From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
There was a silent conspiracy among my siblings and stepmothers — an unwritten agreement repeated so often in whispers, glances, and assumptions that it had become an accepted truth within the imperial castle.
They said I was our father's favorite son.
It was a curious title… and a deeply uncomfortable one.
Apparently, for all of them, that conclusion was obvious — almost inevitable.
After all, among the thirty-three children, I was the one who spent the most time at the emperor's side, who knew his habits, his silences, his peculiarities.
I was also the only one, they claimed, whom he had personally decided to train — something that, within the Zhuge Clan, was the greatest symbol of approval and trust a father could bestow upon a child.
And yes, there was some truth to that.
I couldn't deny it.
Since my youth, I had been the one he kept close — during political meetings, trips to other islands, long discussions about cultivation, bloodlines, and ancient realms.
My father rarely spoke of feelings, but he shared knowledge — and in the world we lived in, that was the most intimate gesture a man of power could offer.
But even if those arguments held some merit, I disagreed entirely with their conclusion.
There was a far more complex — and far less glorious — reason he had kept me so close.
And that reason, unfortunately, was something I had no permission to share with anyone.
Not with Su Lan, not with Yui Lan, not even with my mother.
It was one of the many secrets he had entrusted to me, instructing that I carry it to my grave, no matter the cost.
That burden — of holding truths that could never be spoken — was, perhaps, the real price of being the so-called favorite son.
Even so, deep down, I knew the title didn't belong to me.
Not really.
If I'd had the right to speak in that family conspiracy, I would've argued without hesitation that my father's true favorite had always been someone else.
And that someone had a name.
Zhuge Yu Jin.
The irony of it was almost comical.
The same brother everyone considered the most troublesome, the most rebellious, the most unpredictable of all our lineage — he was, in truth, the one who truly moved our father's heart.
I could prove it.
Not with sweet words, but with memories.
The only times I ever saw Emperor Zhuge truly worried — not pretending for politics, not feigning disappointment as a ruler, but genuinely afraid as a father — were all because of Yu Jin.
I remember one incident vividly, from our childhood.
Yu Jin had vanished for three days after setting fire to a temple that, according to him, "stole the shine of the stars."
While the generals tried to justify it and the stepmothers whispered about punishments, my father said nothing.
He neither ate nor slept.
He simply stood by the frozen lake, staring at the moon's reflection as if it might bring the boy back.
And when they finally found Yu Jin — injured, covered in ash, still smiling — my father embraced him.
He didn't punish him.
He didn't scold him.
He just held him.
That day, I realized something I would never forget:
Yu Jin could bring the entire empire to ruin, and still, in the heart of the most powerful man on the continent, there would always be room for forgiveness.
It had never been that way for the rest of us.
When I erred, I received cold instruction and a lecture on restraint.
When Su Lan failed, he gave her heavier responsibilities to test her resolve.
When Han caused trouble, he scolded him harshly, then ignored him until he learned his lesson.
But Yu Jin…
Yu Jin was different.
When it came to him, the emperor never reacted with anger or authority — he reacted with fear.
And fear… is something we feel only for what we truly love.
That's why every time someone calls me the "favorite son," all I feel is a trace of bitterness.
They don't understand what they're saying.
They confuse proximity with affection, and discipline with privilege.
I was the one he trained.
But Yu Jin was the one who reminded him he still had a heart.
And perhaps that's why, when she told me he was coming back…
the weight I felt in my chest wasn't just political concern.
It was fear.
Because, as I've said before…
before leaving, my father left me only two things.
The first was a ridiculous note, scribbled hastily in his careless handwriting, dripping with the irony he never seemed to abandon — not even before the throne itself.
I remember the words perfectly, as if I still read them every day:
"Enjoy the throne — if you know what I mean."
Nothing more.
No counsel.
No solemn farewell.
None of the weight or wisdom one might expect from a legendary emperor walking away from everything.
That line — short, mocking, insolent — was his final message to me.
A private joke between father and son… or perhaps just another provocation from a man who treated destiny like a game.
But he also left me a letter.
Unlike the note, this one was a quiet artifact, sealed by an ancient energy I could never fully identify.
The seal wasn't made of wax or ink, but of pure Qi — condensed into a floating sigil that shimmered softly above the paper's surface.
At times, when I stared at it, I could swear it breathed.
It wasn't lack of will that stopped me from opening it — quite the opposite.
For months, I wrestled with the temptation to break the seal through spiritual force.
But the letter itself reacted to every attempt, trembling as if alive, rejecting even the faintest intrusion.
One pulse of Qi too strong, and the seal flared, pushing back like a living creature.
There was, however, an explanation written right across its front, in my father's firm and elegant handwriting:
"This letter will open itself when the time is right.
With it, you will understand Yu Jin better."
Those words — simple, direct — have echoed in my mind ever since the day I first read them.
There was no mention of politics, of the throne, or of Zhuge Island's destiny.
No instructions on governance, legacy, or how to deal with the circling clans.
Nothing.
The only thing my father thought worth leaving me… was a letter about Yu Jin.
And that alone said more than any message it could contain.
My brother — the so-called Zhuge Catastrophe, as many called him in fear and mockery — was, in some way, the axis of everything my father still deemed important.
Even as he left — abandoning an empire and dozens of children — he felt compelled to leave a warning, a message, an explanation…
and all of it was about Yu Jin.
That could only mean one thing.
No matter how much I tried to analyze the facts — the deaths, the scandals, the exile to the monastery — something always escaped me.
My father saw in Yu Jin something none of us could.
Something that haunted him.
Something that silenced him.
A secret.
A power.
Or perhaps… a curse.
I didn't know what that letter contained — and maybe I didn't want to.
But if a man like my father felt the need to write something only about Yu Jin,
then there had to be something far more terrifying in my brother than I could ever imagine.