From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
In theory, the world of cultivation should have followed a simple, honest logic: the strongest fist speaks the loudest.
Physical power, refined spirit, superior technique — those, in essence, were the criteria that governed destiny.
In practice, however, the world was rarely that pure.
Politics, intrigue, and interests disguised as tradition seeped through the cracks of Qi and technique.
And I, seated upon the throne my father left behind, knew better than anyone that power and diplomacy always walked hand in hand — even when neither admitted the other existed.
The far north of the continent was a place of fragile balances: a mosaic of small powers, scattered clans, and fortresses that looked more like façades than true centers of strength.
If I were to lay out the numbers coldly, the geography reduced itself to categories: thirty-two low-level powers, among them our own Zhuge Island; only six intermediate forces; and not a single dominant one capable of imposing its will upon the rest.
In crude terms, that meant no one could move recklessly without consequence.
Any intermediate power that acted impulsively risked provoking the others — and with them, a chorus of retaliation.
Even a giant, when swarmed by dozens of smaller predators, can fall.
The analogies were simple and bled with truth: the political jungle was no different from the natural one.
That was why open war was rare.
Every move demanded justification, pretext, a "legitimate cause" to dress naked ambition in the cloak of righteousness.
Declaring war outright was foolish — it exposed intent too clearly and invited alliances to form against you.
Better to disguise offense as defense, to incite internal conflict, to strip your opponents of legitimacy and act from the shadows.
It was precisely that strategy I had witnessed before.
The Shu Clan — an old rival, a predictable piece on this board — had been chosen as the first vehicle for such a ploy.
They spread blame, questioned the stability of the imperial family, and — through calculated political maneuvering — tried to create a moral vacuum that would allow them to seize influence indirectly.
When I responded with force, showing that the throne still carried both power and resolve, that narrative collapsed.
Their curtain of legitimacy was torn to shreds.
They lost their excuse… so they sought another.
And from the trail of evidence my sister had been gathering — trade interruptions, coded messages between clans, requests for "cultural councils," and now, the historical petition demanding the return of the Martial Tournament of the New Generations — it became clear that they had decided to strike where resistance would be weakest.
Their goal was not to overthrow the throne in one blow.
It was to corrode us from within — to erode our unity, to exploit the cracks of youth and ideology.
To turn the new generation into their weapon.
It was a simple, cruel, and effective move: revive a "festive" tradition under the guise of culture, transforming it into an arena where clans could publicly compete for prestige while, behind the curtains, buying influence through alliances, funding, and sponsorships that would bind the young victors to their will.
If they won, they would gain heroes to parade, disciples to mold, and loyalties to harvest.
If they lost, they would still have kindled resentment and fractured allegiances within our ranks.
The document Su Lan had brought me wasn't a nostalgic request.
It was a coordinated strike — orchestrated by over fifty clans, not all desperate, not all foolish, but numerous enough to fabricate a sense of normalcy and social pressure.
The tournament would be their perfect excuse: a festival of "heritage and unity" that, beneath its painted smile, would sow the seeds of instability among our youth.
I looked at the pile of folders before us, arranging each piece in the mental board that had become second nature to me.
If we acted carelessly, reinstating the tournament would mean giving them the stage they desired — a platform of rules, sponsors, and judges that could easily be manipulated.
But to refuse too harshly would be just as dangerous: we'd risk inflaming public opinion, painting the throne as the enemy of tradition and culture, handing them even stronger ammunition.
That was the game: to choose between denying them their stage and facing subtle social rebellion… or accepting the stage and mastering it from within — manipulating the play before they realized who was directing it.
I took a slow breath, letting clarity return.
Panic was the enemy of precision.
And as Su Lan waited for my response, I knew that whatever we did next would have to be executed not just with strength, but with elegance.
Solving this problem wasn't truly difficult — in truth, it was almost a repeat of an old performance.
A play already written, needing only new actors.
The clans thought they were being clever, but at their core, it was the same old strategy: to challenge imperial authority not through swords, but through symbols.
And like every symbolic challenge, all it required was a symbolic answer.
The solution was simple — and predictable.
A Zhuge would have to enter the arena.
Someone of our blood, someone bearing the weight and name of the family, would have to step into that tournament and demonstrate, before the entire world, the same truth I had shown the Shu Clan:
that the child of a dragon is still a dragon.
It didn't matter how many clans gathered, how many generations united, how many arrogant youths were pushed forward by ambitious fathers.
All we would need was one overwhelming victory.
One demonstration of undeniable power — the kind that doesn't need to be explained, only felt.
A Zhuge would win, and with that, the structure would reassert itself.
The message would be clear: the throne was not empty, and the younger generation of Zhuge still stood at the pinnacle.
Not just I, the emperor, but all descendants of our blood — the sons of the empire, the heirs of the dragon — still towered above the rest.
It was an old method, almost archaic, but brutally effective —
the kind of political strike that could be resolved with a single fist.
And that was precisely why the clans had chosen this approach.
They knew it would force us to expose our weakest cards.
They knew that the strength of the throne, for generations, had relied less on youthful unity and more on the unmatched power of the former emperor.
The Zhuge family's reputation, as grand as it was, carried an open wound:
the belief that our younger generation was weak.
While my father's name inspired reverence and my reign maintained the fragile balance among the clans, most of the world had come to believe that the rest of our lineage consisted of pampered heirs, scholars of convenience, and sheltered cultivators who had never truly faced the world.
It was a rumor born of envy and nourished by convenience — until it became accepted as truth.
Now the clans had found a way to weaponize that belief.
They couldn't attack us directly.
So they decided to provoke us — to force the throne to prove, publicly, that it still deserved respect.
It was a cunning move.
And a cruel one.
Because, truthfully, they weren't entirely wrong.
I knew my siblings.
I knew their virtues, their talents — some brilliant, others still growing — but I also knew their flaws.
And what worried me most…
was that none of them were ready to carry the weight of this performance.