Perspective: Zhuge Su Yeon
There were no more problems.
That's exactly how I felt when my mother — the most determined matchmaker in the North — finally decided to take her personal committee of models out of my courtyard.
It had been a spectacular scene, in both the worst and best sense of the word.
Dozens of girls left one by one, the sound of silk and soft footsteps blending with the cold breeze, as if even the wind hesitated to interrupt that parade. Some still threw me discreet glances; others, bolder ones, winked — smiles that seemed to say, "Just say the word, and we'll stay."
And I was almost certain that if I did say that word, they would have.
Even if I decided to invite more than one.
But the only one I actually wanted to stay… was leaving with them.
The little brat fate had given me as a fiancée.
Bai Xuan Hua glided across the lawn as if the ground existed only out of courtesy. The fabric of her dress moved in waves, as though it had a will of its own. And when she turned her face for the last time — just enough to give me that almost innocent smile, the kind that said "stay alone and miserable" — I knew I'd lost the battle before it even began.
For a moment, I considered running after her.
Imagined her furious in my arms, demanding her freedom while I laughed and carried her back inside like a new trophy.
But, like so many other good ideas, that one stayed where all good ideas live — in the safe realm of imagination.
So I simply watched until the last veil disappeared between the ice pillars and the courtyard returned to what it had always been: silent.
The cold returned, and with it, peace.
A peace so dense it almost didn't feel real.
Indeed, I felt free of any problems.
To be honest, I wasn't sure I'd ever had a real one.
My ascension to the throne, for instance — something that should've been a civil war, or at least a string of theatrical assassinations — was anything but that.
It had happened like a change of shift.
My father, the magnificent scoundrel, simply handed me the empire.
Like a child growing bored of a toy and passing it to a younger sibling.
No rebellions, no bloodshed, no grand speeches about destiny or legacy.
He merely looked at me, smiled with that infuriating air of someone always two steps ahead, and vanished.
Just like that.
The old emperor was over eighty, yet his appearance was as young as mine.
Which, of course, made everything even more annoying.
Men like him don't die; they just get bored.
And when they get bored, they pass empires along — together with problems, concubines, and a collection of inherited enemies.
He left me a letter I was supposed to open at what he himself described as "the right moment."
And a much shorter note.
"Enjoy the throne — if you know what I mean."
I did know.
But honestly, I wasn't sure I could handle twenty-six wives like he did.
Nor did I know if I could ever match his distinguished legacy.
Thirty-four children, if I remembered correctly.
For me, that meant thirty-three siblings.
That was the most visible legacy the magnificent scoundrel had left behind — a living, noisy, and mostly useless inheritance. Six men and twenty-seven women, all carrying the same surname, though not necessarily the same blood. Some born of concubines, others from official wives, and a few — the worst ones — from imperial escapades no one dared record. Most were younger than me, raised under the shadow of an empire already born cold.
There was, of course, one exception — a sister I preferred not to remember.
The rest… the rest were merely echoes of the same blood scattered like snow: beautiful, promising, and utterly incapable of bearing the weight of a throne.
In the end, once he left, the waters began to stir.
Simple as that — with the cat gone, the rats threw a feast.
Smaller clans started testing their limits, and some — like the Shu Clan, with whom I had a meeting scheduled for tomorrow — seemed determined to find out how far they could go before they drowned.
None of it, however, worried me.
Not now. Not ever.
So, with the courtyard finally restored to silence, I simply returned to my chambers.
I couldn't say my imperial room was what one might expect from an emperor.
While other rulers surrounded themselves with gold, jade, and mirrors, mine was a paradox between the inevitable luxury of royalty and the simplicity I personally desired.
The floor was polished white marble, cold enough to reflect the moonlight like a still lake.
The side columns held translucent veils that swayed with the wind, casting soft shadows across the walls.
At the center stood a canopy bed made of spiritual wood — smooth, unadorned, covered only by gray silk sheets and a pale blue blanket.
No embroidery, no clan emblems. Just silence and comfort.
In the corner stood a shelf filled with silk scrolls, organized by color and thickness — cultivation records, political reports, and personal notes.
No poetry books. No aesthetic distractions.
Incense burned faintly in a white jade holder, releasing a dry, almost medicinal scent designed to clear the mind and stabilize the Qi flow.
Nothing in the room was superfluous.
Not a rug out of place, not a painting without symbolic purpose.
It was the kind of room that would make a minister uncomfortable and a concubine bored to madness.
But to me, it was perfect.
At the back, a wide reinforced glass panel revealed the frozen horizon of Zhuge Island. The dawn's light reflected off the distant peaks, tinting the room in shades of blue and gray.
Cold, silent, precise — just like me.
I walked to the side of the room, where my cultivation spot rested: a large circular cushion, wide enough to seat five of me cross-legged, woven with white-gray fabric and silver threads forming faint rune patterns.
I sat down.
My breathing matched the rhythm of the wind.
There was no urgency.
No fear.
Not even a defined purpose.
Just habit.
I crossed my legs, let my body relax, and closed my eyes.
The northern Qi was dense, pure, cold — and as I inhaled, I felt the energy enter like a silent tide, filling every meridian with absolute calm.
There was no need to rush.
No reason to despair.
The world might crumble tomorrow, but tonight…
Tonight was mine alone.
And I would cultivate it in peace.