THE REAL PROTEGE

Shinsei placed his palm on the altar, unlocking the scrolls linked to the twin convergence prophecy.

One opened slowly.

Within it, the truth spilled out like oil and fire:

Two seals were never meant to be bound by time.

One bearer would carry ancestral rebirth.

The other, protected by spiritual inversion, would guard the gate to future legacy.

Ling Li read silently, then whispered:

"The twins weren't born together to fulfill a prophecy. They were born to repair it."

Pharsa exhaled.

Outside, snow began to fall gently again.

The silence in the archive no longer felt empty.

It felt full.

Between Storms: Preparing for Guardianship

The courtyard hadn't been this still in weeks.

Snow softened every stone, every step. Moonwater pine trees stood wrapped in silk wards, and soft bells chimed from the upper garden, not as alarm, but as invitation. The estate was breathing again.

Inside the gathering hall, the Li family sat together for the first time since Enchanted Dale's reckoning.

Madam Li and Old Master Li sat closest to the hearth, their fingers entwined over a string of prayer beads, whispering blessings over bowls of root stew and ceremonial rice. They flew in for this ceremony.

Four Eyes crouched beside a scroll rack, scribbling adjustments to the twins' defense sequences with the ferocity of someone who'd watched too many sleepless nights pass without control. His beard had collected a tiny curl of ash, but he didn't notice — he was smiling.

Shi Min and Ren, together with Lily, unpacked the ceremonial boxes sent by the Moonwater Sect, each containing elemental tokens: phoenix feathers, windscale beads, and small jade discs engraved with protective phrases in ancient dialects.

Pharsa, now fully recovered, sat cross-legged with Kim Kim and Chin Chin between her knees, gently weaving gold-threaded dragon crests into their training cloaks. Every needle stroke was a form of memory, every knot a promise. Her husband, Chatty, who has been on tender hooks for the past month, now felt relaxed and proud, looking at her.

Pharsa paused suddenly and looked at Chin Chin.

"Do you remember the dreamwalk?"

Chin Chin nodded solemnly.

"The beautiful woman said we'd repair the prophecy."

Pharsa smiled, her voice quiet.

"So you'll need armor that remembers you when you forget yourselves."

Across the hall, Ling Li moved with deliberate grace, sorting through ancestral seals and guardianship rites. Her hands rarely faltered, but her eyes lingered on her daughters longer than usual — protective, grateful, fiercely proud.

She turned to Shinsei, who now prepared a low table with incense and thread charms.

"Will they be ready?" She asked.

Shinsei's response was soft, wrapped in certainty:

"They already are. They just haven't realized how much the world changed because they existed."

Silence fell again, but it was the kind that heals. Ling Li felt reassured.

Even Fatty, in his wheelchair, who had barricaded himself in the kitchen with three steam baskets, peeked around the door and whispered,

"Everyone's got a role. Mine is dumplings."

Shun, who was left by his side, chuckled.

At the hour of dusk, the family gathered on the outer balcony beneath a sky blooming with pale lavender.

Each member placed an object into the ceremonial basket — not as a weapon, but as an offering:

A slingshot wrapped in phoenix string

A scroll with broken seals was resealed anew.

A windscale bead drawn from the frozen forge

And a dragon crest sewn by hand

Ling Li held the final token: a mirror, once shattered, now re-silvered with elemental flame.

"Tomorrow," she said, voice echoing across the snow, "we inscribe them into guardianship. Not to control, but to honor. Not to bind, but to choose."

The twins leaned against Pharsa's sides.

Behind them, the wind stirred — not with omen, but with invitation.

As Mushu stood quietly off to the side, a wave of emotion washed over him. He hadn't anticipated the significance that the slingshots he crafted for the twins would hold in their hearts. The vibrant colors of the slingshots, painted with care, seemed to shimmer with a life of their own. At the same time, the twins' laughter echoed joyfully in the air, filling him with a bittersweet pride.

The Rite of Guardianship: Name and Flame

At twilight, the courtyard was transformed.

Veils of phoenix silk hung from the pine branches, and the stone platform had been encircled with twin elemental crests — wind and flame, each traced with ancestral salt and dream ink. Candles flickered in synchronized circles, casting undulating shadows across the entire hall.

The air itself was suspended in reverence.

Kim Kim and Chin Chin stood barefoot between the seals, cloaked in their newly embroidered training robes. The gold-threaded dragon crests stitched by Pharsa shimmered faintly under the moonlight, pulsing in rhythm with their breath. Their gazes were steady. Nervous, yes — but clear.

Ling Li, dressed in full ceremonial regalia, held the Guardianship Scroll aloft. Its surface glowed with active inscription — names of the protectors before them, each one sealed into legacy by choice, not birth.

Shinsei began the invocation, his voice deep and resonant, echoing through the courtyard like a song pressed into stone.

"We do not name you guardians today. We recognize that you have already become them."

He turned to Ling Li, who stepped forward and spoke in a sacred dialect, a tongue used only in rites bound by blood and oath.

"By flame, you remember. By wind, you carry. And by both, you protect."

Then to the twins:

"Kim Kim — what do you vow?"

Kim Kim stepped forward, fists clenched, voice strong despite the tremor.

"To defend what forgets itself. To remember what others leave behind."

"Chin Chin?"

Chin Chin inhaled.

"To protect the gate of blood and the shadow behind it. To choose fire only when silence no longer saves."

Their seals ignited — not explosively, but in perfect sync. Wind curled up, fire flared down. The crests on their robes glowed and pressed themselves into the Guardianship Scroll, becoming permanent entries.

From the perimeter, Madam Li and Old Master Li, with Mr. and Mrs. Xu, wept openly.

Pharsa's lips parted, but no sound came — only light.

Four Eyes lowered his head, murmuring a prayer that didn't need translation.