Perspective: Zhuge Su Yeon
In my most honest opinion, the Shu Clan had always been a well-disguised joke pretending to be a threat.
When my father — the magnificent scoundrel — first landed on this island nearly fifty years ago, the place didn't even bear the name Zhuge. Back then, people simply called it the White Island, a land of ice and desolation where few had the power to rule, and even fewer had the courage to try.
But my father had both — and a dangerously short temper, along with a monstrous strength that never accepted no for an answer.
With the efficiency of a blizzard, he swept through each clan, one after another, until the former imperial clan — the one that ruled before him — was reduced to ashes and memory.
The Shu Clan, then the strongest on the island after the original dynasty, was the first to kneel.
They knelt far too quickly, in fact.
With speeches of "eternal loyalty," "respect for the heavens," and "unwavering support," they rushed to my father's feet as if they had just discovered the meaning of humility. They brought offerings, daughters, promises — and every sort of cheap flattery imaginable.
And yet, my father didn't bite.
For all his womanizing and recklessness, he never granted the Shu Clan a single favor.
None of his concubines, wives, or lovers bore the Shu name — not for lack of candidates, of course. They said the maidens of that clan were beautiful enough to melt ice and clever enough to hide a dagger behind a smile.
But he knew.
From the very beginning, he knew the Shu were nothing but wolves.
Wolves that bowed to power, but never forgot the taste of flesh.
Wolves that waited for winter to weaken the king before tearing out his throat.
And in one of his rare moments of prudence — perhaps the greatest act of self-control of his entire imperial life — my father made his wisest decision: he kept the Shu Clan at a distance.
Not close enough to touch the throne, but not far enough to forget who ruled.
Unfortunately, the fear the Shu once had of the Zhuge did not seem to be hereditary.
It took only a month after my father's departure — or rather, his escape disguised as spiritual enlightenment — for the Shu Clan to bare their fangs.
The letter I received needed no translation.
Formally, it was polite. Spiritually, it was a declaration of war.
They "mourned" my father's absence, "worried" about the power vacuum, and — in the name of "northern stability" — offered me two choices:
to retreat and yield the throne "voluntarily," or face what they called the people's wrath.
The people's wrath… what a poetic way to rename their own greed.
In truth, the offer was simple: run away with my tail between my legs, or be devoured.
Neither option seemed particularly appealing.
Ironically, their deadline ended today.
Not that it affected my mood — or my appetite.
After a quiet night of cultivation, I rose with the calm of someone preparing for just another afternoon. The sun, pale and lazy, barely broke through the windows coated with frost. The air inside the palace was so cold it felt solid, but nothing that controlled breathing couldn't handle.
I dressed simply — a light gray robe of thin fabric, unadorned, without embroidery or jewels — and tied my hair in a high knot, leaving a few strands loose.
No crown. No pendants. None of those ridiculous layers the servants insisted on calling "attire worthy of an emperor."
The only thing worthy to me was practicality.
Normally, an emperor's meals were served inside his own quarters — on ornate trays and accompanied by concubines disguised as maids.
That custom, however… I personally abolished.
For very practical reasons — all of which began and ended at the same point: it was impossible to keep my chambers peaceful once a woman entered them.
The maids, their daughters, their nieces — all shared a peculiar talent for losing their way back, as if the imperial room were a maze designed to trap them. And by the time they were finally found, it was always too late: they were "tired," "confused," or "too cold to leave alone."
Nothing in this world is more persistent than a woman determined to be left behind.
So I learned my lesson.
Taking meals outside my room became a matter of self-preservation — perhaps the most reasonable reform I had ever made.
I left the chamber in silence, crossing the palace corridors. The polished jade floor mirrored my steady steps, and the air carried a faint aroma of burning incense — a mix of pine and dried herbs. Outside, the wind whispered against the walls, a constant reminder that no matter how thick the glass, the cold always found a way in.
Walking through the palace at dawn felt like moving inside a dream: everything blue, quiet, suspended.
And as I made my way to the dining hall, one thought crossed my mind —
that it was almost funny how much calmer the world seemed before a war.
That feeling of peace, of course, lasted only until I reached the dining hall.
The place could be described as anything — except quiet or calm.
The double doors of spiritual wood opened before me with a faint metallic sound, revealing a scene that, frankly, required more courage than any battlefield.
Today, I would have breakfast with guests.
Or at least, that was what the protocol claimed.
In practice, it was a disguised meeting — a kind of domestic tribunal where I was, simultaneously, the main defendant, the secondary one, and the accomplice.
My three greatest problems sat perfectly aligned at the table, as if fate itself had decided to test my patience at sunrise.
To the left, my mother — the infallible matchmaker — already watched me with that complacent smile that always preceded disaster. Her gaze shone with the satisfaction of someone hiding a list of suitors up her sleeve, ready to start the auction.
To the right, my fiancée, the fierce Bai Xuan Hua, looked far too bored to pretend politeness.
She sat upright, beautiful and cold, drumming her fingers on the table as if keeping time to my execution.
And at the center — as though the palace itself were too small for her presence — sat her.
The true empress.
My unrivaled elder sister.
She needed no official titles.
The way the servants looked at her was enough — they didn't even dare speak loudly when she was near. Her posture was flawless, her gaze serene yet sharp — the kind of person who turned any meal into a council meeting.
Three women.
Three forces of nature.
Three reminders that the true power of the North's ice was never in its walls… but in its conversations at the table.
And to complete this masterpiece of morning chaos, there was one unexpected presence.
Seated a little farther away, almost hidden among the pillars, was my little sister — Zhuge Yui Lan.
Silent as always, calm eyes, composed body. She was like a living painting — delicate, discreet, and yet impossible to ignore, for her presence was utterly unexpected.