From Zhuge Fei's Perspective
"Princesses must be calm and serene…"
"Princesses must be elegant and well-mannered…"
"Princesses must dress properly and eat gracefully…"
Those sentences echoed in Zhuge Fei's mind like an ancient spell, repeated to exhaustion.
She had heard them for over fourteen years — almost every day, almost word for word — and always from the same voice: her mother's sweet yet unyielding tone.
Her mother seemed determined to shape her into the perfect portrait of Zhuge femininity — demure, graceful, untouchable.
The kind of princess who never raised her voice, who walked softly, smiled just enough, and left decisions — and battles — to men and generals.
But that had never been Fei's dream.
While her mother spoke of gowns and banquets, Fei dreamed of swords and wilderness.
She didn't want to be the delicate girl with flawless posture; she wanted to be like her aunt — the legendary general of the Zhuge clan, a woman who commanded armies and rode her own spirit beast into battle.
Fei wanted to sweat, to fight, to fall and rise again — even bleed, if that's what it took.
She wanted to be strong.
But destiny, it seemed, was determined to dress her in silk and ribbons.
Day after day, Fei was forced to try on expensive, uncomfortable dresses; to spend hours practicing expressions and proper table manners; to walk balancing porcelain bowls on her head; and to recite formal phrases she never intended to use.
And worst of all — the dolls.
Ah, the cursed dolls.
Her mother insisted that each one represented a virtue of noble womanhood.
But to Fei, they were nothing more than silent reminders of everything she never wanted to be.
How many times had she imagined ripping their porcelain heads off and burying them in the garden, just to feel that, for once, she had some control over her own life?
It all lasted until the day she turned twelve.
And that night, her world changed.
Her father's visit — the Emperor Zhuge, the man both feared and revered — was always treated like a sacred event.
Her mother spent days preparing, rehearsing speeches, teaching Fei the perfect bow, the exact tone of voice, the right way to breathe.
Fei hated every second of it.
During dinner that night, she was forced to display all she had learned: how to hold the spiritual utensils, how to greet with elegance, how to move with grace, how to speak at just the right pitch.
And while she smiled to please them, every fiber of her being screamed for freedom.
When the meal ended, her parents retired early — as they always did.
The castle fell into its nightly silence.
And that was when Fei saw her chance.
She slipped through the cold corridors barefoot to muffle her steps.
The ceremonial dress was heavy, dragging across the marble floor, but she clutched the fabric in one hand and ran like a small ghost through the blue-lit hallways.
The spiritual flames of the lanterns flickered as she passed, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to share her secret.
It wasn't her first time doing this.
In truth, Fei ran away whenever she could.
It was the only time she could breathe.
She would wait patiently for nightfall, listen for her mother's footsteps, and count the minutes until she finally went to sleep — or, on blessed nights, when there was some important social event that took her out of the palace.
On those rare occasions, the world seemed to return her freedom for a few hours.
The silent corridors became her secret kingdom.
She knew every turn, every tapestry, every shortcut — she could move through them with the precision of a shadow.
The servants, of course, had long grown used to it.
Two of them saw her pass — quick glances, a shared sigh — but pretended not to notice.
They knew trying to stop her was pointless.
Perhaps, deep down, they pitied the twelve-year-old princess trapped in silk and lessons.
Fei kept running, heart racing, feet gliding across the cold floor, until the main hallway opened into the inner garden.
It was one of the most secluded gardens in the imperial palace — a space surrounded by stone walls, blanketed in frost flowers and whispering trees.
It was her refuge, the one place where she could just be Fei — not "Princess Zhuge Fei."
She knelt on the ground, breathing hard, and pulled from beneath her skirt a small object she had hidden for weeks: a dagger.
Nothing special — just a short blade of plain steel she had borrowed from a distracted guard.
But to her, it was enough.
It was freedom.
She began practicing movements she had memorized from watching soldiers train — firm steps, sharp turns, short cuts through the air.
Her arms lacked strength, but her spirit didn't.
Each strike was an act of rebellion, each deep breath a promise:
One day, I'll be more than a pretty dress on a golden chair.
But that night, something felt different.
From the moment she started, Fei had sensed something — a chill in the air, an unseen presence.
Someone was watching her.
The wind had stopped, yet the hairs on her arms stood on end.
She froze mid-swing, spinning around, trying to spot the intruder.
Nothing.
Only the whisper of the trees and the distant trickle of the fountain.
Then a voice echoed — deep, calm, and resonant, carrying a weight that made the air itself tremble.
"You prefer weapons to dresses…"
Fei froze.
The dagger nearly slipped from her fingers.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
And then, from between the trees, he emerged.
The imperial black cloak.
Long hair darker than the night.
And eyes — crimson and sharp — that seemed to see through her very soul.
Her father.
The Emperor Zhuge.
For an instant, Fei wanted to disappear.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
She wasn't supposed to be holding a weapon, or defying her mother's orders, or challenging tradition itself.
Everything in her screamed fear and regret.
But he stepped closer — his face serene, his gaze unreadable.
"You prefer weapons to dresses," he repeated, this time with a faint hint of approval.
Fei swallowed hard, her body trembling.
Summoning what little courage she had — small, but real — she nodded.
His crimson eyes glimmered brighter, and then, to her astonishment, a subtle smile curved his lips.
"Good," he said simply. "Then I'll allow you to learn."
That was all.
A single, short sentence — spoken as naturally as breathing.
But in that instant, Fei's life changed forever.
Because for the first time, someone — and not just anyone, but the Emperor himself — had given her permission to be who she truly was.