Perspective: Zhuge Yu Jin
The Wu Dynasty had always been… different.
My father used to say that with a tone half amused, half respectful — the tone he reserved for the rare few men he considered worthy of a toast.
"The Wu weren't born nobles; they forged themselves into one," he would say.
And I understood what he meant.
While most dynasties neighboring Zhuge Island had risen by leaning on bureaucrats and merchant clans — leaving their armies in the hands of loyal military families — the Wu had done the exact opposite.
They were the army.
They seized the throne through the weight of steel — and never let go of it.
And the result of that was visible from afar.
When the spiritual ship began to approach the capital — the legendary Wu City — I immediately realized this place was unlike any other empire I'd ever visited.
Here, every stone seemed to shout discipline.
Every street, every wall, every tower stood like a soldier at attention.
The city was enormous, surrounded by double-layered walls reinforced with metallic runes that glimmered faintly under the sun. The watchtowers weren't ornamental — each one housed armed cultivators, scanning the horizon with the cold gaze of men who expected an attack at any moment.
But what caught my attention most was the city's heart.
The imperial palace of the Wu Dynasty rose at its center — monumental, imposing, a fortress disguised as a palace.
Its tiered roofs stretched outward like metallic wings, and the massive stairways leading to the grand hall were wide enough for an entire battalion to march side by side.
Even from afar, one could see the gleam of the spiritual armor worn by the guards at the gates — each one standing motionless like a statue, yet emanating an aura that made the very air tremble.
Around the palace, the city expanded in perfectly organized rings.
Commercial, residential, and military districts interlocked in near-symbiotic precision.
The main streets were wide, paved with dark stone etched with golden lines — routes of spiritual energy connecting the gates to the towers.
Markets and teahouses lined the roads, but unlike the noisy chaos of other empires' bazaars, everything here was orderly, silent, efficient.
The merchants rarely shouted.
Customers bargained quickly.
Even the children playing in the alleys seemed to do so with a peculiar… discipline.
I passed through a central plaza where spiritual swords were sold beside talismans and protective amulets.
Blacksmiths hammered metal in perfect rhythm, their strikes echoing like a hymn.
Farther ahead, a group of cultivators trained in formation — synchronized steps, controlled breathing, flawless precision.
This wasn't a city.
It was an army disguised as civilization.
And I could feel it in the air.
The Qi flowing through those streets was different — dense, sharp, carrying the scent of steel about to be forged.
For a moment, I forgot how much I hated being dragged around by the old monk.
Maybe it was instinct, maybe nostalgia for war — but this place reminded me what it meant to feel alive.
"So this is the empire of my future wife, huh?" I muttered, crossing my arms as I watched the horizon.
The irony made me laugh.
A place so full of order, so methodical, so rigid… and destiny had decided that I — the very definition of chaos — should marry someone raised here.
I looked again at the city, its walls dripping authority, its stairways climbing toward the heavens.
Impressive.
But also… suffocating.
Even the sky here seemed to follow rules.
And if the rest of the Wu Dynasty was as disciplined as its capital, then I was certain of one thing:
my arrival would be the first spark of disorder this empire had seen in a very, very long time.
Yu Jin had heard stories about the Wu family's methods of upbringing.
And honestly, he still didn't know what to think of them.
There were parts he respected — deeply so.
And others that made him want to tear his hair out.
On one hand, he couldn't deny it: the way the Wu Emperor raised his descendants was something rare.
They weren't brought up in halls of silk, surrounded by servants waving perfumed fans and reciting poetry.
No.
The children of the Wu family grew up on training grounds, hearing the sound of blades before learning to read.
They were trained early to wield weapons, to understand the weight of their bodies, the rhythm of breathing, the real impact of a strike.
They learned to fall, to bleed, to rise again — all under the eyes of instructors who treated princes and beggars exactly the same.
That was the part Yu Jin admired —
with every ounce of his being.
He himself had grown without such structured discipline.
He had talent, yes — raw strength and instinct — but most of his skill came from survival and sheer will.
There had never been systematic training, no mentors patient enough to handle his temperament.
So hearing that his betrothed — that Wu girl — had received real combat training since childhood stirred a strange curiosity in him.
After all, he was never the kind of man interested in fragile maidens.
A woman who could fight?
Now that was interesting.
"At least she won't faint at the sight of blood…" he muttered, glancing at the training courtyards below, filled with young cultivators practicing in perfect rhythm.
That part of the Wu upbringing made sense.
It was efficient.
It worked.
It was the reason the empire commanded such strength and respect.
But there was another side to it.
Discipline.
Relentless, suffocating discipline.
Every aspect of a Wu descendant's life was ruled by regulation — cultivation schedules, behavioral protocols, duties, obligations, expectations.
Everything measured, calculated, controlled.
Even the simplest gestures — drinking tea, greeting an elder — had form, order, cadence.
To Yu Jin, that was a death sentence.
He had never been made to follow rules.
He believed instinct was the true master of cultivation — that body, blood, and spirit should move as they pleased, not as others commanded.
Rules, regulations, protocols… all of it was weight.
Invisible chains that stopped fire from burning.
Just thinking about his fiancée being raised in that environment made him shiver.
A girl who obeyed every command to the letter.
Who believed in hierarchy, duty, and discipline above all else.
A woman molded by the strictest empire on the continent.
He could almost imagine her —
a cold gaze, steady voice, precise movements, a mind trained to obey before questioning.
Perfect, the imperials would say.
A nightmare, he thought.
Yu Jin looked up at the golden sky stretching over Wu City and sighed heavily.
"Discipline, rules, duty…" he muttered. "If this woman was really raised that way, it'll be a miracle if we don't try to kill each other in the first week."
Despite the sarcasm, he wasn't joking.
The fire within him had never bowed to anyone — and now fate was pushing him toward someone raised to control everything around her.
A wild instinct versus a heart forged in iron.
A man who lived by impulse against a woman who breathed order.
The perfect recipe for war.
And somehow, deep down — with that same intuition that always preceded a fight —
Yu Jin knew this encounter wouldn't just be the start of an unwanted marriage.