From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
Zhuge Su Yeon did not hate Yu Jin.
He couldn't — and, in a way, didn't even want to.
After all, Yu Jin was his brother, his blood, one of the many sons of the same imperial father.
But even without hatred, he was a constant concern — a presence that, even from afar, hung over the throne like an unavoidable shadow.
While Yu Jin was away — isolated in some monastery, trying to "tame his temper," as Su Lan would say with that mix of irony and fragile hope — Yeon could breathe.
He could push the subject into the darkest, quietest corner of his mind and pretend, with all the skill of a true emperor, that the problem didn't exist.
Some days, he even managed to believe it.
To convince himself that Yu Jin, in his absence, was nothing more than a distant memory — a name that belonged to the most turbulent, irredeemable part of the Zhuge bloodline.
But now…
Now he was coming back.
And that changed everything.
Yu Jin, wherever he went, carried chaos as if it were a part of his destiny.
It didn't matter where, why, or under what circumstance — he always left trails behind.
And the worst part was that this time, the chaos wouldn't stay far away.
It was coming home — back to Zhuge Island, to the heart of the political and spiritual structure that Yeon had fought so hard to preserve.
The mere thought of it made the hours feel heavier.
For years, he had worked relentlessly to maintain the fragile peace he had inherited.
Every decision was a carefully placed piece; every alliance, a delicate stitch in a fabric constantly threatening to tear.
And now, fate — or perhaps the family's own karma — seemed determined to unravel it all by returning the most unpredictable of all imperial sons.
Yeon exhaled slowly, eyes lowered toward the plate before him.
The dishes were perfect, as always.
Spiritual beast meat, roasted to golden perfection; white jade rice steaming gently; lotus petal wine, its aroma famous for calming even the most restless cultivators.
All prepared by the finest spiritual chefs on the island.
A feast worthy of an emperor.
Yet, for him, it held no flavor.
His fork touched the food, moving it from one side to another. From time to time, he forced himself to bring a small bite to his lips — not out of hunger (he hadn't felt that in years), but out of habit, respect for those who had served him.
He ate because he had ordered it — and wasting food would be unworthy of the title he bore.
Still, every chew felt forced.
The taste went nowhere.
Even the texture — once a nostalgic reminder of simpler times — now felt hollow, artificial.
His body was there, seated in the imperial dining hall.
But his mind…
His mind was miles away, wandering through thoughts he wished he didn't have.
Yu Jin's return meant more than the arrival of a brother.
It meant the arrival of a storm.
And as the moonlight slipped through the tall windows, reflecting on the golden chalices before him, Yeon realized — with bitter clarity — that the peace he had so carefully built, constantly threatened by unseen enemies, was now gaining one more opponent.
His own brother.
That was when I saw her.
Like a ray of light cutting through morning mist, she appeared — and for a brief instant, everything within me fell silent.
The heavy thoughts, the worry about Yu Jin, the echo of my father's sealed letter, even the dull taste of the untouched food — all of it simply ceased to exist.
My gaze, which had until then drifted emptily, found Bai Xuan Hua.
And suddenly, nothing else in the world seemed to matter.
She crossed the hall with that effortless grace only she possessed — steps light but firm, gaze alert, as if every movement was both deliberate and spontaneous.
She wore a lighter outfit than usual — rare for Zhuge Island, where the cold bit like steel.
But the day was unexpectedly mild, and the gentler weather allowed such a choice.
The fabric — soft white, almost translucent under the morning light — contrasted perfectly with her silver hair, cascading down her back like liquid light.
The simple cut of her robe only enhanced the purity of her form, and each fold of cloth seemed to flow with her every motion, as if the garment itself breathed alongside her.
The faint aura that always surrounded her — discreet yet undeniable — shimmered like a reflection of sunlight on water, making her seem ethereal, almost untouchable.
My fiancée.
The one woman I could never reduce to a political arrangement or a convenient alliance.
She looked at me.
And in her eyes, there was something that struck harder than any cultivation technique or ancient wisdom ever could.
Concern.
Silent, profound concern — the kind that needed no words to be understood.
For a moment, I remained still, simply watching her approach.
The echo of her soft steps filled the vast hall, each one marking a rhythm different from the steady pulse of my thoughts.
It was as if the entire environment bent subtly around her — the air warmer, the light brighter, time itself slower.
Perhaps she had noticed my weariness, the mechanical way I moved the fork, the lack of light in my gaze.
Perhaps she simply felt that something was wrong.
But the truth was that she was walking toward me — and, for some reason, that alone was enough to make the weight in my chest ease.
I stood before she could reach me fully.
And when she stopped just a few steps away, I didn't think.
I simply moved.
I embraced her.
It was a simple gesture.
Natural.
But within the cold, rigid choreography of imperial life — where every act was measured, every word could turn into a political statement — that embrace was the only truly human thing I had left.
I felt the warmth of her body against mine, the faint scent of white petals, the soft rhythm of her breath near my shoulder.
For that instant, the entire castle faded into nothing — there was only her, the silence, and the space between two hearts beating at different tempos, yet in perfect harmony.
Hua stood frozen at first, surprised.
Then she relaxed, resting one hand gently on my chest.
When she finally looked up, I saw it — the same expression she had worn during the duel with the Shu Clan: that fragile mixture of fear and faith, of worry and absolute trust.
And it was in that look that I found my answer —
a simple, complete answer.
All my problems, all the political plots, the secrets of my father, the threats looming over the empire — all of it had a solution, as long as I was strong enough when the time came.
Strength wasn't merely the power to destroy.
It was the power to endure, to protect, to sustain.
And if my father had left me secrets, techniques, inheritances, and enigmas, perhaps it had been for this very reason: so that when the moment arrived, I would have enough cards to preserve the balance of the world he entrusted to me.
While I still held her, the understanding crystallized within me.
To be emperor wasn't about carrying the weight of the throne — it was about knowing when to play the cards destiny had placed in your hand.
And in that moment, with Hua in my arms, I knew:
when the time came,
I would play every single one.