THE REAL PROTEGE

The stone pulsed once, then began to glow —soft at first, then brighter, casting flickering shadows across the greenhouse walls.

The vines twitched.

The koi pond bubbled.

The vault beneath them began to hum in short bursts.

"That's Morse code," Chin Chin said, eyes wide.

"It's spelling something."

Kim Kim squinted.

"I think it says 'hungry.' Or 'honor.' Or maybe 'honey.'"

The moss around the stone began to smoke.

"Okay," Chin Chin said, standing.

"We need Mom!"

"We need clearance," Kim Kim corrected.

"And possibly a fire extinguisher!!! Aaaahhhhhhh! Run!!!"

They scrambled out of the greenhouse, night dresses trailing smoke, spiritual energy crackling around their ankles. Behind them, the stone face opened one eye.

Just one.

Ling Li and the Vault Below

The greenhouse was quiet now, but not still.

Ling Li stepped inside, her boots silent against the stone floor. The air was thick with residual energy —sweet and metallic, like incense laced with ozone. The vines had recoiled from the walls, curling inward as if bracing for something. The koi pond bubbled faintly, though no wind stirred the surface.

She knelt beside the moss patch where the twins had sat, fingers brushing the scorched edges of a lotus petal. The stone with the carved face lay exposed, its single eye now closed again. But the hum remained —low, rhythmic, pulsing beneath the floorboards like a heartbeat trying to sync with hers.

Ling Li pressed her palm to the tiles.

The vault answered.

A surge of heat rippled through her arm, followed by a whisper—not in words, but in sensation. Hunger. Memory. Recognition.

Ling Li closed her eyes and reached deeper, letting her qi thread through the stone and soil. The vault was ancient, older than the estate, older than her family's stewardship. It had always been dormant.

Contained. But now…

Now it was listening.

And it knew the twins.

Ling Li's breath caught. The energy wasn't just reacting —it was responding and echoing their rhythm. Their chaos. Their blood.

She opened her eyes, gaze sharp.

"You weren't supposed to wake yet," Ling Li murmured to the vault.

"Not until the rites were complete."

The stone pulsed once, and the vines twitched.

She stood, brushing moss from her trousers, her expression unreadable. The twins hadn't just disturbed the vault;

'They'd activated something. Again, for that matter!' Something that recognized them. Something that had waited.

Ling Li sighs.

Ling Li turned toward the door, her voice low and steady.

"Otako needs to see this."

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the greenhouse glass. The koi leapt once from the pond, then stilled.

Ling Li stood in the greenhouse doorway, the wind tugging at her robe, the scent of scorched moss still clinging to the air. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from fear—but from recognition.

She whispered to herself, almost too softly to hear.

"I forgot… I'm Otako."

"...."

The words hung in the air like a bell struck underwater. Not a title. Not a role. A truth.

'I've been telling my family half-truths and half-lies about Otako, and I seemed to have convinced myself as well.' Ling Li shook her head, pinching her brows in deep thought.

She stepped forward again, kneeling beside the stone with the carved face. Her palm hovered just above it, and the hum deepened —no longer Morse code, but something older. A rhythm she hadn't heard since her own initiation.

"They weren't supposed to awaken yet," she murmured.

"Not until the rites were complete. Not until the grid was stable."

But the vault had responded to them. Not to her being Otako.

To Kim Kim and Chin Chin.

She closed her eyes, letting her qi settle. The vines around her pulsed once, then stilled. The koi in the pond leapt again —twice this time.

Ling Li opened her eyes, gaze sharp.

"They're not just heirs," she said aloud.

"They are the keys."

She stood, brushing moss from her knees, her expression unreadable. The wind outside shifted again, colder now. Somewhere in the estate, a bell rang —not physical, but spiritual —a warning.

She turned toward the exit, her voice steady.

"I need to speak with the ancestral council."

And beneath the greenhouse floor, the vault pulsed once more —this time in perfect sync with the twins' heartbeat.

Scene: The Chamber of Echoes

The moon had not yet risen, but the courtyard stones glowed faintly, lit by the bioluminescent moss that only bloomed during spiritual convergence. Ling Li moved swiftly, her clothes cinched tight, her hair braided in the Otako's spiral: three loops for past, present, and the yet-to-come.

Using a teleport talisman, she reached the hidden entrance beneath the old shrine, pressing her palm to the dragon-carved panel. It hissed open, revealing a narrow stairwell that spiraled downward into silence.

At the base, the Chamber of Echoes awaited.

Twelve lanterns flickered to life as she entered, each one representing an ancestral council. Their faces shimmered in the smoke —not alive, not dead, but suspended in ancestral memory. The council did not speak with voices. They spoke with presence.

Ling Li knelt at the center, her forehead touching the obsidian floor.

The air thickened. The lanterns pulsed.

A voice —not heard, but felt —rippled through her bones.

"You have broken the sequence."

She lifted her head slowly. "I did not. The twins did. The vault responded to them."

Another pulse. This one is colder.

"They are not ready."

"Then why did the grid shift?" Ling Li's voice was steady, but her heart pounded. "Why did the koi leap twice? Why did the vines pulse in rhythm with their breath?"

The lanterns dimmed, then flared.

A third presence emerged —older than the others. The elder who had sealed the first vault. Her image was fractured, like a mirror half-submerged in water.

"You must choose," the elder said.

"To guide them… or to contain them."

Ling Li's breath caught. She had hoped for clarity. She had received a burden.

"If you guide them, the rites must be rewritten.

And if you contain them, the grid will fracture."

Silence fell. Ling Li closed her eyes, remembering the twins' laughter, their stubbornness, their dreams. She saw the way Kim Kim had touched the stone, not with fear, but with recognition.

Ling Li stood.

"Then I will guide them. But I will not rewrite the rites alone."

The lanterns pulsed once more—this time in approval. The chamber began to fade, the ancestral presence retreating.

As she ascended the stairwell, the wind outside had changed again. It carried the scent of jasmine and storm.

And far above, in the twins' sleeping quarters, the air shimmered faintly —like something ancient had just awakened.