Perspective: Zhuge Yui Lan
Truth be told… if all I wanted was to ask Violet for a favor, it would have been absurdly simple.
That was her nature.
One word, spoken with the right tone, and my stepmother would move heaven and frost to fulfill it.
It wasn't servitude — Violet could never be servile — but there was in her a quiet generosity, almost maternal, that made it impossible not to trust her.
Among all my father's wives, she was perhaps the fairest — the one who knew how to weigh things with precision: what was owed, what could be given, and what was worth keeping.
But, unfortunately, what I sought today fit into none of those categories.
It wasn't a favor.
It was a request that, to her, bordered on sacrilege.
And that was precisely why I knew it wouldn't be granted easily.
After all, what I was about to ask involved something — or rather, someone — that Violet regarded as her greatest treasure.
Something she protected with the same ferocity with which winter guards its own cold.
Her only daughter.
Zhuge Mei Lan.
My little fourteen-year-old sister.
As the steam from the tea danced above the table, Violet remained serene, watching me with that elegant patience of hers — a patience that felt like a mirror, reflecting back the same silence I offered her.
But inside me, that calm was nothing but a mask.
My heart was in motion.
Ever since I learned of Yu Jin's return, something had been stirring in my mind — plans within plans, branching in every direction, all dangerous, all necessary.
And among those branches, one name stood inevitable.
Mei Lan.
The image of the girl came vividly to mind: her delicate face, eyes still too large for the world, and the pale-violet hair she had inherited from her mother.
There was in her a strange purity — not mere innocence, but something rarer still — a serenity that seemed out of place in this age.
She was kind even to the wind.
The kind of soul that could make even ice melt.
And perhaps for that very reason, she was the most precious — and the most dangerous — piece on the board.
Violet guarded her like a fragment of her own heart.
Mei Lan rarely left the boundaries of her mother's palace, and even messengers who wished to see her required Violet's express permission.
She was the kind of flower the world did not deserve to touch.
But I knew what was coming.
And I also knew that when the storm began, even the flowers would have to learn how to move.
That was why I was here.
Not to ask Violet for help.
But to ask for what she would never give willingly —
her daughter.
As I watched the steam rise and dissolve in the violet light of the hall, I took a slow breath and rested my hands on my lap, forcing my tone to remain calm, my words measured.
Because from this moment onward, every sentence I spoke would be a step across thin ice — and a single misstep could shatter everything.
For my plan to work, I had to make my stepmother believe that what I was about to propose was truly the best thing for her daughter.
And for that, there was only one possible path: discretion.
What I intended was a carefully woven illusion.
So, while the tea's steam drifted gently between us, I decided to begin with the frame of the mirror — not its reflection.
"Stepmother, I came today to bring you a gift… something I received from my elder brother."
My voice sounded calm, though inside, my heartbeat was far from it — wild and unsteady.
It wasn't a lie.
I really had received it from Yeon.
Just… not in this time.
It had been in another — a future that did not yet exist for her, and one I was now trying to rewrite with a single choice.
I lifted my hand to the spiritual ring resting on my finger and summoned the object.
A soft glow spread over the table, dissolving the cold air of the room for a brief moment.
Then, from within the beam of light, a small book appeared.
The cover was simple — fine leather with silver details and patterns of interwoven branches and flowers — nothing ostentatious, yet delicate enough to reveal craftsmanship and care.
Along its edges, faint spiritual seals protected the pages from the wear of time.
I placed it before her with care.
Despite my attempts to alter the handwriting, the spiritual imprint still carried traces of me — fine, rounded strokes, perhaps too gentle, too feminine.
But it was the best I could manage.
Now, all I could do was hope that Violet — with her eyes trained to notice every detail in the world — wouldn't see through my small deception.
The book — The Manual of Formations for Spiritual Flora — was a simple guide to formation techniques, yet incredibly valuable.
It contained ancient matrices and runes designed to channel natural Qi for the cultivation of ornamental and spiritual plants, enhancing their color, radiance, and vitality.
It was precisely the kind of knowledge my stepmother would consider priceless.
Violet loved her trees.
They were not mere garden decorations — they were her silent companions, her art, her expression of mastery.
Every flower in her palace, every leaf that bloomed beneath the snow, existed because she willed it.
It was the only place on Zhuge Island where winter itself obeyed a single woman.
I knew that, faced with such a gift, she could not refuse.
But deep down, the present wasn't truly for her.
It was a disguise.
A bridge.
My hope was for the book to reach Mei Lan — her daughter, my little sister.
The girl possessed a rare affinity, something that still slumbered within her in this life.
But I remembered.
In another timeline — far ahead — Mei Lan had become a master of formations, a prodigy capable of weaving matrices with the precision of one who threads the fabric of fate itself.
She could read patterns the way others read emotions.
She turned the invisible into art.
And if that gift could awaken earlier… everything could change.
Perhaps the tragedy looming on the horizon could be prevented.
Perhaps, this time, Zhuge Island wouldn't have to fall.
I looked at the book between us and drew a deep breath.
That small object was, at once, a gift, a disguise — and a gamble.
When Violet extended her hand to touch it, the faint sound of her nail brushing the leather seemed louder than it should have been.
A sound that sealed the beginning of a risk — and of a hope.
If the future could be rewritten, it would begin here.