Perspective: Zhuge Su Lan
Zhuge Yu Jin — or, as he was better known among the siblings, the Zhuge Catastrophe.
It was practically an official title within the family.
While most of us had inherited, to varying degrees, the ability to maintain appearances — that serene composure that made ministers believe imperial blood was made of ice — Yu Jin seemed to have been born with the opposite purpose: to prove to the world that even ice can explode.
I was seated before Han Wushuang Tianmei, my stepmother, when she finished explaining, with all the celestial calm that characterized her, the reason for her visit.
And honestly, even for me, it took a long moment of silence before I could fully process her words.
One hundred and four monks.
Dead.
One hundred and four.
A number so grotesque it sounded like something from a war chronicle, not a family report.
Worse — killed by the hands of a single man.
My younger brother.
The same boy who, years ago, could barely sit still for five minutes without turning a breathing exercise into an act of destruction.
The same boy who had apparently decapitated an entire monastery.
I closed my eyes briefly, suppressing the sigh that threatened to escape.
Tianmei's voice still echoed through the chamber — soft, measured, cold as jade — yet the content of her words burned like fire beneath the ice.
The monastery in question was no ordinary one.
It was one of the most respected institutions on the continent, standing beyond the spiritual borders of Zhuge Island — an order so ancient that even Father spoke of it with reverence.
It was he, the Magnificent Scoundrel, who decided to send Yu Jin there.
At the time, he claimed the boy needed to "learn calm."
I, foolishly, believed him.
But now, looking at the result, it seemed obvious that Father had tried to teach philosophy to lightning.
And lightning, predictably, had destroyed the temple.
"One hundred… and four?" I repeated, still incredulous, staring at Tianmei.
She nodded, her hands folded over her lap, her expression serene — as if she were speaking of the weather rather than a massacre.
"The monastery was merciful," she added, with that flawless, unyielding voice.
"They could have executed him immediately. Instead, they merely expelled him."
Expelled him.
As if that solved anything.
In my mind, the information began arranging itself automatically, methodically.
Each new consequence unfolded like a line in an endless calculation:
damaged diplomatic relations, shattered reputation, spiritual reparations, and, of course, the inevitable cost of dealing with Yu Jin again.
The political price would be devastating.
Not because the monastery was our enemy — but because the entire empire would know.
And the worst part of a scandal is never the scandal itself, but the silence that follows.
"What kind of empire sends its heirs to cultivate among monks and receives back a murderer?"
That would be the question whispered in every clan hall and ministerial chamber — or at least, among what remained of our so-called allies.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand, and met Tianmei's eyes.
She was perfectly calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that only comes when one has already decided not to take responsibility.
And knowing her, I understood why.
After all, she already had a child — or rather, a daughter — who embodied everything any matriarch could ever want.
Yui Lan.
Serene, gentle, blessed with such extraordinary healing talent that even the elders called her the Hands of the Dao.
And, ironically, she was Yu Jin's twin.
They had shared the same womb, the same blood — yet could not have been more different.
Yui Lan was the reflection of balance.
Yu Jin, the echo of destruction.
The living proof that even the heavens have a sense of humor.
While one healed, the other burned.
While one whispered, the other roared.
While one inspired compassion, the other inspired fear.
And now, that same brother — chaos incarnate, the fire our father once swore to "tame" — was returning home.
Expelled.
Escorted.
Alive only because of divine mercy.
I set down the pen I had been using to sign decrees and let silence linger.
I could hear the faint sound of the northern wind beating against the crystal windows — as if the empire itself exhaled heavily beside me.
"So he's coming here…" I murmured, more to myself than to her.
Tianmei tilted her head slightly — a small gesture, but enough to confirm what I already knew.
Zhuge Yu Jin was on his way back to Zhuge Island.
And as for how to apologize to the monastery…
how to restore the imperial name…
or most importantly, how to deal with the return of the walking disaster that shared our blood…
Honestly, I had no idea.
The Zhuge family — or rather, that assembly of thirty-three heirs that the world dared to call "siblings" — was a collection of contrasts so extreme that even I sometimes wondered if we truly shared the same blood.
Each one seemed to represent an isolated facet of our father — his ambition, his madness, his genius, his sins — scattered across the world in different bodies.
Even those who, like Yu Jin and Yui Lan, were born of the same womb, were separate universes.
And yet, among all of them, there was one who defied all comprehension.
Because if every member of the Zhuge clan was a piece on the empire's political board, then Yu Jin was the piece that obeyed no rule — a living piece, unpredictable, one that could topple kings or burn the entire board just to see how the world would react.
And as much as I hated to admit it, he was also the only piece fate itself seemed unable to control.
I stayed silent for a long time after Tianmei's words dissolved into the air.
The cold inside the hall felt denser, as though the palace itself had paused to absorb the weight of what had just been said.
She sat before me — impeccable, immovable — radiating that serenity I had always found both infuriating and enviable.
The kind of calm born not from the absence of problems, but from the conviction that they simply wouldn't touch her.
The golden threads of her hair caught the light of the spiritual lamps, and the deep green of her silk robes rippled faintly whenever the wind slipped through the cracks of the window.
Even now, bringing terrible news, she looked like a painting of discipline itself.
"One hundred and four monks…" the thought echoed again in my mind.
I looked at her — and for the first time, I noticed that her eyes, those icy blue eyes that could silence entire assemblies, looked heavier.
There was worry there, even if buried beneath layers of composure.
And truthfully, I couldn't blame her.
Yu Jin was her son.
And if there was one thing Han Wushuang Tianmei had always protected with near-divine devotion, it was her children.
But the situation was far too grave for sentimentality.
So I straightened my back and spoke with the same firmness I used to close war councils:
"Do not worry. I'm sure that when Yeon emerges from his isolation, he will find a solution for this."
The words sounded more confident than I truly felt.
Perhaps it was an instinct inherited from the throne itself — the ability to appear unshakable even when everything inside you was falling apart.
She studied my face for a moment, as if measuring the temperature of a flame.
Then she nodded slowly — delicate, formal — and stood.
The fabric of her robes whispered across the marble floor, and for a brief instant, that sound was the only thing that existed in the room.
"So be it," she murmured, her voice devoid of emotion.
"I will inform you when the escort reaches the island's gates."
And then she turned and left.
The door closed behind her with a soft, final sound.
The silence that followed was not the same as before — it was heavier, denser, as if the air itself had lost balance.
I rested my elbows on the table and pressed a hand to my forehead, feeling the full weight of what had just unfolded.
Another problem.
One more.
As if the empire didn't already have enough.
Now, in addition to the diplomatic crisis, fleeing allies, external threats, and my brother the emperor lost in his isolation, I would also have to deal with the return of the Zhuge Catastrophe.
Fire was coming home.
And this time, not even all the ice on Zhuge Island might be enough to contain it.