Perspective: Zhuge Su Yeon
I think I was fifteen years old when my father finally allowed me to enter this room.
Before that, my visits to the underground halls were strictly limited to the upper library — and even there, only the first three floors.
The six levels above were still forbidden territory, untouched and wrapped in the same mystery that seemed to follow my father wherever he went.
As for these doors, or the lower library — and what they guarded — I wasn't even allowed to approach.
And, like any curious child, I insisted countless times.
I asked, begged, provoked.
Hoping that one day, he'd yield.
But he always answered with the same sentence — a phrase as simple as it was infuriating:
"There are things that, if you learn too soon, will only hinder your path.
In time, you'll understand."
Back then, I thought it was just an excuse.
I believed he was simply hoarding the good stuff — like an old man who didn't want to share his spiritual toys with his son.
But that day — the day he finally allowed me to step into the blue room — I understood.
And I understood in a way I would never forget.
In that instant, I realized there are secrets that can only be learned once.
It was also the last day I ever asked to know more than I should.
When the doors opened before me, the cold hit me like a wave.
But it wasn't the usual chill of Zhuge Island — this was a living cold.
Pure.
Almost sacred.
It didn't cut the skin; it purified it.
The chamber was a vast underground hall, carved entirely out of translucent ice.
The ceiling formed a crystalline dome from which strands of bluish light hung — like small auroras suspended in the air.
The walls reflected that glow, multiplying it until the entire place shimmered in a soft, continuous brilliance — ethereal and unreal.
The floor was smooth and mirrored, covered by a thin layer of mist that moved slowly, as if it breathed.
With each step, the sound of my boots blended with the distant hum of vibrating crystals, as though the ice itself carried a melody.
At the center of the hall stood a monumental structure — a pavilion of glass and ice, its columns carved and its dome translucent, resembling a temple.
Spiritual light concentrated there, reflecting in a thousand shades of blue — from the palest to the deepest.
It was a cold beauty, almost divine — and, at the same time, a reminder of how small a human being truly was before such magnificence.
Despite the grandeur of the place, there were few items inside.
They were arranged along the sides of the central structure, perfectly aligned — each resting upon its own pedestal of ice, surrounded by delicate formation seals.
I counted them more than once, during different visits, just to be sure of the number —
thirty.
Thirty artifacts.
Thirty legacies.
But to underestimate those thirty items would have been the greatest foolishness anyone could commit in this life.
Each one radiated a presence beyond measure.
Power wasn't the right word.
There was something about them that transcended what the world called strength.
Objects that defied classification — things even time itself seemed reluctant to touch.
Some shone silently, wrapped in veils of light.
Others, entirely dark, emanated a heavy, ancient aura, as if they had been sleeping for centuries.
And a few… seemed to watch.
Not artifacts, but presences.
Even now, just remembering, I can still feel that silent pressure — the kind of power that makes the air itself bow.
I never knew how my father had discovered this place.
But standing before that inheritance, one truth became impossible to ignore:
The Golden Core Realm he claimed to have reached was nothing but an elaborate joke —
a carefully constructed lie to keep the balance and avoid drawing too much attention.
Because anyone who had seen what I saw that day would know —
my imperial father was no ordinary cultivator.
And this chamber…
this chamber was the proof.
I owed him — and this place — almost everything I became.
All my strength, my technique, my understanding of the Dao — everything was born here.
And even now, with the throne beneath my feet, I still remember clearly:
of the thirty treasures that rested there, only three had ever been touched by my hands.
Three.
And even those three had been enough to completely transform my existence.
The rest…
The rest still waited.
And by the way the ice pulsed around me, silent and patient, I knew that when the time came, they would find me first.
I walked slowly toward one of the side walls — where the air felt colder still, and the surrounding ice shimmered with a faint silvery-blue glow.
There, on a pedestal of pure crystal, rested the first book.
I extended my hand, but didn't touch it.
I merely let my fingertips glide over the frozen surface encasing it.
The book was cold, yes — but not lifeless.
Beneath the translucent ice, faint runes of ancient design flickered like flowing water, circling the cover and vanishing in steady intervals — as if the object itself were breathing.
It was a special book.
Even among the thirty artifacts housed in this hall, it carried a meaning unlike the rest.
Not because it was the most powerful — quite the opposite.
In terms of cultivation, spiritual techniques, or destructive potential, this was the weakest of them all.
If I were to rank the practical value of each item in that inheritance, this one would stand last.
And the reason was simple:
It didn't teach any techniques.
It contained no power runes.
It didn't describe Dao secrets.
It was simply… a book of history.
The record of a woman's life.
From her childhood, through her early years of cultivation, up to the days when she rose above the heavens and reached the apex of the world.
Each page recounted a part of her ascension — not with the cold tone of a spiritual record, but with the warmth of someone who had lived it.
And even now, just by feeling its presence, I could almost hear her voice echoing across the icy walls.
The owner of this inheritance — the woman who left all this behind — was someone I never met in the flesh.
And yet, I still considered her my true master.
All my most refined techniques, all the principles that shaped my path, came from her.
From the notes she left here, from the records she hid in the heart of Zhuge Island.
But as precious as that legacy was, it wasn't what made this book important.
What made it unique…
was something even my father would never have understood — even if he read it a thousand times.
Because, deep down, this text wasn't written to be understood.
It was written to be recognized.
And among all beings in this world, I believed myself the only one capable of recognizing it completely.
The woman described in those pages wasn't merely a legendary cultivator.
She was something far rarer — a displaced soul, an echo from another world.
Even between the lines, in the metaphors, in the smallest details of her writing, there were subtle hints.
Tiny references no one else would ever notice — but to me, they were as clear as the ice surrounding us.
She spoke of lands where cultivation was only myth.
Of machines that cut through the skies.
Of worlds where power was measured not by spiritual essence, but by knowledge.
Words that, to any other reader, would sound like poetic delusions.
But to me…
they were memories.
Fragments of a past I myself didn't share with this world.
And that's why, when I read that book for the first time, I knew without a shadow of doubt:
The woman known as the Celestial Fox of Shimmering Ice —
the ancient master of this inheritance —
was, just like me, a transmigrator.