THE REAL PROTEGE

The wind shifted gently over Shanghai rooftops as Lily closed the call, laughter still warm in her throat. She lingered by the balcony, fingertips brushing the edge of a tiny silk pouch tucked into her training bag — a charm Fatty had couriered weeks ago.

Delicate and folded with care, the talisman was stitched with silver lotus petals and spelled with two enchantments:

One to ward off spectral anxiety

One to warm her fingers in moments of doubt.

Tonight, it glowed faintly, pulsing with residual affection — not magic, exactly, but memory shaped into energy. She closed her palm around it and felt a flicker of calm take root beneath her ribs.

"Idiot," Lily murmured fondly. "Of course, you enchanted this to activate when I laugh."

The wind swirled, catching her loose hair, and somewhere deep in the city's concrete bones, a little ripple passed through the spiritual grid — subtle, unnoticed, except by those who knew what to feel for.

Beijing: Ren and Shun's Preparation for Power

In the secluded wing of the National Governance Academy, hidden behind layers of bureaucratic illusion and spiritual shielding, Ren and Shun trained under the watchful eyes of Tutor Ma and Tutor Chen.

The room was austere — no incense, no ceremonial flourishes. Just polished stone, scrolls of constitutional law, and a central table carved with the seal of the Republic. Moonlight filtered through reinforced glass, casting long shadows across the floor where the twins stood in quiet formation.

Ren, hair tied in a disciplined knot, recited policy clauses in Mandarin and Classical Chinese, her voice steady. Shun, beside her, reviewed diplomatic protocols and crisis response strategies, his fingers tracing the edge of a map marked with leyline intersections and political fault lines.

Tutor Ma, dressed in formal robes with the insignia of his high-ranking office, paced slowly.

"Otako's order is clear," he said, voice low but firm.

"This is not a revolt. It is a redirection. The president will be forced to abdicate — not by violence, but by truth. And he will endorse Shun as his successor."

Tutor Chen added,

"The president's son, Shun Chang, is protected by layers of secrecy and spiritual misdirection. No one has seen his face. No one speaks his name aloud. But those who have suffered under him remember."

Ren's eyes narrowed.

"And we carry their memory."

Shun spoke quietly, but with weight.

"When the time comes, I will not just replace him. I will restore what he buried.

Training was rigorous and precise:

Mornings were spent dissecting constitutional law, economic policy, and spiritual governance — learning how to balance secular power with ancestral responsibility.

Afternoons focused on diplomatic simulations, public speaking, and the art of commanding presence without domination.

Evenings were reserved for private sessions with Tutor Ma, where Ren and Shun practiced emotional regulation, strategic empathy, and the subtle art of political persuasion.

Tutor Ma watched them closely, his influence within the government shielding their progress from prying eyes.

"You are not symbols," he said one evening.

"You are successors. And successors must be sharper than the blade that forged them."

Shun and Ren nodded, their voice calm.

"We will not be feared. We will be followed."

Trackside Turbulence: Chatty and Pharsa

Back at Blaze Mountain Race Track in Russia, the racetrack twisted like a serpent through pine and frost. The air was sharp, the asphalt damp, and the sapphire-blue car gleamed like a predator waiting to pounce.

Chatty, helmet under arm, bounced on his heels like a boxer before a bout.

Pharsa, visor down and clipboard clutched like a weapon, eyed him with the precision of a sniper and the patience of a saint who'd run out of miracles.

"You can't race with swagger alone," she said, voice dry as gravel.

"The car doesn't care if you've won dance medals. It only listens to fear."

"Fear listens to me," Chatty quipped, sliding into the driver's seat.

"It sends me flowers."

"Then drive like you're breaking up with it," Pharsa said with a snort.

From the control booth, Mushu leaned forward, stopwatch in hand, chewing thoughtfully on a licorice stick. His eyes flicked between the telemetry and Pharsa's expression.

"Throttle discipline, Murphy," Mushu said calmly over the comms.

"You're still treating corners like they owe you money."

"I'm just collecting interest," Chatty replied nonchalantly.

"You're collecting spin-outs," Mushu said with a huff.

Pharsa tapped her clipboard against the booth's railing.

"Focus. This isn't a joyride. Ling Li wants you race-ready by the winter solstice. That means no flirting with the curves."

"Just dominate them," Chatty echoed, grinning.

"No," she corrected.

"Seduce them. Make them beg to be taken at 220 kph."

The engine roared to life, sigils of grip and focus glowing faintly along the chassis.

Chatty peeled out, tires screaming, fog parting like curtains before a show.

Turn 3.

"Brake earlier," Pharsa snapped.

"You're not auditioning for a crash reel!"

Turn 5.

"Better. Feel the road. It's whispering to you. Stop shouting over it."

Turn 7.

Chatty laughed mid-drift.

"If I die, I want a phoenix-shaped urn."

"If you die during rehearsal," Pharsa crackled back,

"I'll bury you with my clipboard. And I'll make sure it's laminated."

Mushu chuckled softly.

"He's improving. He's listening to the road, not just himself."

Pharsa's eyes narrowed, but her lips twitched.

"He's still a menace. But he's my menace."

Mushu laughed out loud.

Chatty overheard their conversation, smiled smugly as he hit top speed on the final stretch, the car humming like a spell about to break.

He pulled into the pit, breathless, grinning, and drenched in adrenaline.

"So?" Chatty asked, hopping out.

"Did I flirt or dominate?"

Pharsa walked up, rolled her eyes with a clipboard raised like a sword.

"You negotiated. I'll take it."

"That's romantic, coming from you."

"Don't push it. I still have three more drills and a bucket of insults."

Mushu, hearing the couple's playful banter, couldn't help but chuckle as he whispered to himself, "Look at these two! Even after tying the knot, they still bicker like Tom and Jerry. I half-expect them to chase each other around the living room with a rolling pin and a cheese wedge!"

"Hey, we can hear you!" Both Pharsa and Chatty retorted.

Mushu "...."

Fatty's Empire: From Pastries to Power

Meanwhile, across Europe, Fatty's business empire continued to expand.

In Brussels, Fatty's culinary line of enchanted buns was now endorsed by three spiritual dieticians for improving "emotional digestion." His boutique in Florence sold limited-edition charm glasses infused with rain-soaked poetry. A Prague salon burned signature "Fatty Mist" oils known to attract romantic confessions within three hours of wear.

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***** Remember that the current Chinese President's son is also named Shun Chang. The same with Shun. *****