THE REAL PROTEGE

To Old Master Li, Chu Yan knelt with her head bowed as he offered tea. The old master took the porcelain slowly, sipped from it, and placed it down with reverent silence.

Old Master Li then reached forward and gripped Chu Yan's forearm.

"You are her anchor now. Never forget who she is… even when she forgets herself."

Chu Yan nodded, voice breaking as he said-

"I won't. Not again."

To Madam Li, Ling Li handed her mother the cup with quiet grace. The older woman smiled, eyes glistening, and tucked a moonstone pin into Ling Li's sleeve before whispering-

"A daughter returns to us only once. This time… you brought us a son too."

The Final Blessing

As the tea cups emptied, both sets of elders rose and presented the couple with red silk pouches — each embroidered with gold dragons and cranes, tied with mystic knots. Inside were heirloom rings, imperial bonds of land, and handwritten blessings from three generations past.

El Padre stepped forward again, unrolling a red silk cord between his palms.

He circled it lightly around the couple's wrists, binding their hands together.

The red silk cord draped between their wrists fluttered as the last words of the blessing rang through the courtyard, solemn and eternal.

"By Heaven, Earth, and the ancestors as witness… this union is now blessed!"

In the distance, drums rumbled like distant thunder, followed by the lilting resonance of zithers trailing across the evening breeze. The sounds layered over each other — ancient, sacred, and soothing — as if even the heavens themselves paused to bear witness.

All around them, guests rose to their feet in a wave of reverent applause. Silk sleeves rustled, jade bracelets chimed, and voices murmured soft praises and toasts in a dozen languages.

Ling Li and Chu Yan stood in the center of it all, their hands still tied, their eyes locked. They weren't smiling — they were glowing. Not with giddiness, but with something ferocious and rare: a promise no storm could unravel.

There was no altar behind them.

No signatures.

No performance.

Only conviction—and the echo of a vow that the world had no power to undo.

Then—

One by one, the line of guests began to move forward.

First came the Russian President, who bounded forward with theatrical flair. His gruff laughter filled the space before he even reached them.

"Ah! You finally marry her, Chu Yan!" he bellowed, giving Four Eyes a hearty slap on the back that made the jade dragons on his robe tremble. Then he turned to Ling Li and made an exaggerated bow, nearly tripping over his boots. "Madame Ling, you have more patience than an army of monks."

"Only for him," Ling Li said smoothly, lips curving.

"Ha! I knew it!" He raised a crystal goblet. "To patience, vodka, and survival!"

He toasted, drained it in one gulp, and promptly knocked the empty glass against his forehead with a satisfied grunt before staggering off, swaying to the music.

Next came the Cuban President, striking in white linen robes and sunglasses that he wore indoors, of course. He sauntered forward like a man in a music video, flanked by two silent attendants in turquoise uniforms.

He didn't offer a smile. Instead, he eyed Chu Yan from head to toe, then turned to Ling Li with a dramatic sigh.

"You really went through with it, querida?" The Cuban President asked in slow, stylized Mandarin.

Ling Li gave a patient nod. "Without hesitation."

"Hmm," he clicked his tongue, handing her a tiny carved box wrapped in cigar leaves.

"Then may you both burn bright… but not burn out."

Ling Li "...."

'Should I receive his gift or not?'

The Cuban President snapped his fingers and glided away, trailing cologne and mystery in equal measure.

Then came the Chinese President — the man who had once stammered through a speech in Ling Li's presence after mistaking her silk fan for a coded diplomatic weapon.

This time, though, he walked with more grace, though his cheeks still glowed a shade too red.

"Madame Ling," he greeted, his hands tight around a delicate cup of rose tea. "And… esteemed husband. Congratulations. The country rejoices with you."

"Even the Ministry of Protocol?" Ling Li teased, tilting her head.

The Chinese President laughed nervously. "Even them. Especially them."

He handed over a scroll embossed with imperial lacquer. He fled with the elegance of a man who'd practiced this exact interaction in a mirror.

The next to arrive walked more slowly, but with equal reverence.

Tutor Chen and Tutor Ma.

Tutor Chen had aged — his back slightly hunched, hair a storm of winter white. But his eyes burned sharp behind his round spectacles. He bowed low to Ling Li, then straightened with effort, nodding proudly.

"It took a phoenix some time to choose her sky," he murmured, voice rich with emotion.

"But I've never seen one fly so boldly."

Tutor Ma — quiet as ever — stood behind him, her expression unreadable until he stepped forward and placed a folded page of poetry in Ling Li's hand.

It was her favorite verse from childhood, copied by hand.

"Take your sky," Tutor Ma said simply. "And share it."

Ling Li pressed the poem to her chest for a beat, then tucked it into her sleeve.

El Padre and El Capitan approached together, arm in arm like bickering sentinels disguised in celebration.

"I told you this day would come," El Padre said, thumping Chu Yan on the chest. "And I told you it would hurt if you fumbled it. You're lucky I didn't follow through."

El Capitan raised a brow. "Tsk. He still deserves one kick in the ribs, just to balance the narrative."

"Try it," Chu Yan muttered under his breath with a half-smile.

Ling Li sighed fondly. "Not during our wedding."

"Oh fine," El Capitan relented, then slipped a miniature blacksmith's token into her palm.

"For the battles ahead."

A Tide of Love Across the World

After that, came a parade of colors and cultures:

A desert queen from the Middle East, who gifted a sandglass with enchanted time to protect their household.

A Scandinavian tech lord, who offered two rings infused with micro-chips to track each other's vitals —"Just in case of more drama," he winked.

Cousin Mei and Uncle Chen, who wept openly while handing over a scroll of the Ling family tree, updated with gold ink.

And dozens more — friends, warriors, diplomats, eccentrics — each bringing a thread to stitch this day into forever.

Some offered quiet nods. Some clasped hands. Some smiled and stood aside, watching the couple like one might watch the sea at sunrise, not needing to speak to feel moved by it.