a strange angle.

She reached out, picked up the two fragments from beside Zhao Lingfei's shoe, and gathered them in her palm.

From start to finish, not a single word was spoken.

Zhao Lingfei felt her chest constricted by this silent response. She clenched her teeth, turned, and walked toward the door.

"Open the door."

The girl who had locked the door fumbled and twisted the lock open. Four people streamed out, their sneakers cracking on the Corridor floor.

After stepping out a dozen meters, the twin‑ponytail girl finally found her voice: "Sister Fei, that look she just gave was so scary…"

"What are you scared of?" Zhao Lingfei's steps were swift, swift enough to carry wind, "Are you frightened because a dog bared its teeth at you? The more someone pretends to be dead, the more they must step into death, otherwise she really thinks she's a person."

The footsteps faded away.

The restroom fell silent again.

Four hundred thirty kilometers from Qiu Ce Yuan.

Yunhu Technology Industrial Park B7 Building, four underground levels.

The above‑ground part of the building is a research and development center for a semiconductor packaging company, with over three hundred engineers swiping cards in and out daily, working overtime, holding meetings, and complaining about clients in the break room.

No one knows there are four more levels beneath the foundation.

The central control room's lighting is cool‑toned, dozens of high‑definition screens stitched together into a curved wall, the live feed covering the Federation's seventeen core cities' dark‑line surveillance nodes.

Chen Shao sat in a leather chair directly in front of the curved wall.

In front of him lay a weekly report of Qiu Ce Yuan Class C.

He had already read the report.

Ten minutes earlier.

The Encrypted Communication Terminal on his right flashed briefly. Chen Shao pressed the answer button, and a voice altered by a voice‑changer came through the handset—exactly the man in the dark‑blue property uniform.

The briefing was brief and precise.

Time, location, participants, specific actions—each detail was delivered in a trained, standardized manner, devoid of personal emotion.

Four minutes seventeen seconds.

The call ended.

Chen Shao placed the handset back on its base.

The movement was light.

In the central control room, three other technicians remained at their stations, the sound of their keyboards fine and even. No one looked up. Not out of concentration, but because they knew that when the leader is silent, it's best to act as if they don't exist.

Chen Shao's right hand rested on the armrest, his index finger lightly tapping the metal surface twice.

The rhythm was slow.

Tap, tap.

Then it stopped.

Deep inside his right eye socket, something lit up.

Not a reflection of light, not a refraction from the screen. It was light shining from inside the eyeball, scarlet, faint but piercing, like a red dwarf star compressed to its limit burning behind the iris.

Dominating Demon Eye.

The scarlet light pulsed in his pupil for three seconds, casting a dark red hue over the right half of his face.

The technician nearest him felt something, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He didn't dare turn, but his hands had unconsciously lifted from the keyboard, hovering mid‑air, motionless.

Chen Shao did not stand up, did not slam the table, did not roar.

He pulled his phone from the inner pocket of his suit and scrolled to a number with no saved label.

He dialed it.

It rang twice, then the other side answered.

"Shen Zong."

Chen Shao spoke.

His voice was flat. Abnormally flat.

"Qiu Ce Yuan Class C has a student named Zhao Lingfei."

On the other end, Shen Wanshan had clearly just left some social gathering; background noise still held the fading clink of glasses.

"Zhao Lingfei...... daughter of Zhao Guojiang of Zhao Clan Building Materials," Shen Wanshan's voice quickly shifted to report mode, "a strategic supplier responsible for forty percent of the building materials for the three branch institutes—"

"I know what he's responsible for."

Chen Shao interrupted him.

The scarlet flicker wavered in the darkness, reflected on the phone screen like a drop of blood falling into black water.

"The Zhao family's good days are coming to an end."

Seven words.

No explanation of the reason, no details given, no deadline set.

The other end fell silent for two seconds.

Shen Wanshan is a smart person. Anyone who can survive under Chen Shao to this day is smart. He didn't ask "why," didn't probe "how," didn't raise "would it affect the big picture."

He only said three words.

"I understand."

The call ended.

Chen Shao put the phone back into his inner pocket and leaned back in his chair.

The scarlet light slowly faded, his right eye returning to its normal dark brown.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, his gaze fell on the leftmost screen of the curved video wall. The feed showed the east corridor surveillance of Qiu Ce Institute Teaching Building: a thin figure emerged from the restroom, head down, hugging the wall, slowly walking toward the dormitory.

A backpack slung over one shoulder, bangs covering the eyes.

His right hand clenched something, gripping it tightly.

Chen Shao's gaze followed that figure until she vanished around the corner at the end of the corridor.

His lips twitched.

"Sorry......"