Chapter 71.2

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She brushed past the teacher standing in front of her and met Wang Yang’s parents head-on, gaze unwavering, not flinching, not dodging.

“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve called you about Wang Yang,” she said, voice tight. “How many times did I tell you to pay more attention to his emotional well-being? To just spend time with him?”

She took a breath, shoulders rigid.

“I get it. You work hard to support your family. You’re tired. I respect that. But can’t you stop using his grades as the only thing that matters? Can’t you go one day without bringing it up the second you walk in the door?”

Her voice broke slightly as she went on, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Do you know what Wang Yang said to me yesterday? He said he was scared. A sixteen-year-old boy—a boy—sat in my office and cried. He told me he was terrified you’d see his scores and start in on him again. More yelling. More hitting. More telling him he’s not good enough.”

Her words cracked with emotion, her chest heaving as she tried to hold it together. But the tears were rising—hot and fast.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Now you’re lecturing us on how to be parents? Isn’t it only natural for parents to discipline their own child? What are you trying to say?”

A heavyset man with a face full of malice suddenly threw down his protest banner with a loud slap against the floor. He stormed toward Yu Shuyan, his hand lashing out to shove her hard on the shoulder.

“Trying to dodge responsibility, is that it?”

The sudden contact sent a jolt of revulsion through Yu Shuyan’s body.

His clenched fist rose into view—large, close, threatening.

Her body tensed. Trembled.

A surge of panic gripped her, and before she could stop herself, she curled inward, instinctively hugging her knees, trying to make herself smaller.

The man pointed at her crouched form on the floor, voice full of indignation. 

“I didn’t hit her! You all saw that, right? I pushed her, that’s all! What, teachers these days can’t even be touched without pulling a stunt like this?”

Before anyone could reply, a voice cut through the air—low, cold, and sharp enough to silence the crowd.

“Get. Out.”

The word exploded like thunder.

Everyone froze, including the man himself. Not a single sound followed.

Then Ji Yun stepped through the crowd, her expression dark and deadly calm. She strode up to the man, shoved his wrist aside, and hissed through gritted teeth, “Take your filthy hands off her.”

She yanked his arm and threw it back with force. The man—easily over six feet tall—staggered several steps before he managed to catch his balance, eyes wide in disbelief.

Ji Yun crouched beside Yu Shuyan, who was still curled on the floor, gently placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey,” she said softly, “are you okay?”

Yu Shuyan took a moment to register the figure in front of her. As her vision cleared, recognition dawned. For a fleeting second, a spark of joy lit her dull eyes—but it vanished just as quickly, buried beneath composure.

She asked stiffly, “Why… why are you still here?”

Ji Yun caught the flicker of emotion that crossed her face—every nuance, every trace. She didn’t press, at least not yet. Instead, she scoffed in her usual, irreverent tone. “I’ve got a bad habit of sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

With that, she took Yu Shuyan’s hand and pulled her gently to her feet. Then she moved her to her side, keeping her close—like a silent shield.

Ji Yun’s gaze swept across the angry crowd, slow and razor-edged. Icy. Unblinking.

Then she asked, voice hard as flint, “What’s with this banner of yours?”

Her eyes narrowed at the bold black characters on the fabric. “Didn’t you say the kid’s fine? So what the hell does ‘Give me back my son’s life’ mean? You hoping something did happen to him just to make your point?”

“Hey! What kind of thing is that to say?” Wang Yang’s mother shot back, flustered. “What kind of parent would ever wish for something to happen to their child? We’re already heartbroken over this!”

“Exactly!” the tall man snapped, jabbing a finger at Ji Yun. “And who the hell are you anyway? Where’d you come from?”

Ji Yun gave him a cold, crooked smile.

“None of your damn business.”

Then her voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Or what—are you just trying to blow this out of proportion so you can squeeze more money out of the school?”

“We’re not trying to scam anyone! We—we just want justice…”

Ji Yun’s expression darkened in an instant. She stepped forward, her gaze sharp and unflinching as it bored into them.

“Oh, you want justice?” she said, voice laced with contempt. “You left your son alone in a cold hospital room just so you could rush over here and put on a show? Some love that is.”

Her words cut like a blade—clean, ruthless. And just like that, she sliced through the paper-thin excuses, laying bare every hidden shame.

The crowd murmured. Parents and teachers who had been quietly observing began to speak up, voices tinged with disgust.

“What kind of people are they?”

“Clearly just after money. How pathetic.”

The accused parents turned pale, then flushed red, their faces swinging wildly between anger and humiliation. They shot a last glare at Ji Yun and Yu Shuyan, then turned to leave, spitting out one last threat as they fled.

“This isn’t over!”

***

The chaos dissipated.

With the worst behind them—for now—Ji Yun gently pulled Yu Shuyan away from the crowd and led her toward the school gates.

They walked in silence for a while, the air between them tense but charged.

Then, behind her, Yu Shuyan spoke softly. “Ji Yun.”

Ji Yun stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

Yu Shuyan’s eyes dropped to their hands—still tightly clasped together. Her voice was quiet. “Can you let go of me now?”

Ji Yun arched a brow.

“Oh, I see. You just kick people to the curb the second the crisis is over? That your usual routine, or am I special?”

“You already knew, didn’t you?” Yu Shuyan said flatly, pulling her hand away without hesitation. She turned and walked off.

Then she paused, just a few steps ahead. “Please don’t follow me. I just need some time alone.”

Ji Yun stood there in silence.

…Seriously? Did she look like some clingy, desperate fool? As if she wanted to follow her.

Still, a few seconds later, she let out a long sigh. Fine. Considering the Peacock’s emotional meltdown today, she could play the part of guardian angel just this once.

Just once.

Ji Yun trailed after her—quietly, from a distance. Never too close, never too far. She followed her all the way to Dongcang Bar.

Yu Shuyan went straight upstairs to one of the private rooms on the second floor.

Ji Yun was just about to head up after her when a familiar short-haired waitress stepped into her path, blocking the stairs. “Ji-jie… come on, have a heart.”

The girl looked genuinely distressed. “Last time you barged upstairs with the boss lady, I got reamed for it. I can’t let you up again. Seriously—I’ll lose my job.”

Ji Yun narrowed her eyes. “Your boss lady is my best friend. If you don’t let me through, I’ll make sure she goes straight to your boss and makes his life hell—which means he’s gonna come for you next.”

The waitress looked like she was about to cry. “…Can I just get on my knees and beg instead?”

Ji Yun tried to crane her neck to get a look upstairs, voice growing sharper with urgency. “Then just pretend you didn’t see me, alright? You don’t say anything, I don’t say anything—everyone walks away clean.”

“You decide,” Ji Yun said coolly.

The waitress gave a defeated sigh, then raised her hand and mimed zipping her lips shut before turning on her heel and hurrying off without another word.

Ji Yun nodded, satisfied, then she turned and headed up the stairs. She walked along the second-floor corridor, peeking into each booth, scanning for any sign of Yu Shuyan.

It wasn’t until she reached the farthest, darkest corner that she finally spotted a familiar figure.

She was slouched in the innermost seat of the booth, nearly swallowed by the shadows. The table in front of her was cluttered with bottles—some upright, others already tipped over. A nearly empty bottle of red wine stood among them like a silent witness to her unraveling.

From where Ji Yun stood, she couldn’t make out her face—only the outline of her body, hunched low in the gloom.

Then, faintly, barely audible over the low thrum of bar music—she heard it.

A stifled sob.

Ji Yun froze in place. Her breath hitched.

The Peacock… is crying?