# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 93"
The autumn sun gilded the steppes of Mongolia, where yurts dotted the grassland like white mushrooms. Su Yao's jeep stopped near a herd of horses, and in front of a yurt, a group of women sat on felt rugs, their hands rolling wool into thick threads. Their leader, 58-year-old Bolormaa, held up a finished *ger deel*—a traditional robe lined with felt, embroidered with blue and green patterns. "This keeps us warm through *zud* (winter storms)," she said in Mongolian, her voice carrying the wind's edge.
For Mongolian herders, felt-making is survival and heritage. Wool from yaks and sheep is boiled, rolled, and pressed to make *gerts* (yurt coverings) and clothing, with motifs of wolves (courage) and the Eternal Blue Sky (divine protection). "Each thread holds the spirit of the steppe," Bolormaa's granddaughter Altan, 22, explained, showing a deel stitched with horse tracks (freedom).
Su Yao's team arrived with seaweed-metal fibers, hoping to add durability to the felt. But when Lin displayed a machine-pressed sample, Bolormaa's husband Tseren, a weathered herder with a eagle feather in his hat, grunted. "Felt needs human breath to live," he said, pushing the fabric away. "Your metal makes it dead."
Trouble came when early snowstorms killed half the sheep, leaving little wool. "The sky is angry with your foreign things," Tseren said, as women stared at empty wool piles. With winter approaching, the community faced freezing without new felt.
Su Yao knelt beside Bolormaa as she sorted sparse wool. "We'll help gather every strand," she said. Over weeks, the team helped shear surviving sheep and collect wild herbs for dye, while learning to roll felt by hand. Lin mixed metal fibers with yak wool and lanolin, making them bond with felt.
Fiona designed a pattern: wolves running alongside ocean waves, stitched with the blend. "It honors your steppe and our sea," she said. Bolormaa traced the design, nodding. "The sky will smile," she said.
As the first snow fell, their collaborative deel hung in the yurt, metal threads catching the firelight. When Su Yao left, Altan pressed a small felt square into her hand—a tiny wolf beside a wave. "Our winds now carry the same stories," she said.