Perspective: Zhuge Su Yeon
To be perfectly honest… all these so-called "problems" that seemed to pile upon my shoulders — the Bai Clan, Han's marriage, the Sect of the Obscure Sun, the northern intrigues — weren't truly problems.
At least, they wouldn't be, if I were willing to break the rules handed down to me by the man the world once called the Magnificent Scoundrel.
My imperial father.
The man who ruled with a fist so firm that even the ice seemed to bend to his will.
The one who dominated not only the island, but also the fate of all who lived under the name Zhuge.
And the same man who, one day, simply decided to disappear — without warning, without explanation, without even leaving behind a body to mourn.
He left only the throne…
and me.
And, as the eldest son and crown prince, succession came naturally.
Conveniently.
Almost too easily.
At least, that was the public story — the carefully crafted version the people believed.
The heir ascended the throne.
The father retired to meditate in pursuit of the Dao.
Everything within imperial normalcy.
But, as always, what the world sees is only the surface.
The truth is, none of it surprised me.
I had considered that possibility long before — since I was ten years old, to be precise.
Because that was the year everything began.
At that age, my father initiated me into what he called "the true training of an emperor."
And, contrary to expectation, that training involved neither swords nor spiritual techniques nor Qi control.
There were no masters, no disciples, no cultivation manuals.
Only secrets.
Learning to keep them.
To manipulate them.
To survive through them.
It was then that I began to understand the true meaning of the word power.
It wasn't strength.
Nor lineage.
Nor wealth.
It was information.
My father used to say the entire world revolved around it — that whoever controlled the flow of secrets controlled the destiny of nations.
For years, he trained me to see what others ignored.
To hide what no one should ever know.
And, above all, to never reveal anything — even when truth was all that remained.
And the truth is, if I had to define myself by a single skill…
I would certainly call myself a master of secrets.
That was my true talent.
My real inheritance.
And, ironically, it's precisely because of that talent that the north still lives in peace.
Because what the other powers of the continent don't know…
What they cannot know…
Is that Zhuge Island is not merely an isolated nation of snow and lazy cultivators.
No.
Zhuge Island itself is a secret.
The greatest of them all.
The kind of secret that, if ever revealed, would make the Colossi of the north move instantly.
The kind of secret that, if it fell into the wrong hands, would set the entire continent ablaze.
If they discovered what truly lies buried beneath the ice…
or what flows through the spiritual roots of this land…
If they learned what the Magnificent Scoundrel truly hid…
The war that would erupt among the sects, kingdoms, and empires of the north would have no precedent.
Hundreds of thousands would die.
Entire bloodlines would be erased.
And the delicate balance my father built — through arrogance, sin, and genius — would collapse in a matter of days.
That's why no one can ever know.
Not even my siblings.
Not Su Lan.
Not Bai Xuan Hua.
The world sees Zhuge Island as a small, isolated, politically harmless realm.
But what no one realizes is that this illusion of fragility is precisely what makes it untouchable.
And as long as the north continues to believe in that illusion…
as long as everyone keeps underestimating this frozen island and the throne upon which I sit…
The continent's greatest secret will remain safe.
And I, heir to the Magnificent Scoundrel, will continue to do exactly what I was trained to do.
Protect the secret.
Even if the world itself must be deceived for it.
The corridors of the imperial palace were long and silent — at least for those who didn't know how to listen.
But to me, the loudest sounds didn't come from the flickering spiritual torches or the boots of guards on cold marble floors.
They came from whispers.
At every corner, in every shadow, I caught muffled murmurs:
— "The Emperor defeated the Shu Clan alone…"
— "They say the light descending from the sky was the ancestral spirit of the throne…"
— "Bai Hu Yan is staying at the palace — do you think the Emperor fears him?"
Some whispers were veiled flattery.
Others, pure speculation.
But all shared one thing — the inevitable fascination that power awakens in the weak.
It was almost comforting.
The empire still breathed, the people still spoke of me, and fear still outweighed disobedience.
For now, that was enough.
I kept walking, hands clasped behind my back, while the faint hum of conversation faded behind me.
The icy draft of Zhuge Island seeped through the jade window frames, but it didn't bother me.
The cold had become part of me long ago.
I passed a group of maids who dropped to their knees instantly.
One of them lost her grip on a tray of fine porcelain — the sound of shattering echoed down the corridor, breaking the stillness.
I glanced at her briefly, saying nothing.
Not out of cruelty, but because there was no need.
Fear did the work for me.
I walked to the end of the main hall, turned right, and reached the doors of the imperial chamber.
The same room that, for decades, had belonged to the Magnificent Scoundrel — the man who had shaped the island with his fist, his smile, and his madness.
Now, that space belonged to me.
The chamber of Emperor Zhuge Su Yeon.
When I inherited the throne, many expected me to refuse this room out of filial reverence.
A symbolic gesture — something for bards to sing about and noble wives to admire.
But I couldn't refuse.
Not out of disrespect…
but because this room was more than a room.
It was a gate.
The entrance to the greatest secret of Zhuge Island.
I closed the doors behind me, the hollow thud of the hinges echoing through the chamber.
The room was dim, lit only by a few spiritual candles casting bluish light across the dark jade floor.
The place still carried his presence.
The scent of wood steeped in old incense, the faint metallic tone of condensed Qi in the walls, and that unsettling feeling — as if the air itself watched whoever entered.
The first time I stepped into this room, as a child, I felt fear.
Now, I felt respect.
I walked to the center — between the imperial bed and the meditation table.
Each step echoed softly, muffled, as if the very floor knew how to keep quiet.
I knelt before a small, dark wooden shelf that looked completely ordinary.
But under its right foot — a detail nearly invisible to the eye — there was a tiny circular depression.
I pressed it with the tip of my finger.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a deep, low sound — almost like a sigh — resonated beneath the floor.
Golden lines began spreading across the marble, drawing an ancient pattern that pulsed with faint light.
The far wall trembled slightly — not enough to be heard, but enough to be felt.
Then, with a sharp click, a passage opened.
The stone panel slid aside, revealing a spiral staircase descending into the depths below.
The air rising from that abyss was cold, dense, saturated with ancient spiritual energy — and tinged with something metallic, almost bloody.
I stood there for a moment, watching the darkness.
The candles flickered, their blue flames reflecting on the edge of the opening like a portal between worlds.
I took a deep breath.
The same air my father had breathed countless times before his disappearance.
And without hesitation, I began to descend.
Each step echoed like the sound of a secret being revealed — one only the brave would dare to hear.