Perspective: Zhuge Yu Jin
Everything was unfolding exactly as Yu Jin had expected.
The castle of the Wu Dynasty was a perfect reflection of the empire that built it — rigid, disciplined, and utterly devoid of charm.
Nothing there was beautiful; it was functional.
Even Emperor Wu himself, seated upon his throne of forged iron and tempered steel, was no exception to that rule.
The man received him with the expected formality — but without excess.
No false smiles.
No gentle gestures.
His posture was that of a general ready to march into battle, not a monarch presiding over court.
Yu Jin could respect that — to a point.
The emperor's voice was deep, direct, and sharp-edged.
The questions came one after another, as precise as sword strikes:
"Does Zhuge Island still keep its armies under control?"
"Is your father's disappearance confirmed, or merely rumor?"
"And your brother — the new emperor — is he worthy of the throne?"
Three questions.
Three blades.
And Yu Jin, as always, answered with the same kind of honesty that had earned him enemies since childhood.
"Armies…?" He shrugged. "I don't pay much attention to them."
"My father's gone. If he plans to come back, that's his problem."
"And my brother… well, he's the kind of man who'd call a storm 'an opportunity for reflection.'"
The hall fell silent for a moment.
He knew his mother — had she been there — would already be rubbing her temples, rehearsing an apology in her head.
But to his surprise, Emperor Wu merely inclined his head slightly — no irritation, no laughter.
Only the gaze of a seasoned soldier recognizing another kind of madness and deciding it wasn't worth arguing with.
"Honesty is rare among princes," was all he said, before leaning back in his throne.
Yu Jin couldn't tell if that was praise or mockery.
Perhaps a bit of both.
Behind him stood the emperor's sons — seven of them — lined up like carved replicas.
Every single one looked like a younger version of the man on the throne.
Same crimson hair.
Same martial build.
Same eyes — sharp, disciplined, and weighing every soul that stood before them.
Yu Jin briefly wondered if the emperor had mastered some strange cultivation technique for spiritual cloning.
The eldest — likely the heir — watched him with a calm so measured it bordered on challenge.
The others, though unmoving, exuded that same silent tension — the kind that settled between warriors moments before a duel.
Jealous brothers, Yu Jin thought, struggling not to laugh.
After all, as far as he knew, his betrothed was the only woman of the Wu clan — the precious jewel of an empire of warriors.
Being the man chosen for her hand surely hadn't sat well with those seven soldiers carved from their father's likeness.
And he couldn't even blame them.
If he had only one sister among so many brothers, he would probably wear the same murderous stare toward any man who came near her.
Still, Yu Jin felt no hostility — only curiosity.
And a tinge of boredom.
Because, until that moment, everything had followed the predictable script of imperial audiences: questions, formalities, veiled threats, and the suffocating air of forced reverence.
Something was missing.
Something that made the blood move.
And then, as if fate itself had decided to humor him, the great doors of the throne hall opened once again.
The sound rolled through the chamber like distant thunder.
Every gaze turned.
Yu Jin's as well.
He didn't know what to expect.
He hadn't asked for this marriage — didn't even want it.
But curiosity still bit at the edge of his mind.
What kind of woman did my father choose for me?
If she were delicate, submissive, a quiet flower of the court, he would know fate was mocking him.
But if she were the kind of woman who could look back without fear… perhaps, just perhaps, things could get interesting.
The doors opened wide, flooding the hall with golden light.
But, to his brief disappointment, the first figure to enter wasn't a woman.
It was the old monk.
The same infuriating relic who had dragged him across half the continent — that impassive face, that endless silence.
He walked to the center of the hall, each step echoing like a drumbeat, and stopped.
For a moment, Yu Jin thought he would begin one of his tiresome sermons.
But instead, the monk simply stepped aside —
and freed the view he had been concealing.
Yu Jin lifted his chin — and for the first time since arriving in the Wu Dynasty, he felt something different stir within him.
Not shock.
Not admiration.
Something more primal.
Because there, walking forward with steady steps and head held high, was the woman destiny had forced upon him.
And for the first time, Yu Jin wondered if — just this once — fate had made a good decision.
For an instant, the entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
Behind the old monk, the light from outside carved her silhouette — and when she finally crossed the threshold, Yu Jin understood the reason for all the whispers and anticipation.
But what struck him most wasn't her beauty.
It was the way she carried it.
No luxury.
No jewels.
None of the ornamental excess that princesses and noblewomen wore like armor.
No silk gowns, no glittering veils, no elaborate hairstyles that made women look like polished statues.
What entered that hall was a warrior.
Her hair — a deep red, almost crimson under the filtered light — was tied in a high ponytail, simple yet firm, held by nothing but a white jade ring.
Stray strands framed her face, a perfect contrast between discipline and defiance — as if even the wind itself dared not move without her permission.
Her skin was pale, untouched by artifice — the tone of someone who trained at dawn and under the frost of morning.
And her eyes… Yu Jin needed a heartbeat to define what he saw there.
They were sharp, cold, and steady — a grayish blue that mirrored moonlight on the edge of a blade.
There was no gentleness in them — only focus.
The kind of gaze that measured distance, calculated risk, and decided in silence whether a fight was worth taking.
The training uniform she wore — made of dark, flexible fabric — fit perfectly, tailored for motion and precision.
A high silver-stitched collar protected her neck; short sleeves exposed her toned forearms.
A crimson sash cinched her waist, hinting subtly at her shape without a trace of vanity.
Below it, layered folds of fabric fell like petals, short enough to reveal legs honed by years of battle.
She walked without hurry, yet every step radiated confidence — almost aggressive in its composure.
There was no softness in her movement, yet an undeniable grace — not the rehearsed elegance of a princess, but the natural poise of someone who understood her own body and commanded it fully.
Every motion spoke clearly:
I don't belong to this hall — and yet, it belongs to me.
And no matter how hard Yu Jin tried to feign indifference, his eyes refused to obey.
She wasn't what he expected.
In truth, she wasn't what anyone expected.
Most women of the court, raised among curtains and whispers, were made of porcelain — delicate, flawless, and easily shattered.
But this girl… she wasn't porcelain.
She was iron shaped by fire.
And for the first time in a long while, Yu Jin felt something stir inside him — a curiosity that was half admiration, half challenge.
She stopped before the throne — not bowing, not smiling.
Her chin remained high, her gaze steady on the emperor.
And then, for the briefest moment, she turned her eyes toward Yu Jin.
It was a short glance.
But intense enough for him to know one thing with absolute certainty:
this woman wouldn't be like the others.
She didn't look afraid of the marriage.
She looked like she was assessing the enemy.
And Yu Jin, for a fleeting second, wasn't sure whether to laugh —
or finally start worrying.