From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
As always, Yeon's plans were ruined before they even began.
He had left his cultivation chamber intending to enjoy a quiet meal — something simple, silent, almost human — but it seemed that fate, and more specifically his sister Zhuge Su Lan, had decided that was asking too much.
I had already suspected it while walking through the golden corridors that led to the imperial dining hall — that old suspicion creeping back into my thoughts.
I was certain that at least one of the servants assigned to the areas near my quarters was actually one of Su Lan's spies.
Or two.
Maybe three.
It was the only explanation for how she always knew where I was, what I was doing, and even what I planned to do — with a precision that defied logic.
It was impossible to hide anything from her; it was as if every wall, every shadow, and every breath of wind on the island conspired in her favor.
Yeon sighed, accepting the inevitable.
If there was one thing he could never defeat, it wasn't a political rival or a powerful cultivator — it was Su Lan's infallible efficiency.
The dining hall greeted him with soft light and the faint aroma of spiritual spices.
The white jade walls reflected the golden glow of floating lanterns, and the long tables were covered with blue cloths embroidered with the clan's sigil.
The place felt serene, silent, almost therapeutic — which, naturally, wouldn't last long.
Yeon sat at the head of the table and made an absurdly detailed order to the kitchen:
northern spirit fish roasted over essence flame, white jade rice, lotus-blossom wine, fruits from the eastern valley, and celestial-leaf tea picked before dawn.
A true imperial feast — worthy of a cultivator who didn't need to eat, but insisted on doing so anyway.
After giving his instructions, he folded his hands atop the table and remained still, savoring the rare moment of calm the palace still allowed him.
The distant sounds of the kitchen blended with the rustling wind outside, and for once, Yeon allowed himself a deep breath.
Perhaps, just this once, he could… relax.
Then came the sound of footsteps in the corridor.
Sharp. Measured. Decisive.
The kind of steps that didn't announce a visit — but an intervention.
And before Yeon could even summon the strength to sigh again, the door opened.
From beyond it emerged Zhuge Su Lan.
Like a shadow straight out of some forgotten office, she appeared with a calm face but eyes blazing — that cold, meticulous light that only came after a long night of work and very little patience.
In her arms, she carried several folders marked with imperial seals and jade tags identifying different departments:
"Internal Administration," "Foreign Diplomacy," "Military," "Spiritual Finance," "Public Cultivation."
Yeon's heart sank.
He didn't even need to ask.
She had come to work.
Here.
He briefly considered speaking first — something polite, perhaps neutral, like, "Sister, could we discuss this later…" —
but the thought barely formed before tragedy confirmed itself.
With the precision of a storm and the subtlety of a hammer, Su Lan sat across from him.
The sound of the folders slamming onto the table echoed like thunder.
Yeon blinked slowly.
There goes my meal.
She began arranging the documents before her — an intimidating wall of paper and jade — then looked straight at him.
That look.
The same one that, in past wars, had made entire generals hesitate to take a single step.
Cold. Unyielding. Personal.
There was something in that stare that bordered on pure hatred — or maybe it was just exhaustion so deep it had lost its shape.
To Yeon, the difference didn't matter. It felt the same.
He opened his mouth, ready to attempt some diplomatic defense, but her glare was sharp enough to kill the words before they even left his throat.
Imperial wisdom whispered that silence was the safest path.
And so, silence it was.
While Su Lan began opening the first folders, Yeon simply clasped his hands together, feigning patience.
Deep down, he thanked the heavens she had come alone this time.
Yes, that was a blessing.
At least she hadn't brought her two faithful allies — their mother and his fiancée — who together formed the infamous Official Committee for Interventions Against Emperor Zhuge.
An infernal trio whose sole mission in life seemed to be reminding him, day after day, that even the ruler of an empire wasn't safe from domestic reprimands.
For now, only Su Lan was here.
And judging by her expression, that alone was more than enough to turn his spiritual breakfast into a formal session of administrative torture.
Still — against my own will — I realized I could no longer treat this with my usual levity.
Something was different.
Su Lan didn't look like herself.
On a normal day, the moment she sat at the table, the verbal onslaught would begin — a barrage of reports, decrees, clan communiqués, requisitions, and diplomatic complaints before I could even blink.
It was an orchestra of efficiency: Su Lan spoke, I listened, and by the time she was done, half the empire's problems had already been solved.
But this time… no.
She remained silent.
The folders sat before her, stacked like a paper fortress, while her long fingers simply tapped against the tabletop — as if searching for the courage to begin.
That, coming from Su Lan, was… alarming.
The sister I knew never hesitated.
Never stopped.
She was the kind of person who treated every crisis — political, military, or personal — with surgical precision.
But now, instead of drowning me in numbers and orders, she simply looked.
Her eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were tired.
There was no anger there. No irritation.
Just a deep, hollow exhaustion — the kind that no amount of rest could mend.
She lowered her gaze, tracing her fingers over the stack of folders… and sighed.
A long, quiet sigh — heavy, filled with meanings I could not yet grasp.
The sound echoed through the empty dining hall.
And in that moment, I knew.
Things were far worse than I had imagined.
That sigh carried more weight than any speech she could have given.
It wasn't the sigh of someone annoyed with bad reports or incompetent ministers.
It was the sigh of someone carrying something the entire empire was never meant to bear.
The way she rested her elbows on the table and massaged her forehead made me realize how much the burden had cost her.
Even without saying a word, she seemed older than the last time I'd seen her.
Her shoulders, usually straight and regal, seemed slightly bent — not from weakness, but from weight.
And it was there, in that instant — watching my sister hesitate for the first time in years — that I felt a chill run down my spine.
The castle was silent.
The tea still steamed on the table.
But for the first time since I had ascended the throne, I was certain:
something was terribly wrong on Zhuge Island.