Perspective: Zhuge Su Lan
Three days.
Three long, exact days.
That was how long it had been since my dear brother — the Emperor of the Zhuge Empire, the man meant to bear the weight of the throne and the heavens themselves upon his shoulders — had simply vanished into what he called "isolated cultivation."
Isolated cultivation.
The most elegant of imperial excuses for abandoning responsibility.
Zhuge Su Yeon possessed an extraordinary talent for turning chaos into silence.
And ironically, it was that very silence that now threatened to swallow us whole.
I stood on the balcony of the Hall of Decisions, watching the distant mountains.
The northern wind cut through the air, lifting the snow from the marble steps and scattering it across the lower courtyard, where eunuchs and advisors moved with the cautious slowness of people afraid to breathe incorrectly.
The empire seemed calm.
But I knew — and few others did — that this calm was the kind that comes right before collapse.
On the surface, the Zhuge Empire stood proud, its icy walls glistening under the pale afternoon light.
But inside, cracks were spreading like veins in fragile glass.
The empire's main internal enemy — the Shu Clan — had been completely annihilated.
A victory, the fools would say.
But to me, it was merely the beginning of the real war.
Because, unlike the satisfied ministers still celebrating in their halls, I understood what this meant.
The Shu had been dangerous, yes, but they were an enemy we could understand.
We knew what they wanted, how they acted, and how far they dared to go.
Now, however, our new enemies had no faces.
And a faceless enemy is not merely difficult to defeat — it's impossible to predict.
Several reports had already reached me, all equally fragmented, incomplete, and vague.
Movements among minor clans, shadowed alliances, smuggling routes shifting across the eastern provinces, and — most troubling — a sudden surge in the disappearance of our spies and couriers.
Something larger was moving beneath the surface.
Clans that once seemed insignificant now acted with confidence, resources, and — above all — audacity.
The deduction was simple:
The Shu's hidden allies had finally awakened.
And that was a problem — one the empire was not yet prepared to face.
I closed the report in my hands, suppressing the sigh that threatened to escape.
The golden imperial seal stamped at the top of the parchment seemed to mock me — the seal of an absent emperor.
And the empire's so-called allies?
That was another tragedy entirely.
During my father's reign — the Magnificent Scoundrel, and, I must admit, a masterful matchmaker — the number of alliances had been countless.
Through twenty-six official marriages, he had transformed the imperial court into a web of political ties, woven with equal parts skill and lust.
But when he vanished, all that vanished with him.
His lovers and promises remained, but the stability they represented dissolved into the air.
Each clan that once knelt before the throne now crept back into its own shadow, feigning loyalty while forging new pacts behind closed doors.
And my brother?
The new emperor?
He did nothing to prevent it.
In fact, he accelerated it.
He flatly refused to form new political marriages — rejecting proposals, agreements, and alliances under the pretense of "simplifying the court's structure."
In practice, he simply wished to avoid inconvenience.
Only Bai Xuan Hua remained by his side.
In theory, that strengthened the Bai Clan's bond with the throne.
But in practice, the Bai were loyal to no one.
They didn't move for gold, or for power — they didn't move at all.
And in politics, an ally that doesn't move is nothing more than a ghost.
The result was clear: the imperial throne was isolated.
Isolated within its own empire.
Inside, surrounded by silence and distrust.
Outside, surrounded by predators.
The Sect of the Obscure Sun — our oldest external enemy — had grown bolder.
Targeted strikes on outposts, sabotage along trade routes, interference in the northern Qi channels — all signs of a war undeclared, yet already underway.
They knew my father was gone.
They knew the empire was vulnerable.
And they knew the man on the throne believed patience could serve as a shield.
But the shield was already cracking.
And as for our last dependable ally — the White Flame Empire — that alliance, too, was now at risk of shattering at the slightest tremor.
If Han truly had fallen in love with the Yuan girl, as the reports suggested, then the diplomatic balance between us and them had become as fragile as glass under heat.
A sentimental distraction is the first step toward political betrayal.
In short — we were surrounded.
With no allies, and enemies multiplying in every direction.
And amidst it all…
our emperor decided to retreat into seclusion.
I crossed my hands over the jade table and closed my eyes for a moment.
The cold of the surface crept up my fingers, though not enough to cool what I felt.
It wasn't anger.
Anger is a useless emotion.
It was calculation.
The kind that precedes an inevitable change of command.
I was still standing by the table, mentally rearranging the empire's priorities — and, more importantly, searching for a way to manage the political void left by my brother's disappearance — when the sound of doors opening ended any illusion of tranquility.
The echo was soft but unmistakable — the kind only certain people could produce.
The kind belonging to those who never needed permission to enter a room.
I turned my head slightly, and before I even saw her, I knew.
The air changed.
The scent changed.
Even the servants' breathing at the door changed.
Han Wushuang Tianmei.
My stepmother.
The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, and when she stepped inside, the glow seemed to follow her — as though the world itself had been built to frame her presence.
The robe she wore — white silk embroidered with navy and silver — flowed with each measured step.
Jewels adorned her golden hair, reflecting fire and snow in the same breath.
Her face, calm and flawlessly composed, was the same as always: a mask of serenity that concealed an ocean of authority.
I stood — out of instinct, not courtesy.
Even after all these years, it was impossible to ignore her presence.
The mother of Yui Lan.
She crossed the hall without haste, each step a silent calculation, and stopped before me.
For a brief moment, I considered that she might have come to speak of Yui Lan.
After all, she had visited us days ago and even spoken with Yeon — a conversation whose content I still knew nothing about.
But no.
I knew her too well.
There was something different about her face today.
The slight stiffness of her lips, the way she clutched her mantle tighter than usual, the look that avoided the horizon — subtle, yet unmistakable signs.
This wasn't about Yui Lan.
Not this time.
The expression she wore was that of someone who had come to discuss a matter burning in silence for far too long.
I sighed quietly and sat back down, watching as she approached.
The sound of her steps blended with the whisper of the northern wind seeping through the window cracks — cold, constant, almost symbolic.
In that instant, I knew:
any hope of keeping my mind calm that day was gone.
She stopped before me — tall, regal, wordless.
But she didn't need to speak.
The look on her face said enough.
By Han Wushuang Tianmei's expression alone, I already knew:
whatever she had come to discuss…
it most certainly was not about Yui Lan.