Summary: In the stillness of recovery, Yao reclaims her name and seals her heart's vow—not as an heiress by blood, but as a woman who chooses both her legacy and the one she loves.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
One-Shot
The storm outside hadn't yet touched the capital, but the wind carried the bite of the approaching front, sharp and cold as it sliced through the city streets, curling into the stadium's underground hallways like a warning. Inside, the air buzzed with victory, the buzz of electronics, and the lingering breath of heated adrenaline. ZGDX had just secured a clean, punishing win over Team King, and yet—
Tong Yao was shaking. Not from victory. Not from nerves. But from the low-grade fever that had been burning through her veins since the night before, a quiet, constant thrum beneath her skin that she'd refused to acknowledge. She could barely feel her fingers as they wrapped around the mouse during the last team fight. Her vision had doubled for a split second right as she executed her final combo. But she had held on. Finished the match. Smiled for the cameras.
And now, as the team walked offstage and into the brightly lit corridor, the noise and the flashing lights behind them, Tong Yao's steps faltered. One foot scuffed against the other. Her balance slipped. And before anyone noticed—before anyone could reach out—
She collapsed.
Hard.
The sharp sound of her knees hitting the floor was drowned out by the sudden scrambling of chairs and footsteps.
"Yao!" Pang shouted, skidding to her side, his voice rising in panic.
Lu Sicheng was on her in a heartbeat, eyes wild, hands catching under her shoulders. Her skin was hot. Not warm—burning. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. "What the hell ," he hissed, voice low and tight with rising fury as he lifted her into his arms, his grip too careful, too gentle for the sharp edge behind his teeth. "Why didn't she say anything—"
"She's burning up," Lao K said, already pulling out his phone.
"She said she was fine," Lao Mao muttered, guilt creeping in around the edges of his voice as he hovered near her feet.
"She lied ," Sicheng snapped.
"No, she didn't." came a quiet voice that cut through the noise like a scalpel.
Everyone turned.
Ming was standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable but his eyes, behind that quiet mask of calm, were darker than any of them had seen in months. "She didn't lie," he repeated, stepping forward, slow and unhurried, like a tide creeping in before the flood. "She told me she felt cold last night. Told me she was a little off. I asked her to pull from the match. She said no."
Sicheng's eyes narrowed. "You knew she was sick and you let her play?"
"No," Ming said, tone like steel covered in silk. "I knew she was pushing herself, and I reminded her she had the right to sit it out. I wasn't going to fight her on it—not after everything she's had to prove just to be taken seriously."
"She nearly passed out," Sicheng growled, stepping forward, the weight of his fury pressing down like a storm cloud.
"And yet you didn't notice," Ming returned, stepping forward himself. "You, who sits beside her during every match. You, who's always so goddamn sharp. You didn't notice a thing until she hit the floor."
The room went silent.
Sicheng's fists clenched.
Pang inhaled sharply.
Even Rui had gone still by the door, half-lifted phone in hand, eyes trained on the two men now standing toe-to-toe in the middle of the hallway.
"I was coaching," Ming continued, quieter now, his voice like the cold wind outside. "Watching her cursor movement. Her APM. Her rhythm. I knew she was slowing down midway through the second game. I also knew she was stabilizing after every dip—because she's that good, even when she's on fire with a fever. But I was ready to pull her. I had Yue on standby."
"You didn't pull her," Sicheng said, voice low and cold.
"No," Ming agreed. "Because I trusted her. Trusted that she'd tell me if it got worse. Trusted that the rest of you, sitting beside her, would see it. You didn't."
Sicheng stared at him for a long moment, the hallway too quiet now, the roar of the post-match crowd outside nothing but a muffled echo. Then he turned back to Tong Yao, her small form nearly swallowed by his arms, her face flushed and damp with sweat, her lips parted slightly as she breathed. And something inside him cracked.
"Where's the medic?" he snapped at Rui.
"On their way," Rui replied quickly, already moving down the hall to meet them.
"Room's ready," Yue said, coming up from behind with a grim expression. "Pulled strings to get a private suite on the third floor."
"Take her," Ming said. "I'll follow. But later—when this settles—we're going to talk. Because the next time you want to pin your anger on someone, you better make sure it isn't someone who was already doing what you failed to do."
Sicheng didn't answer. He only held her tighter, turned, and began to walk. They moved as a unit, the team falling in around them, each one with their thoughts running loud and ugly through their minds, but no one speaking as they filed out of the corridor and toward the private transport.
Later, in the quiet hum of the hospital suite, Tong Yao stirred. Her eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first, then settling on the figure seated beside her bed.
Not Sicheng.
Not Pang.
Not even Rui.
But Ming.
He was sitting in the corner chair, hands folded in his lap, eyes closed but not asleep. The moment her breathing shifted, he opened his eyes. "You're awake," he said softly, standing up and coming to her side. "Don't talk yet. You've got fluids in your arm and a fever that still hasn't broken."
Her lips parted.
"I know," he murmured. "I know you didn't mean to scare us."
She blinked slowly.
"I should've made you sit out," he added. "But I also know you would've hated me for it."
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
And then, from the doorway, another voice joined them.
"You scared the hell out of me."
Sicheng. He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Yao looked at him weakly, and when he stepped closer, his fingers brushed her hair back with a gentleness that made her eyes sting. "I was mad," he said, his voice low. "Still am." She looked away. "But not at you," he added, pressing a kiss to her temple. "At myself. For not seeing. For forgetting that strength doesn't mean invincibility."
Ming stepped back quietly, moving toward the door, but not before Sicheng lifted his eyes to meet his. A nod passed between them. Not forgiveness. But understanding. And it was enough. Because Tong Yao was safe. Because she was still here.
The ride back to the base was silent in a way that didn't feel peaceful. It was weighted, thick with everything that hadn't been said—guilt, protectiveness, anger restrained only because she was sleeping in the backseat with her head resting lightly against Sicheng's shoulder, a warm blanket tucked up to her chin that Ming had personally draped around her before they'd left the hospital. Her fever had finally started to drop. The color had returned faintly to her cheeks. But Ming hadn't looked away from her even once during the ride, his gaze steady in the rearview mirror, monitoring the way her breathing had evened out, how her hands no longer trembled with every exhale.
By the time they reached the base, the others had already scattered ahead to clear a path and make sure everything was quiet. Ming, true to the quiet strength he never flaunted, had already been back hours earlier, in between hospital visits. He had gone to her room, stripped the bedding down to the mattress, and laid out fresh flannel sheets and her thickest blanket. A humidifier was running low and steady in the corner. Her favorite herbal cough drops were stacked on the side table, next to the throat-coating tea she liked. Her kettle was filled and ready to switch on. He had even restocked her shelf in the kitchen—rice porridge mix, frozen dumplings, broth, soft noodles, fresh ginger, and plain crackers.
And when Rui saw the extent of what had been done—when he noticed that the fridge had been reorganized just so, with labels and backup packs of her supplements in the drawer—he didn't say anything.
Because this wasn't the work of a coach. This was the work of family. By the time Ming helped guide Sicheng as he carried her into the room, even Sicheng, who rarely acknowledged things outside his immediate world—paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the setup. The clean sheets. The perfect silence. The warm air. And something in his shoulders loosened. "Thanks," he said quietly.
Ming simply gave a single nod before stepping out, pulling the door gently closed behind him. It wasn't until well past midnight that the rest of the team had gathered in the lounge, letting out a slow exhale after the storm of the day. Pang had passed out on the couch. Lao Mao was thumbing through his phone. Lao K had headphones on, not playing music, just avoiding conversation.
Yue was tossing popcorn in the air and catching it with his mouth, his usual smirk playing lazily on his face, but even he was holding back. That was, until he let the smirk curl wider and glanced toward the kitchen. "You know," he drawled, "I'm starting to think our dear coach has a little soft spot for the Salt Maiden."
The popcorn didn't even land before Ming's voice cut through the air like a crack of thunder.
"Try finishing that sentence."
Yue froze mid-chew, turning slowly. His smirk faltered.
Ming didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "She's barely twenty-three," Ming said, his words clipped, slow, and sharp like the clean draw of a blade. "I'm in my late thirties. I've known her since she was barely more than a kid. She is family. That's it." Yue opened his mouth to backtrack, but Ming wasn't finished. "And if you ever," he said, stepping forward, each word landing like stone, "joke about that again in public—if you ever let some asshole with a phone and fast fingers hear you say something like that and spin it into a headline, and it ends up dragging her into hell she doesn't deserve—I swear to you, Lu Yue, I will personally file the paperwork to have you suspended as substitute."
Yue straightened. "You wouldn't."
Ming's stare didn't even flicker. "For the rest of the year. That includes this season and next. I will bench your ass so far into the ground you'll be reviewing training footage with the interns."
Yue's jaw twitched.
"I don't care if you're joking," Ming continued. "I don't care if you think it's harmless. She does not need that kind of attention. She does not need those rumors. And she sure as hell does not need her teammates making her a target."
A beat of silence followed.
Then Yue, unusually subdued, nodded once, eyes dropping. "Got it."
Ming stared a moment longer, then turned, heading back toward the hallway.
The others stayed quiet. Because they knew, when Ming used that voice, the one that felt calm on the surface but carried the weight of unmovable stone underneath, there was no room for discussion. Because whatever bond he had with their Midlaner, it wasn't romantic. It was something older. Something heavier. It was loyalty. And if someone crossed the line, they wouldn't just answer to Sicheng. They'd answer to Ming. And no one—not even Yue—was foolish enough to test that twice.
The snow had started to fall sometime after two in the morning, soft, slow flakes that drifted down like feathers from a split pillowcase in the sky. It dusted the railing of the ZGDX balcony in a thin layer of white, the air so quiet it muffled even the city's usual hum. Most of the team had long since gone to bed, scattered across rooms in various stages of guilt-laced exhaustion, but Ming hadn't moved. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, back straight, shoulders relaxed, staring out into the hush of falling snow with the stillness of a man who had seen too much and learned long ago how to carry the weight of it in silence.
The balcony door opened without a sound.
Sicheng stepped out, not saying anything at first. Just stood beside him, his own hands shoved into the pockets of his black hoodie, breath rising in faint white puffs as he tilted his head up to the sky. The silence stretched, comfortable in its heaviness, broken only by the whisper of snow landing against the railing.
"I didn't see it," Sicheng said quietly, not looking over.
"No one's perfect," Ming answered.
"No," Sicheng murmured, "but I should've seen it. I've watched her closer than anyone for the past year. And I missed it."
"You trusted her to speak up," Ming said. "That's not the same as missing something."
Sicheng let the silence sit for a long moment, then, finally, he glanced over. "She's special."
"Yeah," Ming said, his voice low. "She always has been."
There was something in his tone, something deeper, shaded with time and quiet history—that made Sicheng pause. But Ming didn't offer anything more. He just kept his eyes on the snowfall, gaze steady.
"She's got a lot of people watching out for her now," Sicheng said eventually, not a statement but a quiet vow.
Ming nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I know," he said. "But even if she didn't, I'd still be here."
No handshake.
No raised voices.
Just that.
And it was enough.
Both men stood there for another minute in the still cold, two shadows side by side against the white glow of snowlight, protectors drawn by different paths but bound by the same resolve.
When they stepped back into the warmth of the lounge, Lao K was sitting up on the far couch, rubbing his eyes, half-draped in a blanket that had probably been Pang's earlier. He blinked once. Then squinted at Ming."You said something earlier," he muttered, voice still gravelly from sleep. "When you went full Ice Emperor on Yue."
Ming arched a brow.
"That you've known Yao since she was barely more than a kid," Lao K continued, his brow furrowing slightly. "But none of us thought you met her until she joined the team last year. At twenty-two."
At that, everyone else, Pang, who had stirred awake again and was pretending not to listen, Yue from where he was lurking at the kitchen threshold with a can of soda, and Mao, who'd wandered in shirtless and bleary-eyed, all turned their eyes on Ming.
Sicheng remained quiet, leaning against the wall beside the door, but his gaze sharpened.
Ming didn't flinch. "She didn't want anyone to know," he said simply. "Yao made that clear when she applied to join ZGDX."
"Wait," Pang said, sitting up straighter. "Applied? You're telling me you two—what, knew each other for years, and she still went through the full process?"
Ming nodded. "Every step."
"But how far back are we talking?" Lao Mao asked, crossing his arms.
Ming folded his arms across his chest, voice even. "She was fourteen. Quiet. Smarter than most of the adults around her. She found an online mentor forum for game development. I was one of the admins there—used to coach early-stage players, help refine mechanics, fix micro habits. She caught my attention because she kept breaking every path I laid out and building better ones."
"You're kidding," Lao K said under his breath.
"She went by a different name then. Different handle. Not 'Smiling.' That came later. She created it when she made the decision to try for the pro leagues. She didn't want any connections. Said she wanted to earn her place the same way everyone else did—by outplaying them. She didn't want me recommending her. Didn't want the name to mean anything."
"And you respected that?" Yue asked, incredulous.
Ming's mouth tilted faintly. "Of course I did."
Sicheng's voice was quiet when it entered the conversation. "That's why she didn't tell me about you. She thought it would change things."
Ming nodded once. "She wanted her path to be hers. Clean. Earned. She knew what it would mean if people thought she only made the team because of me."
"And you let her," Lao K said, half in disbelief.
"I trusted her," Ming replied. "Still do."
The room fell silent again, not with judgment or discomfort, but something else—something like respect. Because that kind of loyalty didn't come from convenience. It came from knowing someone's worth long before the world ever caught up. And it was now very clear to every member of ZGDX. Yao hadn't just walked into this team with skill. She had built her own damn road to it. And the man who'd once coached her from a distance, who now stood at the helm of their team, hadn't just been a guide. He'd been a guardian and he still was.
The silence that had lingered in the aftermath of Ming's quiet revelations held firm for another beat, one of those weighted, heavy silences that pressed on the skin and made the air feel thicker than it should've been. No one moved. No one breathed too loudly. Lao K looked as though a thousand pieces were shifting into place all at once in his head. Pang's brows had creased so far they practically touched. Yue was frowning—not his usual smirking, baiting expression, but something sharper, something more serious. And Mao, still half-asleep and shirtless, had crossed his arms with a furrowed look that said he was listening more intently than anyone gave him credit for.
Ming exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair, a rare moment of vulnerability flickering across his usually unreadable expression. His fingers lingered at the back of his neck, and then he dropped his hand, straightening slightly before locking eyes with Rui, who had been standing by the edge of the room all this time, quiet but absorbing every single word like the manager he was, thorough, observant, and impossibly hard to rattle. "The cat's out of the bag," he said, his voice low but unshakably steady. "So I might as well finish it."
Rui's brow rose ever so slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
Ming's eyes didn't leave his. "We're going to need to update her registration. Legal paperwork, too. Because the name on her ZGDX contract—the name she submitted as 'Tong Yao'—isn't the one that should be there." At that, Rui's mouth opened, but Ming was already continuing. "Her real surname is Yu." The silence turned razor sharp. "She's Yu Yao," Ming said, each syllable clean and deliberate. "She's been using 'Tong' since she was sixteen. That was the name we came up with for her records when I took her in."
"You what?" Pang asked, his voice barely above a whisper, wide eyes blinking slowly as if trying to recalibrate everything he knew.
Ming turned to him, his gaze steady. "I adopted her. She was sixteen. Her parents disowned her after she refused to go along with a marriage contract they were trying to push—one with Jian Yang."
Sicheng's body, still leaning against the wall, tensed, sharp eyes suddenly colder than ice.
"She'd grown up with him," Ming continued. "He was her friend when they were little, but by the time they hit high school, she saw him for what he was. Unfaithful. Manipulative. He wanted the connection to her family name, and they were all too happy to sell her off for political ties. She said no. They gave her an ultimatum. She walked away."
"And you just… took her in?" Yue asked, voice unusually quiet.
"I didn't 'just' take her in," Ming said, his tone sharpening. "I was the only one she trusted enough to ask. She'd been gaming under her original handle in my dev circles for years by then. She didn't trust anyone else. She didn't have anyone else."
Rui inhaled, his hand moving slowly to adjust his glasses. "So all this time… the name we've been using…"
"A name she picked," Ming said. "Because she wanted to stand on her own. She didn't want anyone giving her credit for being my daughter. Or pity. Or connections. She wanted to be judged by her skills, her merit, her performance. Not her bloodline. Not her past."
"And that's why she applied the same way as everyone else," Lao K muttered, realization dawning fully now.
"She even made a new handle," Pang said. "Switched from the one she used before… didn't want anyone recognizing her."
"She didn't even tell me," Sicheng said, voice flat, but underneath the words there was something dark curling, something dangerous. "I've been with her for over a year."
Ming's expression softened just slightly. "She didn't want you to look at her differently. Didn't want you to see her as someone to be protected."
Yue scoffed quietly. "Too late for that."
Ming gave a faint, humorless smile. "She's stubborn like that. But I'm done pretending it doesn't matter. Because it does. Her name, her story, it matters. And if we're going to be a team, a real one, that means standing behind all of her. Even the parts she's tried to keep buried."
Rui, still quiet, finally nodded. "I'll start the paperwork. The league's legal team will need updated documents. We'll need to brief PR in case any of this leaks. We'll keep it quiet if that's what she still wants, but if it ever comes out, we'll be ready."
"She's Yu Yao," Ming said again, quietly this time. "She may go by 'Tong Yao' in the arena, but her name—the one that matters—is the one she made for herself. And she didn't earn her place here because of me." His gaze swept over the team. "She earned it because not a single one of you could outplay her when it counted."
Yue, who had been unusually silent for longer than any of them were used to, suddenly let out a groan loud enough to draw every pair of eyes back to him. He dragged a hand down his face like a man watching a slow-motion disaster unravel in real time. "Oh, no," he muttered into his palm. "No, no, hell no."
"What now?" Pang asked, eyeing him warily as if expecting Yue to blurt something completely insane, which, to be fair, was Yue's signature move.
But Ming had already crossed his arms and let out a dry snort, the kind that said he was already ten steps ahead of where Yue's mind had just landed."Don't encourage him," he warned without heat, his lips twitching at the corners.
"No, no, I refuse to be the only one thinking about this," Yue said as he straightened, pointing at everyone with slow, deliberate emphasis. "Our Salt Maiden… is now officially the Yu Heiress."
Another beat of silence.
And then—
Lao K blinked. "Wait. What?"
Yue flung his arms out. "The Yu Heiress. As in, that Yu family. First-tier, old money, government connections, economic powerhouses. The family that quietly funds entire tech districts and owns strategic shares in half the companies the league depends on. That family."
The entire room stilled.
Sicheng straightened slightly, his gaze narrowing as something old and unpleasant stirred in the back of his mind, a fragment of memory connecting to a name mentioned years ago in a closed-door meeting with other top-tier families. But he didn't interrupt.
Yue kept going. "And since we all know Coach Ming has zero plans to marry or reproduce—"
"Glad we're being blunt," Ming said with amusement, arching a brow.
"—and since he adopted her legally," Yue continued, ignoring the interruption, "that means Yao, our spicy, fiery, cutely terrifying Midlaner with a thing for takoyaki and stomping enemy lanes into the dirt, is now the sole heiress to another one of the most powerful families in China, besides the Lu family, mine and Cheng's family."
Lao Mao slowly turned his head toward Ming. "Is he right?"
"He's not wrong." Ming just shrugged with a neutral expression that held a touch of smugness.
Pang gaped. "Wait, so you're telling me that not only is she our Midlaner and the bane of Jian Yang's existence, but she's also a goddamn heiress to a first-tier empire?"
"She's been one since the day I signed those papers," Ming said, voice quiet, steady. "But Yao didn't want that life. Didn't want the power, the status, the expectations. She just wanted to earn her own place. So I kept it buried. Until now."
"And now," Yue said, throwing himself dramatically onto the couch, "we're going to have to deal with news outlets, headlines, matchmaking vultures, and probably Aunties trying to throw their sons at her like she's a damn royal debutante. Oh god, Cheng, our mother's going to kill you if she finds out you've been dating her and didn't know she was one of the few eligible women left on the god-tier list."
"She already suspects something," Sicheng said, unbothered, arms crossed as he leaned back against the wall. "And she likes her."
"Oh great," Yue groaned again. "This is it. This is how we all die. The next time Yao gets mad, she's not just the team's Midlaner. She's a Midlaner with financial clout and ancestral influence. She could probably shut down the league if she got bored enough."
"Don't be dramatic," Lao K muttered.
"I'm just saying," Yue added, eyes wide now with mock-horror, "We're living with a princess and none of us knew."
"She would hate that title," Ming said under his breath.
Sicheng's smirk was faint, but there. "Which is why no one will ever call her that."
Ming's voice dropped an octave, a warning lined with quiet gravity. "And no one says a word of this outside this room. She kept it private for a reason. If any of you breathe even half of it to the wrong person—"
"You'll bench us?" Yue guessed.
Ming's eyes glinted. "Worse. I'll let her deal with you."
The room collectively shivered.
"Right," Pang said, holding up both hands. "Mouth sealed. I like breathing."
"I like having a working wrist," Lao Mao added.
Sicheng said nothing. But the fire in his amber eyes, the way he glanced briefly toward the hallway leading to her room, told them all one very simple truth. Tong Yao may not have asked to be anyone's heiress. But she was. And now that the truth was out? He wasn't going to let anything touch her. Not even legacy.
Lao K, who had spent the past several minutes quietly nursing a protein drink while absorbing the bombshells being dropped like landmines, finally lifted his gaze with a thoughtful squint. "Does Jinyang know?" he asked, voice low, casual in tone but edged with the kind of curiosity that usually meant he was piecing together far more than he let on. "I mean, she's Yao's best friend, right?"
Ming's head snapped toward him so fast it was a wonder the air didn't ripple from the movement. "No," he said flatly, his tone dropping several degrees into something frigid and absolute. "And that was intentional."
The room went quiet again.
Even Yue blinked.
Lao Mao looked over from where he was now crouched by the coffee table, suddenly very, very still.
Pang made a low, cautious sound like a man backing away from a freshly lit stick of dynamite.
Sicheng, still leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, tilted his head faintly, now visibly paying attention.
Ming exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, before continuing. "I forbade her from telling Jinyang. Not because she doesn't trust her, but because that woman, for all her fire and loyalty, has the filter of a wet paper towel when she's pissed off—and a mouth that gets worse if there's so much as a drop of alcohol in her system."
"I mean, fair," Yue muttered.
Ming kept going, his tone tightening with every word. "And if she's upset? Especially about Yao? She doesn't just rant to thin air. No. She rants to Ai Jia."
"Oh shit," Pang whispered, catching on instantly.
Ming nodded once, slow and grim. "That boy may love her, but he doesn't have the sense god gave a rock when it comes to keeping his damn mouth shut. If he heard even a whisper about Yao being a Yu, he'd tell her she deserves the world, how Jian Yang lost his only real shot, and then, because he still thinks people can be reasoned with, he'd let it slip to someone else."
"And then that asshole shows up," Lao Mao finished, his jaw tightening. "Comes sniffing around again like he's got a right."
Ming's expression turned into something deadly calm. "If Jian Yang gets wind of this," he said slowly, voice cool and terrifying in its restraint, "he'll come crawling back, with some fake apology and plastic charm and his greedy little claws out, trying to worm his way into something he has no right to touch." His eyes darkened as he locked them on Lao K. "And then I'll have to kill him."
Yue snorted—only half-joking. "You say that like it's a hypothetical."
Ming didn't flinch. "It's not. I'll bury him in the backyard of one of our offshore properties and feed the paperwork to the incinerator. Then I'll frame it as a disappearance tied to his gambling debt in Macau and sleep like a goddamn baby."
Everyone stared at him.
Pang blinked slowly. "Coach, remind me never to make you angry."
"You already do. Daily," Ming said without missing a beat. "But you're not trying to take my kid."
Sicheng's lips twitched, just once, something unreadable behind his eyes.
Ming let out a sigh, ran both hands through his hair again, and shook his head. "I don't care how loyal Jinyang is. I don't care how many bodies she'd burn for Yao. She has a blind spot when she's emotional. And this? This can't slip. Not even once. Yao is mine to protect. That includes protecting her from having to relive that kind of betrayal all over again."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
And then Yue muttered, voice quiet and a little awed, "Goddamn. The old man really would go to war for her."
Ming just looked up, his expression hard, his words quiet but final. "She's my daughter. I already am."
The tension in the room had just begun to settle, the quiet heavy with the aftershock of Ming's declaration, when he turned his gaze—sharp, unflinching, and full of warning—toward the only man who hadn't flinched or spoken in the last several minutes.
Lu Sicheng.
The shift in the atmosphere was immediate. Pang sat up straighter, eyes darting between the two like he was watching a live feed of a bomb ticking down. Lao Mao froze mid-sip of his water. Yue, halfway through opening another soda, stopped altogether and slowly backed toward the kitchen, clearly debating whether to keep spectating or find somewhere safe to hide. Lao K just exhaled long and low like he'd seen this moment coming since the first time Sicheng had ever looked at Yao like she hung the stars.
Sicheng didn't move. Didn't flinch.
But Ming had already locked on. "You," he said, voice low and edged with the kind of calm that made even fire look tame. "You better listen to me very carefully, Lu Sicheng."
Sicheng raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
Ming took a step forward, and though he wasn't as tall, he might as well have been a mountain the way the room shifted around him. "If you ever—ever—hurt my kid," he said, each word clipped and steady and soaked in steel, "I will not come at you with words. I won't come at you with fines, team punishments, or reputation fallout. No. I will let Jinyang get to you first."
Yue's eyes went wide, and he whispered under his breath, "Oh, he's serious."
Ming kept going, completely ignoring the commentary. "I will let that terrifying woman, who once broke a man's nose with a wine bottle at her own birthday dinner, take her time. And when she's done? I'll dig the damn grave myself, personally, and bury you so deep your ancestors will need to send a search party." There was silence again. The kind that cracked like ice underfoot. Then, slowly, Ming's voice dropped, smooth and dangerous, but with something ancient in it, something final. "And when that time comes—if it ever comes—I won't feel a shred of guilt. Because I trusted you with something more important than my legacy. I trusted you with her."
Sicheng didn't look away. Didn't shift. Didn't defend himself. He just met that gaze and answered in a voice so calm it silenced the others before they could even think of speaking. "I know."
Ming narrowed his eyes, studying him. Then, after a moment, he gave a slow nod, one that carried the weight of a promise forged and sealed. "Then prove it," he said. "Do right by her. Protect her. And more than that…" Here his voice dipped into something just slightly amused, just slightly pointed. "I expect you to stop dragging your feet and present my Heiress with the Lu Intended Crest soon."
The silence that followed was broken only by Yue choking on his soda so violently that Pang had to slap his back.
Even Lao Mao sat forward now, wide-eyed.
Lao K leaned in with barely-contained curiosity.
And Lu Sicheng, to the astonishment of everyone in the room—including Rui, who had finally returned from making three separate phone calls and was now blinking at the doorway like he'd walked into a lion's den—didn't deny it. He didn't smirk. He didn't flinch. He simply said, quietly and without hesitation, "It's already being prepared."
Ming's jaw flexed once. Then he stepped back. "Good," he said, turning toward the hallway without another word. "Then maybe I won't need to bury you after all." And with that, he walked away.
Yue muttered faintly, "Okay, well, I need alcohol or prayer because that was the most terrifying 'father-in-law talk' I've ever witnessed in my life."
Lao K clapped him on the shoulder. "No, that wasn't a father-in-law talk," he said. "That was a blood oath. We're just lucky it ended without a duel."
The morning crept in quietly, the snow outside still falling in soft, patient drifts, blanketing the world in silence that filtered through the edges of the base like a lullaby meant to keep the storm from touching anything inside.
Inside her room, the air was warm, calm, and still.
Yao stirred. Her eyelashes fluttered first, brow furrowing slightly as she shifted beneath the thick covers, her head turning just enough on the pillow to catch sight of the tall form seated beside her bed—arms crossed, legs long and stretched out, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed but clearly not asleep.
Sicheng. Even in rest, there was something watchful about him, like his body refused to let go of its guard no matter how still the room was or how many hours he'd sat unmoving. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders weren't tense. They were patient. Settled. Like he'd intended to stay exactly like that for however long it took. She shifted again, and the faint sound—just the rustle of a blanket—was enough. His eyes opened instantly, sharp amber gaze locking onto her with the kind of immediate focus that sent warmth rising to her cheeks even before she could find the energy to speak. "Hey," she whispered, her voice dry and soft.
He didn't say anything at first. He simply rose from the chair in one quiet motion, crossing the narrow space between them with the grace of someone who moved like this was instinct, protective, steady, silent. The moment he reached the bed, he sank down onto the edge of the mattress beside her, one hand bracing lightly against the covers near her arm, the other reaching up to brush a few stray strands of platinum hair from her temple. "You're awake," he murmured, voice low and warm in a way that wrapped around her like another blanket. "Finally."
She nodded, still groggy, her hazel eyes searching his. "You've been here…?"
"Since we brought you home," he said quietly, thumb grazing the edge of her cheek. "Ming set everything up. I haven't moved from this room except to let the others check in and threaten my life."
She blinked slowly. "Threaten you?"
He nodded. "Pang said if I didn't make you soup he'd tell your cat I was bullying you. Yue offered to send me a bouquet for the funeral. And Ming…" He trailed off.
She tilted her head weakly. "What did Ming say?"
There was a beat of hesitation.
Then, smoothly, as if the words had already been waiting, he answered, "That if I ever hurt you, he'd let Jinyang take her time torturing me before he buried me himself."
Yao blinked again. Then groaned faintly. "He would say that."
"He did," Sicheng confirmed, his lips curling slightly at the memory. "And then he told me something else."
She looked at him warily, unsure whether she wanted to know or not. "What?"
His hand shifted, curling around hers gently where it rested on the blanket.
"He told me," he said softly, "that I'm expected to present his Heiress with the Lu Intended Crest."
Her breath caught. Her eyes widened just slightly, just enough to betray that she knew exactly what he meant. "Sicheng…" she whispered.
But he leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, his voice low and certain and unwavering. "It's already being made."
She stared at him, heart pounding now for reasons entirely different than fever or weakness. Her fingers tightened around his. "You're serious."
"I've never been more serious," he murmured. "You scared the hell out of me. But it made me realize, I don't want another damn second passing where the world doesn't know exactly who you belong to."
She flushed, cheeks blooming with color. "You don't own me."
"I know," he said softly. "But I'd still like the world to know you're mine… and I'm yours."
Yao swallowed hard, her voice barely audible now. "And Ming's… okay with that?"
He laughed under his breath. "He gave his blessing. Right after threatening to dismember me. I think that's as close to approval as I'll ever get."
She huffed a small breath, part laugh, part exhale of emotion, her eyes softening as she looked at him. "You stayed the whole night?"
"I'm staying until you kick me out," he said simply, adjusting the blanket over her and shifting to lie carefully beside her, on top of the covers, his presence a steady warmth at her side.
She didn't protest. Instead, she turned slightly into him, her head resting near his shoulder, her hand still in his. "Good," she whispered. "Because I think I want you to stay."
His fingers tightened gently around hers. "I will."
The room had gone still in that quiet, intimate way that existed only in the spaces between heartbeats, when words stopped being just sounds and began to take on weight, shape, and permanence.
Yao hadn't moved much, still tucked beneath the thick comforter, her hand in his, her body slowly gathering strength again after the storm that had crashed through her only hours before. But her eyes, deep and piercing despite the exhaustion still lingering around their edges—never wavered. They were watching him. Studying him. Reading every flicker of emotion on his face with the same ruthless precision she brought to the Rift. And then, with all the sharp, serene control of someone who'd spent her whole life learning how to be underestimated, she spoke. "So… you already know."
Sicheng's head tilted slightly, but he didn't pretend to misunderstand. He just nodded once. "Yeah. Ming told us."
She exhaled slowly through her nose, more resigned than surprised, then locked her gaze onto his with the kind of unshakable calm that came not from fragility but from choice. "Then you should also know," she said, voice gaining strength with every syllable, "that I've already sent the design request to the smith, a while ago and it should actually be here today." He stilled. Her tone didn't rise. Didn't falter. "I'm having the Yu crest made for you."
Sicheng's brows lifted slightly, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth, but he didn't interrupt her. Because something in her eyes, fierce, unyielding, laced with quiet fire, warned him this wasn't a conversation to derail with teasing or pride. This was Yao, not the Midlaner, not the girl who flustered at compliments or threw pillows when teased but the Heiress. And she was no longer hiding.
"I don't care what gets said online," she continued, her voice steady and sharp with conviction. "I don't care how far this spreads or how quickly. I'm not Tong Yao anymore—not legally, not publicly. I'm Yu Yao. And that name means something now. To the media. To the league. To anyone who ever thought I was just some girl who slipped through the cracks." She paused, letting that truth settle in the air between them like the first chime of a warning bell. "If they're going to know who I am," she said, eyes never leaving his, "then they're going to know who you are to me."
Sicheng didn't move at first, but something burned quietly behind his eyes, something deep, something fierce. "So you expect me to wear your family's crest?"
"I know you're going to wear it," she corrected calmly. "Because I wore yours. I fought under your banner. I followed you into matches, into team battles, into hell and back. And now it's your turn."She lifted her chin, regal even lying down, her voice softer now but no less commanding. "You said you wanted the world to know I was yours." Her fingers tightened just slightly around his. "Well, then, Lu Sicheng. Time to show them that you're mine, too."
Sicheng stared at her for a long, heavy moment, something unreadable flickering across his expression. His thumb traced slowly over her knuckles, the gesture subtle but reverent, the quiet admiration in his gaze no longer masked. Then, voice low and filled with quiet gravity, he answered, "You give it to me, Yao, and I'll wear it every day for the rest of my life."
She smiled, small, calm, certain. Because she already knew that he would.
The rest of the base had clearly come to some kind of silent, collective agreement that they were not going to bombard Yu Yao—formerly and, in some circles, still known as Tong Yao—the morning after her collapse.
They were going to be casual.
Subtle.
Respectful.
Which, of course, meant that ZGDX's finest had devolved into the single worst parade of fake nonchalance the gaming world had ever seen.
It started with Pang, who "just so happened" to be mopping the hallway floor outside her room at 9 a.m. Never mind that he hadn't voluntarily touched a mop in three years. He whistled loudly, off-key, the moment she opened her door to pad toward the kitchen in Sicheng's oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks.
"Oh hey, Salt—uh—Yao! Didn't see you there! Fancy meeting you in this hallway that I totally mop every Wednesday."
"It's Saturday," she said flatly, not even breaking stride.
Lao Mao followed twenty minutes later, crouched by the shoe rack, claiming to "fix a loose screw in the baseboard" despite the fact he was holding an IKEA Allen wrench and facing the entirely wrong wall.
Lao K appeared next, coffee in hand, casually leaning against the kitchen counter as she walked in. "You want breakfast? Because I was just about to make congee. Been craving it all morning. Not because you're here or sick or secretly a high-society heiress or anything."
Yue, perched dramatically on the arm of the couch with a bowl of cereal, nodded solemnly. "Yeah, totally normal morning. We're not weird. You're weird."
She stared at each of them, unblinking, sipping the warm ginger tea Sicheng had handed her like she was giving them time to correct themselves. None of them did. They smiled too wide. Stood too straight. Talked too fast. And pretended just hard enough not to be pretending. And that's when she turned, eyes narrowing, voice low with unmistakable menace. "You all know."
All four men froze.
Yue, to his credit, tried to play dumb. "Know what?"
"Don't insult my intelligence," she replied sweetly.
Lao K muttered something in defeat. Pang choked on the mop handle. Mao let out a strangled sound that might have been a whimper. Yue reached for his phone like he was about to text his will.
The sound of a door opening behind her made her spin on her heel with the grace of someone already ten steps ahead.
Ming had stepped into the hallway, coffee in hand, hair still slightly damp from a shower, wearing that same infuriatingly composed expression that always made her twitch.
She stared at him. He blinked once. And with no warning—no preamble—she launched the throw pillow from the nearby couch straight at his face with sniper-level precision. It hit with a soft but satisfying thwump right between the eyes. The coffee didn't even spill.
"OW—what the hell!" Ming barked, staggering a step back more from surprise than pain.
"You old man!" she called, her voice high with indignation and vengeance. "You told them before I woke up?!"
He lowered the pillow slowly, expression deadpan, but his eyes sparkled faintly with amusement. "Correction: I told them after you passed out. And someone had to fill them in before one of them started a conspiracy theory group chat."
"Still! I didn't even get to tell them myself!"
"Yao," Ming sighed, "half of them thought you were a retired assassin for two months. They needed clarification."
She folded her arms with a pout, cheeks flushed. "You're lucky you're ancient or I'd fight you."
"I raised you, you menace."
"And this is the thanks you get," she shot back, already reaching for another pillow.
Yue snorted so hard he nearly inhaled his cereal. "God, she really is the Yu Heiress. Power, wrath, and a pitching arm that could kill."
Sicheng, leaning in the kitchen doorway with arms crossed, watched all of it with a quiet, simmering smile as he said to no one in particular, "I am very proud right now at the throw."
Ming, wiping pillow fuzz from his shirt, muttered, "She was a nightmare at sixteen. She's a tyrant now."
Yao smiled brightly at him, sweet and full of bite. "And don't you forget it, Dad."
The silence that followed that word was deafening.
Ming's eyes snapped to hers. The others slowly, carefully, looked away like they'd accidentally witnessed something private. But Ming just stared at her, something behind his expression shifting—softening—until his hand came up and he ruffled her hair the way he always had when she was younger, a low breath slipping out. "About damn time you said it." Ming's hand remained on top of her head, fingers ruffling her already-messy hair like she was still the scrappy, sharp-tongued teenager who had stomped into his life twelve years ago and made herself at home before he could think twice about it. The fondness in his eyes was unmistakable, steady and deep in that way only Ming could manage—like nothing had ever really changed, like she was still his girl no matter how old or how terrifyingly capable she had become.
But Yao's narrowed eyes sharpened to slits. Her lips pursed and then, sweet as poisoned sugar, she drawled, "Touch my hair again, old man, and I'm going to bite you."
Ming paused mid-ruffle, glancing down at her with a brow lifted in dry challenge. "You already threw a pillow at my face. Are we escalating now?"
She nodded primly, absolutely unrepentant. "Yes. We are."
He gave a short laugh. "You're serious."
"Oh, I'm dead serious," she replied, tone innocent but eyes gleaming. "Just like when I was fourteen, and you covered my mouth in the middle of that café when I told off that jerk trying to cheat in Ranked. Remember that?"
Ming froze.
The room, once again, went deathly still.
Yue immediately ducked behind the counter like he sensed incoming violence.
Pang half-raised his arms in self-defense.
Sicheng, from the kitchen doorway, tilted his head with amused curiosity, eyes flicking between them like he was watching a particularly juicy match unfold.
"I warned you," she went on, voice rising with satisfaction, "not to touch my mouth. You did it anyway. So I bit you. Right on the damn thumb."
"You drew blood!" Ming burst out.
"You deserved it!" she snapped back, rising slightly from the couch to jab an accusatory finger at him. "That idiot was talking trash, trying to bait me into losing MMR, and you had the audacity to clamp my mouth like I was going to cause a scene?!"
"You were causing a scene!"
"I was winning the argument!"
Sicheng let out a soft snort, clearly enjoying himself far more than he should.
Ming scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering to no one in particular, "She's the same damn nightmare she was twelve years ago. Just a little taller. And more dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic," Yao huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder with entirely too much flair to support her claim. "I'm memorable. And you, Dad, are still lucky I didn't bite you harder." She reached out and smacked his hand away from her head with the grace of someone who'd been doing it for years.
Ming narrowed his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it—just that familiar exasperation tinged with pride that only someone who'd raised her could wear so well. "You bite me again," he said dryly, "and I'm sending you to live with Jinyang."
Yao went still.
The room went dead quiet.
Even Sicheng's smirk twitched.
She narrowed her eyes, deadly calm. "That's child abuse."
Ming gave her a look. "So is drawing blood over a coaching mistake."
"That wasn't coaching. That was tyranny."
"That was restraint."
"I was restrained. I only bit once."
"You're impossible."
"You adopted me," she sang, smug and triumphant.
"Don't remind me."
"Oh, I will. Every day. Especially when I change the WiFi password."
Ming groaned and turned to leave, muttering, "I'm going to fake my death next week. Maybe disappear into the Alps."
Yue, peeking up from the other side of the counter, deadpanned, "Take me with you."
Sicheng chuckled low in his throat and walked over to drape an arm lightly over Yao's shoulders, pulling her gently back to rest against his side on the couch as she beamed, pleased with herself and victorious as always. He bent close to her ear. "You really bit him?"
"Right on the thumb," she whispered, smug. "He screamed like a cartoon character."
"I love you so much," he murmured back.
"I know."
Ming had only just reached the end of the hallway, rubbing his temple like the beginnings of a stress headache were threatening to bloom right behind his left eye—no doubt caused by the tiny chaos demon currently smirking triumphantly on the couch—when he paused, turned on his heel, and looked over his shoulder with all the calm of a man about to toss someone under a bus and then reverse to make sure the job was done. His voice, deceptively casual, carried effortlessly across the lounge. "Oh, by the way, kiddo—" he drawled, the word laced in deliberate sweetness that made Yao's head tilt suspiciously.
"Yes, Dad?" she echoed, sweet as honey.
Ming's smile was all teeth.
"Your precious Lu Yue," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the man still crouched behind the counter like a raccoon caught hoarding stolen snacks, "was implying not even twelve hours ago that I was being suspiciously sweet on you."
Yue's head popped up like a terrified prairie dog.
Yao blinked once. Then slowly—very slowly—turned to look at her boyfriend's younger brother, her face the picture of calm danger, one brow arching upward like a queen awaiting a confession that would determine whether or not there would be an execution. "Oh?" she said smoothly.
Yue's face drained of color. "I was joking!" he squeaked, hands raised like that would shield him from what was coming. "It was comedic timing, okay?! And it wasn't even creepy sweet, it was just 'Coach is acting kinda dad-like' sweet! Totally innocent observation! No harm meant!"
"You implied Ming Shen—my father—was sweet on me," Yao repeated slowly, voice dangerously light.
Pang started backing away, muttering, "I want no part in this homicide."
Lao Mao choked on his water.
Lao K took out his phone and silently opened the memo app like he was preparing to record a confession.
Ming just folded his arms, leaned against the wall, and nodded sagely. "See, this is why I said he should be benched for a season. Or tossed into a river. Possibly both."
"I WAS JOKING," Yue yelped. "I WAS MOURNING IN ADVANCE! YOU TERRIFIED ME! YOU LITERALLY THREATENED TO BURY SICHENG, MY BROTHER!"
"I wasn't joking," Ming said mildly.
Yao picked up the same pillow she'd used earlier and weighed it in her hand like she was testing aerodynamics.
Yue's eyes widened. "You wouldn't."
"I bit Ming," Yao said serenely, "for less."
"Oh god—!"
She launched the pillow.
Yue ducked behind the couch, yelping like a kicked puppy, and then popped back up with wild eyes and flattened hair. "You people are violent!"
"And you're stupid," Ming called helpfully. "See how that works?"
"Mutiny!" Yue declared, pointing at everyone in the room. "This is an abusive household!"
Sicheng, who had long since settled back into his spot with Yao tucked under his arm like nothing about this chaos surprised him anymore, just took a sip of his coffee. "Shut up, Yue," he said mildly.
"You shut up! She's going to make you wear a crest next!"
"I already agreed."
Yue stared. Then slumped to the floor, dramatically holding his heart. "I'm surrounded by lunatics in love."
"Correction," Yao said sweetly, holding another pillow in threatening reach, "you're surrounded by people who don't want to murder the atmosphere with terrible jokes."
Ming looked positively delighted with himself.
"Are we done?" Rui called from the hallway, having heard far too much already.
"No," Yue mumbled from the floor. "We're all going to die when the courier arrives."
"The what?" Yao asked.
Right on cue—
Ding-dong.
Every head in the room turned toward the front door.
Sicheng, still calm as ever, set his cup down slowly. "That," he murmured, "would be the crest."
The chime of the doorbell still hung in the air like the fading notes of a dramatic soundtrack, but Yao—despite her earlier fire and sharp-edged wit—had begun to wilt. The flush of victory from verbally body-slamming Yue was fading fast, her eyelids growing heavier, her limbs loose and tired beneath the oversized hoodie she wore. Even with Sicheng's arm steady around her shoulders, she had started to lean more heavily into his side, her breath slowing in that familiar rhythm of someone who was only barely staying awake through sheer willpower.
Sicheng felt the shift instantly. He didn't say anything—he didn't need to. With the same fluid grace that always defined his movements in and out of the game, he shifted, one arm sliding under her knees, the other around her shoulders, lifting her into his arms with quiet ease. She didn't protest. She just curled against his chest, her arms tucked close as her cheek pressed into the curve of his collarbone, her breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.
The team went silent again, but this time with something soft threaded through the air, something reverent.
He carried her toward the long couch, settling down carefully with her in his lap, one arm still cradling her against him, the other reaching for a throw pillow which he positioned behind her shoulders for extra support. She was limp against him now, her body drained and warm, her lashes fluttering shut without resistance as she gave in to the comfort of his presence.
Ming reappeared a moment later without a word, moving with purpose. In his arms was a weighted, heated blanket, the deep plum one Yao kept folded in her closet and only ever used when she was truly down for the count. He didn't hand it off. He knelt, draped it gently across her lap and legs, tucking it around her sides, his hands moving with the ease of long practice. The weight settled around her like a cocoon, warm and grounding, and only then did she shift, a faint murmur escaping her lips as she exhaled into Sicheng's chest.
"...thank you," she whispered without opening her eyes.
Ming didn't answer at first. Then he murmured, barely above a breath, "Rest, menace. The war can wait."
Yue, hovering a few feet away with the courier boxes now in hand, looked like he wanted to say something but one glance at the picture in front of him shut his mouth instantly.
Yao, curled up in Sicheng's arms like she had always belonged there.
Sicheng, his head bowed toward hers, brushing a kiss against her temple with a tenderness that didn't need words.
Ming, sitting back on his heels beside them, protective and still, one hand resting on the edge of the blanket like he was anchoring her there.
And for once, the rest of the team didn't tease, didn't joke, didn't stir chaos. They just watched. Because Yu Yao, Heiress, Midlaner, daughter, nightmare, brilliance incarnate, was safe, wrapped in her legacy, her bond, and the quiet, fierce love that protected her from all sides.
Yue, for once uncharacteristically quiet, stepped forward slowly, both boxes held carefully in his hands like he was cradling sacred artifacts instead of luxury commissions that had arrived in sleek, deep navy velvet and silver-trimmed packaging. His gaze flicked briefly to Yao—curled small and still in Sicheng's arms beneath the weight of her heated blanket, her breathing soft and slow, before he turned and held out the boxes with a solemnity that didn't need to be faked. No smugness. No sarcasm. Just silent understanding.
Sicheng nodded once and reached out with his free hand, taking both without a word. Yao didn't stir, but she shifted slightly in his lap, fingers curling in the front of his hoodie like she could sense something was happening.
Ming, still crouched beside the couch, leaned forward slightly and watched as Sicheng set one box on the coffee table and opened the other with careful fingers.
The first revealed the Yu crest.
A medallion of brushed silver inlaid with onyx, the family's stylized phoenix rising through the center, wings curled around a cluster of jade, a symbol of rebirth, strength, and endurance, tempered through fire. The reverse was etched with the Yu family motto in elegant, uncompromising characters: "Through fire, we rise. Through loyalty, we endure."
Ming's lips twitched faintly, eyes sharpening with something quiet and proud. "She had this commissioned with your initials engraved into the edge," he murmured to Sicheng without looking away. "She didn't want it to be just from her. She wanted it to be hers to give. That's different."
Sicheng glanced down at the medallion and said nothing for a long moment. Then, with the same deliberate calm he always wore when taking on a carry-heavy match, he pressed the box lid closed and moved to the second. This one was smaller, narrower.
Ming watched closely as the second lid lifted—only to exhale softly when the interior was revealed.
Inside sat the Lu Intended cuff. Not just any design. This one bore the distinctive black-and-silver interwoven metalwork of the Lu bloodline crest, but it had been refined—personalized—with a sleek band of deep violet carved along the inner edge, a quiet nod to the shade most closely associated with Yao. The motto, etched along the interior in sharp, clean characters, read: "Legacy demands strength. Honor demands truth."
Ming made a low sound of approval under his breath, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Didn't think you'd go with that one," he said, his tone carrying rare warmth. "But it fits. It's not just a symbol. It's a vow."
Sicheng glanced at him, then back at the cuff. "It is," he agreed quietly. "And she deserves one."
"Then don't wait too long to give it," Ming said, his voice a shade lower. "She may be tired now, but she'll remember this day. Don't let her remember it without knowing she's yours."
"I won't," Sicheng murmured, brushing a fingertip gently down the curve of Yao's temple as she shifted, still asleep. "She'll know."
Ming stood, gave one last look to the medallion, then turned to go. "Good," he said over his shoulder. "Because next time you make her cry, I won't start with threats. I'll start with a shovel."
Yue immediately made a choking noise from the hallway.
Pang whispered, "God, he means it."
Lao Mao muttered, "Yao's got a whole death squad."
And Sicheng, never looking away from the girl in his arms, simply closed the second box with reverent precision, because both pieces weren't just tokens. They were truths and soon, they would be worn.
The afternoon sun had long since risen beyond the snow clouds, casting a soft, muted light through the frosted windows of the ZGDX base. Outside, the world was blanketed in silence, untouched and white, the air still heavy with the weight of winter—but inside, time moved slowly, gently.
Yao stirred beneath the comforting heaviness of her heated blanket, her body still exhausted but no longer fighting to breathe. Warmth cocooned her, but what woke her wasn't discomfort. It was presence. She blinked her eyes open slowly, adjusting to the calm glow of the room—and immediately found herself greeted by the steady gaze of Lu Sicheng, seated beside her on the couch, one arm resting on the back of the cushions, the other curled loosely across his lap. He wasn't on his phone. He wasn't checking messages. He was simply watching her. Waiting. Her eyes dropped slightly.
Two boxes sat neatly on the coffee table in front of her. The one on the left was midnight blue with polished edges—her crest. The Yu family medallion that carried the bloodline she had once tried to outrun but had finally, firmly, chosen to reclaim. The other was smaller, deeper in tone, a velvet black box bearing the Lu Intended cuff—a piece that had never belonged to any woman before her.
She sat up slowly, her fingers brushing over the edge of the blanket, and Sicheng moved immediately, his hand catching the back of her shoulder to steady her with a touch that was both instinctual and reverent. He didn't speak. Not yet. And Yao, her chest lifting slightly with a steady breath, reached forward without hesitation. Her fingers curled around the Yu crest box. She opened it. Lifted the medallion with both hands. And without so much as a pause, she leaned forward, the chain sliding through her fingers with the fluid grace of decision already made.
Sicheng lowered his head slightly, not needing to be told. The cool metal touched his skin, and she fastened it behind his neck with delicate precision, her fingers brushing against his nape before she let them drop. When he sat back, the weight of it settled just above his heart, the blackened silver and jade crest a stark contrast to the charcoal of his hoodie. It looked right. It looked perfect. His eyes met hers—no questions, no jokes, just something deeper.
And then she moved again. Still silent, still steady, she shifted beneath the blanket, lifting her right arm and extending it toward him. Her wrist was bare. Her fingers, though still delicate with the faint tremble of recovery, were sure. Her hazel eyes met his with a softness that burned. "I want you to put it on," she said quietly. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you. This… this is me choosing you back."
Sicheng didn't speak. He couldn't—not immediately. Because everything in him went still. Not with fear. Not with shock. But with that bone-deep, soul-splitting awareness that this moment—this—wasn't just a step forward. It was everything. He reached forward, picked up the second box with hands as careful as a man handling fate itself, and opened it. The Lu Intended cuff gleamed in the softened light—black and silver wrapped with deep violet, the family motto etched inside like a promise written in stone. He slipped it out and with slow, reverent motion, he clasped it around her wrist. It locked into place with a quiet click. She didn't look away. Neither did he. And for a long breath, the world went utterly still. Then, voice low and steady, Sicheng finally spoke. "You're mine now."
She nodded. "I always was."
And in that single moment—without an audience, without a camera, without a single soul beyond these walls watching—they weren't just a Captain and his Midlaner.
They were claimed.
They were chosen.
And they were sealed.
Notes:
Author's Note: The Muse would like to say that all comments, even small ones, are very much welcomed and they very much enjoy reading them!
The Muse says we're are taking request if anyone once to see a closer friendship/relationship between Yao and someone else!