Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 123
The day before the cultural event, a sudden crisis struck. When the team conducted a final inspection of the costumes, They found that the African totem embroidery on the main dress - a cheongsam that combined Banarsi silk and seaweed metal thread - had begun to wear out.The gold thread outlining the tribal sun pattern, which Lin had specially blended with Ethiopian shimma techniques, was lifting from the silk, as if rejecting the fabric beneath it.
"This is a disaster," Lin muttered, her fingers hovering over the damaged area. The embroidery had taken three master craftsmen a full week to complete, using a combination of Chinese suo xiu (lockstitch) and African kente weaving methods. "The metal threads are reacting to the silk's natural oils. We didn't account for the humidity in the venue."
Su Yao's heart sank as she examined the frays. The main costume was set to open the show, a centerpiece featuring a Chinese phoenix whose wings merged into African adinkra symbols—representing resilience and unity. If it failed, the entire collection's message of cultural harmony would ring hollow.
That night, the team worked in the venue's backstage area, surrounded by racks of costumes and spools of thread. The air hummed with tension as they laid the damaged cheongsam on a table, its silk shimmering under the fluorescent lights. "We need a way to bond the threads without damaging the silk," Su Yao said, recalling the lessons from their global journey. "What if we use the ghee and resin mixture from Rajasthan? It's waterproof and flexible."
Lin nodded, rummaging through their emergency kit of traditional adhesives—leftover from their India trip. Meanwhile, Fiona pored over photos of the African tribe's body paint, noting how the elders had sealed pigments with animal fat. "We can reinforce the edges with tiny zari knots," she suggested, pointing to the Banarasi gold threads. "Like the way they secure patterns in Turkish kilims."
As midnight approached, the team worked in silence, their hands moving with the muscle memory of a hundred workshops. Su Yao applied the ghee-resin mixture with a bamboo brush, her movements steady as she'd learned in Oaxaca. Lin tied zari knots around the frayed edges, her fingers mimicking the precision of Japanese yuzen dyeing. Fiona added small stitches in indigo thread, recalling the Sámi weavers' technique of repairing lávvu covers.
At dawn, the cheongsam lay restored, the sun totem now glowing with a new depth—the metal threads anchored by invisible knots, the silk unmarked by their intervention. "It's stronger than before," Lin said, running a finger over the embroidery. "The different techniques… they complement each other."
The next evening, as the first model stepped onto the runway, the audience gasped. The cheongsam flowed like water, its phoenix wings unfurling to reveal adinkra symbols that seemed to shift color under the lights—thanks to the seaweed-metal threads' unique properties. When the model turned, the crowd erupted in applause: the frayed area, now reinforced, caught the light like a constellation, a subtle reminder of the collaboration that had saved it.
After the show, an elderly African diplomat approached Su Yao, his eyes shining. "That sun symbol—my grandmother used to draw it on my childhood clothes," he said. "And the phoenix… it reminds me of the stories my Chinese teacher told me. You've made them dance together."
Nearby, a Chinese textile scholar examined a costume inspired by Andean wayanaq, its patterns woven with seaweed threads from Jeju. "This is how traditions survive," she said to Su Yao. "Not in glass cases, but in the hands of those who dare to mend them."
As the team packed their kits, Su Yao's phone buzzed with messages from their global network: Astrid in Norway had used their seaweed-silk blend to make a coat for the Sámi parliament; Meera in India was teaching girls to weave with metal threads; Yeonmi in Jeju had sent photos of a new gudeul cloth featuring Chinese cloud patterns.
"We didn't just create costumes," Su Yao said, smiling at her team. "We built a language."
Outside, the night sky over Beijing was clear, the stars visible even through the city lights. Somewhere, a thread had been tied, and a story continued—woven from a hundred cultures, mended with a thousand hands, and glowing with the light of a shared future.