Chapter 418: Chen Yao

The Gui Ce Yuan Elementary Department's counseling room is at the far east end of the third floor, facing south, with excellent natural light.

Sunlight filters through the slats of the blinds in thin strips, landing on the off‑white sofa and on the leaves of the pothos in the desk's pot. The air‑conditioner is set to twenty‑four degrees, the humidifier emits a fine mist, and the whole room is deliberately fashioned into a soft, safe atmosphere where one can let down one's guard.

Su Ming holds a coffee and sits opposite the sofa, relaxed in posture, even a little languid.

Today Su Ming deliberately did not wear his combat uniform, opting for a dark‑gray crew‑neck sweater with the sleeves rolled to mid‑forearm. He had taken it from the teachers' dormitory—on purpose. An overly tidy outfit would create distance with teenage children, while a modestly casual look gives the illusion that "this adult is not dangerous."

Chen Yao sits opposite Su Ming.

The thirteen‑year‑old girl's school uniform hangs loosely on her. A rubber band ties her hair into a low ponytail, with a few stray strands hanging by her ears. Her face is small and features are delicate.

Her hands rest on her knees, fingers unconsciously tugging at the hem of her school skirt—pull, release, pull again.

Su Ming takes a sip of coffee, his tone like he's chatting with his little sister: "Come. Have some water first, don't be nervous. Today we're just talking casually, it won't count toward any assessment."

He nudges the paper cup on the table toward Chen Yao.

Chen Yao lowers her head, whispers "Thank you, teacher," and when she reaches for the cup, her fingertips tremble slightly.

Su Ming's gaze slides over her fingertips without lingering.

"I heard your class recently changed groups? How are you adapting?"

"It's… it's fine," Chen Yao's voice is so soft that one has to perk up to hear it clearly. "It's just that the homework is a bit heavy."

"Which subject?"

"Rules analysis… there are so many entries to memorize."

"That class is indeed a headache; I can't memorize it either," Su Ming smiles lightly, then continues naturally, "How are your relationships with the classmates in your group? Any incompatibilities?"

Chen Yao's hand pauses.

Just for that instant. Then she resumes tugging the skirt's hem.

"All… all fine."

Su Ming does not press further. He lifts the cup and takes another sip, his peripheral vision flicking over Chen Yao's expression—lips slightly pursed, eyelashes drooping, a barely perceptible swallow at her Adam's apple.

A textbook‑level nervous reaction.

"You heard about what happened last night, right?" Su Ming's tone shows no change, as flat as asking what she ate at the Cafeteria today. "There was an incident in the Old District; the school has issued a safety notice."

Chen Yao's body visibly tenses.

Her shoulders lift a couple of centimeters, her back straightens, her knees draw tighter together. The smoothness of this whole stress response even gives Su Ming a strange aesthetic impression—as if it were choreographed.

"I saw the notice…" Chen Yao's voice trembles, her eyes reddening. "It said someone was killed over there."

"Hmm." Su Ming nods. "Are you scared?"

Chen Yao says nothing.

She buries her head even lower, her shoulders begin to tremble faintly. Drops of liquid fall onto the fabric she's clutching, spreading dark tiny circles.

She cries.

Su Ming pulls two tissues from the table and hands them over, keeping his hand at a distance, placing them on the sofa armrest for her to take herself.

"It's okay. Fear is a normal response," his tone is warm and steady like gentle sunshine, "The school has a complete security system; there's no danger."

Chen Yao takes the tissue, wipes the corner of her eye, and sniffs.

"Teacher… I'm just a little scared," she finally lifts her head, eyes rimmed red, tears clinging to her lashes. "When I was in the orphanage I was always afraid of things like this… couldn't sleep at night, always feeling someone would come…"

She lowers her head again as she speaks, her voice growing softer until it becomes an almost inaudible murmur.

Su Ming watches her.

Sunlight falls on the little face, the tip of the nose slightly flushed, eyes holding tears that have not yet fallen. Thirteen years old. Frail, withdrawn, average grades, no guardian. A lone girl whose fate has been carelessly rolled and flattened, bullied to the point of not daring to speak up, now trembling at the nearby violent incident.

Any normal adult who sees this scene would instinctively feel a protective urge.

Su Ming is no exception.

He indeed feels a wave of soft, almost paternal‑like compassion rising from deep within his chest.

Immediately thereafter—he snuffs out that emotion at breakneck speed.

Because last night he saw the Capital Topology Map in the Data Center: sixty‑seven companies, one hundred ten billion yuan, spanning medicine, military industry, energy and communications. In fifty‑three minutes a hundred‑billion‑level conglomerate can be wiped out. A Yujie Assassin can cover four hundred meters in five seconds.

All of this, for the little girl in front of him, tugging at her skirt and shedding tears.

Su Ming lifts the coffee cup and finds it already cold.

"Chen Yao," he sets the cup down, "don't worry too much about the matter with Zhao Lingfei. I'll coordinate with the grade committee."

He mentions the name deliberately.

Chen Yao shivers lightly at his words, then shakes her head quickly: "No, no, classmate Zhao… she just got a bit irritable, that's all, no need to trouble you, teacher…"

Her speech suddenly quickens, pleading, reminiscent of a child accustomed to bullying, fearing that making a fuss will invite further retaliation.

Too perfect.

Su Ming silently logs this data in his mind. Every timing, magnitude and rhythm of the reactions falls perfectly within the Victim Stress Response Model described in psychology textbooks. No overflow, no deficiency.

As if measured with a ruler.

He keeps a gentle smile and chats for another dozen minutes about trivial matters—meals, weather, what she's been reading lately. Chen Yao gradually relaxes, occasionally flashing a shy smile with a shallow dimple at the corner of her mouth.

The counseling session ends.

Su Ming stands, subtly loosening his stiff shoulders. "That's all for today. Go rest, and come find me anytime if anything comes up; the office is staffed during the day."

"Okay. Thank you, teacher." Chen Yao also stands and bows properly.

Su Ming walks to the doorway and pulls the door open for her. Students pass by in the Corridor, sunlight pouring in from the floor‑to‑ceiling window at the far end.

As Chen Yao walks past him, Su Ming catches a faint scent of high‑end laundry detergent.

He watches the petite silhouette disappear into the sunlight, the ponytail swaying.

The door closes.

Su Ming does not return to the sofa immediately, but stays where he is, staring at the shut door for three seconds.

He is uncertain.

Data analysis constructed a logical chain, each link fitting tightly. But the far end of the logical chain is twelve‑digit capital, the killing speed of a High-level Yujie, the all‑consuming Shadow Empire. And the near end of the logical chain—

is a girl who pulls at her skirt's hem, cries, and is afraid of thunder.

These two images could never overlap.

Su Ming walked back to the sofa, sat down, and gulped down the ice‑cold coffee in one swallow.

Perhaps she truly knows nothing. Perhaps she is merely a pawn, protected at the center of a spiderweb, completely unaware of the surrounding threads.

Perhaps.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to clear "perhaps" from his mind.

Do not let emotions intrude before making a judgment. This is a lesson paid for with a life in a past life.

Corridor.

The counseling room's door behind him gave a soft click, the latch snapping into the lock.

Chen Yao stepped forward two paces.

Three steps.

Five steps.

Then she stopped.

The Corridor was empty. The floor‑to‑ceiling window at the far end sliced the noon light into squares that lay on the floor, and dust drifted lazily within the shafts of light. It was extremely quiet.

Chen Yao stood facing forward.

Her shoulders no longer trembled. Her back no longer hunched. Her hands slipped free from the hem of her skirt, hanging naturally at her sides.

The panic and timidity that had permeated the entire counseling session fell away from her in the instant the door closed, like a thin film silently peeled off and discarded.

She blinked.

The faint water mark on her eyelashes vanished.

Her eyes showed their base color.

A thirteen‑year‑old girl shouldn't have eyes like that.

It isn't cold, it isn't hatred. It's something deeper. The water beneath the mud at the bottom of a pond, its temperature low, hardly moving. It simply stays there. Nothing is distinguishable—people, insects, the sun.

All the same.

Everything the same.

"Dying so ugly."

She spoke. Her voice was low, not addressed to anyone, not even quite self‑talk. It was more like a physiological reaction, like a yawn.

"……but others' lives and deaths aren't even worth dust."

She lowered her head, watching the light patches on the floor. Dust floated in the sunlight.

She felt nothing.

The image of Zhao Lingfei's skull shattering under Xu An's foot replayed in his mind, like a wildlife documentary on TV—a close‑up of an antelope's neck being bitten off. That's all it was.

Chen Yao reached into her pocket and pulled out something.

Old Hairpin.

A petal‑shaped iron piece, its lacquer worn to a mottled ruin. It was stepped on and shattered by Zhao Lingfei yesterday, breaking into three fragments. Now thin copper wire has been wound around it and rejoined, the bend still bearing the twist marks.

It's unknown who repaired it.

Chen Yao clipped the hairpin on. She had no mirror, so she used the reflection of the Corridor's floor‑to‑ceiling window. The glass showed a blurry silhouette of a girl, the hairpin crookedly lodged at the side of her hair.

She tilted her head.

The corner of her mouth turned up.

It was a smile entirely different from the one in the counseling room. The latter was shy, ingratiating, a tentative antennae extending from within a shell.

This smile was not.

This smile had no warmth, yet it burned fiercely.

She faced her reflection in the glass, gently, almost reverently touching the repaired hairpin with copper wire, her fingertip rubbing the fracture twice.

"As long as I don't cause trouble for brother, that'll be fine."

Her voice was implausibly soft—like sugar soaked in honey then coated with a layer of frost. When she said "brother," her pupils contracted slightly, and something intensely private and scorching welled up from the deepest part of her irises.

She examined the glass's reflection for another two seconds, confirmed the hairpin's position, then turned and continued toward the end of the Corridor.

Her footsteps were light; the school uniform shoes made almost no sound on the floor.

Her silhouette reverted to that of the frail, quiet, inconspicuous Special enrollment student Chen Yao, head down.

Shoulders hunched. Like every little girl mistreated by life, she walked hugging the wall base.

Only when passing the Trash Can did she casually toss the crumpled tissue from the counseling room inside.

The motion was crisp and decisive.

Like discarding a tool that's used up.