Perspective: Zhuge Su Lan
If there was one thing that could irritate me easily, it was the fact that my older brother was basically a less promiscuous copy of our imperial father — the magnificent scoundrel.
They weren't just similar.
They were identical.
First, in appearance.
Placed side by side, they looked like twins.
Even more alike than Yui Lan and Yu Jin — who were actually twins.
If our imperial father were still in the palace, I could line them up, and even the most loyal servants would hesitate for a few precious seconds before deciding which one was the current emperor.
There were, of course, only two ways to tell them apart.
The first and simplest: the eyes.
While my older brother had dark, dull eyes — deep as an endless abyss — my father bore red ones, the kind of gaze that branded itself into your mind.
Eyes that, once met, were impossible to forget.
Both were unusual on Zhuge Island, where light eyes were the rule and a reflection of "spiritual purity."
At least my father's still fit the aesthetic.
Yeon's did not.
His looked empty. Silent. Dangerous.
The second difference was even simpler.
If the woman in his arms wasn't Bai Xuan Hua, then it was my father.
If it was Bai Xuan Hua, then it was Yeon.
That method worked perfectly when viewed from behind.
After all, our father didn't earn the widely known title of magnificent scoundrel without good reason.
But as if their resemblance weren't enough, the two seemed to share the same soul divided into two sibling personalities.
Both had that same indifferent expression whenever I spoke of administrative matters — the very subjects they themselves had delegated to me, as if the mere mention of managing an empire were some kind of curse. They simply couldn't grasp the amount of effort required to keep the empire running.
Every time I brought up fiscal reports, logistical strategies, or maintenance decrees, their reactions were identical:
half-closed eyes, lazy expressions, and that deep, weary sigh that said, "There she goes again, with her numbers."
As if listening to me was some kind of lullaby.
But that was only the beginning.
Their habit of vanishing without warning was also identical.
However, in that regard, Yeon was the undisputed champion.
When our father disappeared, all I had to do was visit my stepmothers — one by one — and I'd likely find him there, handing out smiles and children.
Yeon, on the other hand… when he decided to vanish, not even the heavens knew where to find him.
And then there was the way they both faced everything head-on.
In that, Father had the edge.
Yeon carried the weight of things.
Father loved them.
Whenever a threat arose, I could see that smile forming on his lips — that infuriating grin of someone who sees danger and calls it entertainment.
For him, battle was a pastime.
At least when he wasn't too busy flirting — his other hobby.
And, of course, the cherry on top — the most irritating habit of all:
the inability to arrive on time for anything.
Yeon had confidently declared there was no need to summon the imperial generals — that he would handle the matter himself.
Then he vanished into the palace more than twenty minutes ago.
With Bai Xuan Hua, naturally.
No sign of him since.
Fortunately, the generals came even without being called.
Now, the four of them — Lady Zhu, Lady Han, Lady Yu, and Lady Shin — stood lined up before the castle gates, their cloaks billowing in the wind, holding back the cultivators of the Shu Clan with unwavering discipline.
The air before them shimmered.
Condensed military Qi formed an invisible wall, firm as steel and cold as the island's ice.
Activated spiritual formations reflected the bluish light of the cloudy sky, tracing the ground with lines of power.
There they stood — composed, disciplined — while my glorious brother was probably still getting dressed.
Or worse — hadn't even started.
I crossed my arms, watching from the imperial balcony.
The generals' formation was flawless, but the silence separating them from the enemy was far too tense to last.
I took a deep breath.
Through the cutting cold, the wind carried a faint scent of corrupted Qi — pride, ambition, and a touch of impatience.
"Magnificent scoundrel…" I murmured, not specifying which of the two I meant.
My gaze drifted to the white horizon.
And for a moment, I wondered if there was any difference between father and son at all —
only the time the Dao took to copy the same mistake twice.
It was only then that the situation began to unravel completely.
Beyond the gate, the leader of the Shu Clan — the very man my brother insisted on calling "Lord Shu Lin," as if the title granted him an ounce of respect — stepped forward.
His presence wasn't impressive, but it was loud.
A tall man with slicked-back gray hair glistening with spiritual oil, dressed in a dark robe trimmed with red flame-shaped embroidery —
the kind of attire meant to intimidate, more showy than practical.
On his chest gleamed a golden wolf-shaped emblem — the clan's symbol.
The metal reflected the cold morning light as if even the sun despised him.
He stopped before the four imperial generals, who already stood in formation.
Lady Zhu, in her light armor of white scales, her gaze firm, hands clasped behind her back.
Lady Han, the youngest, wielding a spiritual halberd whose blade shimmered as though ice itself breathed through it.
Lady Yu, serene and silent, her black hair braided thickly down her back, the calm face of someone who had seen far too much blood to be impressed.
And Lady Shin — the most feared — dressed in silver silk, a visible scar running down her left cheek, a living reminder of an ancient war she had won alone.
Four women of iron, forged in the same fire my father used to test his own luck.
And, of course, all of them my stepmothers — the empire's diplomatic legacy in its most unorthodox form.
Lord Shu Lin, however, seemed delighted by the sight.
A man who, even before four warriors capable of tearing him apart, still found courage to smile.
And he did.
A wide, artificial grin — the arrogance of someone who mistakes provocation for power.
"So this is it?" he said loudly, projecting his words like a bad stage actor. "The mighty Zhuge Empire sends its women to fight in its place? Don't tell me…" — he looked up toward me on the upper balcony — "... that the emperor ran away and sent you to handle yet another mess, First Princess."
That last line echoed like a calculated insult.
The laughter that followed, rising from the Shu Clan's ranks, was worse —
a discordant chorus of male mockery spreading across the frozen field, breaking the disciplined silence of the imperial army.
The sound bounced off the ice pillars, repeating in uneven echoes, as if the palace itself were spitting the insult back amplified.
For a brief moment, everything around me froze.
The generals stood motionless, spears at the ready, spiritual Qi vibrating like a taut string about to snap.
I, however, remained calm.
I knew that kind of man too well.
The type who speaks loudly because he fears his own echo.
And honestly, I already had the perfect response prepared — one that would make him swallow his pride along with his teeth — when suddenly, a new presence cut through the air.
It was sudden.
The firm sound of footsteps echoed across the jade courtyard.
Slow. Measured. Yet full of intent.
Every gaze turned at once.
The wind blew harder, lifting a swirl of snow and spiritual dust that danced beneath the bluish glow of the defensive formations.
And then — his voice.
"This emperor is here."
Low.
Calm.
Yet every word weighed more than any shout.
I leaned slightly over the balcony rail.
Through the faint mist and glowing runes, I saw him approaching.
Zhuge Su Yeon walked toward the gate with the unhurried grace of one unafraid of time.
The casual robes from earlier were gone.
Now he wore the ceremonial mantle — white and gray with golden trim.
The high collar bore the clan's crest: a white swan in flight, embroidered in jade thread.
The light caught the golden runes along his sleeves, casting a faint, sacred glow that contrasted beautifully against the bitter cold.
Behind him, Bai Xuan Hua followed with her usual regal poise, her blue-and-white dress flowing like mist.
Her silver hair shimmered in the wind, reflecting the morning light as if ice itself had chosen to accompany them.
The contrast between them was perfect.
The emperor and his flame.
Ice and fire, descending side by side — like a perfectly choreographed performance.
And perhaps it was.
Because as I watched him walk — calm, confident, far too serene for the gravity of the situation — something stirred within me.
That expression…
That damned expression.
It was the same one I had seen countless times on our father's face.
The same look of someone who hadn't come to solve a problem — but to enjoy the spectacle.
The faint smile, the effortless stride, the complete absence of tension in his shoulders.
That infuriating, magnetic composure — the unmistakable mark of the Zhuge men when they decide to challenge fate with elegance.
And in that instant, as the imperial cloak billowed and the laughter of the Shu Clan died in the cold air,
I realized the show was truly about to begin.