Perspective: Zhuge Yui Lan
I already knew.
I knew before my mother even opened her mouth, before I saw the restless glint in her eyes, before the northern wind passed through the curtains and whispered, in its frozen breath, what was about to come.
And yet, when she finally told me, my heart still faltered.
The air grew heavier.
And the calm I had cultivated with such care shattered like thin glass beneath my own hands.
My brother was coming back.
Zhuge Yu Jin.
The Zhuge Catastrophe.
My mother's words were few — precise, as always — but they carried the weight of an omen.
She didn't need to tell me what he had done, nor how many had died.
The truth was written in the subtle tremor that slipped through her perfectly composed voice.
Even so, I listened in silence, hands resting on my lap, eyes fixed on the polished jade floor.
Inside, however, something stirred — a deep, ancient current, inevitable in its course.
I had known this day would come.
Since the instant I awoke in this life again — since the moment destiny granted me a second chance to walk the same road that had once ended in ruins — I knew that sooner or later, his name would echo within these walls once more.
And when that happened, time itself would begin to repeat.
Yu Jin's return never meant merely a return.
It always meant the beginning of something — the movement of forces even the heavens dared not control.
Even among our thirty-four siblings, he was always... different.
Not in the simple sense of the word.
Different like a star that explodes alone in the sky while all the others remain cold and still.
Different like a sword that cuts through the very hand that wields it.
My brother was chaos made flesh — and, to my sorrow, the purest reflection of the fire that runs in our blood.
Perhaps it's true that words hold power.
And if they do, I would give anything to go back in time and stop whoever first had the foolish idea of calling him a catastrophe.
Because names shape destiny.
And Yu Jin seemed determined to honor his in every breath he took.
No one truly understood what he was.
But I did.
I knew it in my first life, when the flames of the North devoured the sky and the ground of Zhuge Island cracked open, vomiting light and destruction.
I knew that the chaos now approaching — disguised as a brother, escorted back to the home that never wanted him — was the same force that had once begun the end of everything.
The true catastrophe wasn't his return.
It was what followed after.
The wind blowing through the hall felt colder, and the distant sound of Qi currents roaring beneath the island made me close my eyes for a moment.
I drew a slow breath, steadying the tightness in my chest.
Yes.
He was coming back.
And with him returned the beginning of the true chaos —
the one that would one day consume Zhuge Island and everything still beautiful within it.
I had already spoken with Yeon, and I hoped my words would serve as the first stone to trigger the avalanche capable of changing everything.
But I couldn't — I wouldn't — rely on a single thread of hope.
A plan that depended solely on destiny's mercy was little more than vanity before what was to come.
With my brother's return, my own agenda would have to grow heavier.
Not out of ambition, nor a desire to be seen — but out of necessity.
I needed to act, to build contingencies, to move silent pieces while there was still time.
Plan A, Plan B, and every plan that came after: that was how I intended to protect what little could still be saved.
With that resolve, I left my chambers that day.
The imperial palace could be described, at best, as immense — though even that word felt insufficient.
My father, the Magnificent Scoundrel, possessed a remarkable talent for turning affection into architecture: he had built a distinct palace for each of his wives.
The result was an archipelago of domains linked by bridges of ice and paths of jade; each wing carried its own scent, its own etiquette, its own world.
We grew up as islands within an island.
Because of that, we — the thirty-four — rarely met by chance.
To see a sibling required crossing territories — both literal and political.
To reach someone in this family demanded intent.
And it was that manufactured distance I now needed to break, at least in part — and even if only for a little while.
My siblings were all talented.
Talent overflowed in our lineage as though it were inherited in excess — a mixture of Father's blood and the prestigious lineages of the mothers who bore us.
Some talents had already bloomed clearly: Su Lan, for example, whose administrative genius had, in practice, turned her into the invisible pillar holding the empire together while the throne remained empty.
Others, however, still slept — potential awaiting the right spark.
For my plan to succeed, I needed to awaken some of those dormant gifts.
I had to provoke encounters, arrange challenges, create moments that would force a sibling's hidden ability to surface — not out of vanity, but out of survival.
If I could bring even one latent skill to light, it could become a tactical advantage — an extra hand where before there was only silence.
And so, today, I would cross the first name off my list.
Not as someone inviting to a feast, but as someone summoning to a trial.
I took a deep breath, feeling the corridor's cold air brush against my skin, and walked toward the gate leading to the wing where the first of my targets lived.
There was work to be done — faces to meet, silent promises to fulfill — even if, deep down, I feared what my brother's return would inevitably bring.