From Zhuge Fei's Perspective
I always thought I was an exception.
An anomaly within the Zhuge family.
The piece that didn't fit the mold — the small flaw in a lineage built upon discipline, perfection, and imperial blood.
Since childhood, my mother would speak endlessly of my father's other daughters, praising their grace, delicacy, and composure.
I was the one who came home with scraped knees and messy hair, hiding stolen daggers in my sleeves during etiquette lessons.
The daughter who preferred the clash of steel to the chime of jade cups, the cutting wind of the mountains to the sickly perfume of the flowers my mother adored.
The daughter who sweated, who stumbled, who laughed at the wrong time — and above all, who never learned how to be a princess.
For the longest time, I thought that was a flaw.
Something that separated me from everyone else.
And perhaps because of that, I learned to observe the world from afar — from behind the palace windows, from the forbidden gardens, from the whispers of the maids.
While the others were paraded proudly before the public, I was kept behind veils — a living shadow of the imperial bloodline, someone who had to learn how to behave before she was allowed to exist.
But today…
Today, for the first time, I realized I might not be as alone as I thought.
Before me, within the magnificent Imperial Throne Hall, stood six other young women — my sisters.
Daughters of the same father, but of different mothers, different fates, raised in separate courtyards under opposing doctrines.
And yet, when I looked at them closely, I saw something that bound us together — something deep and invisible, something I recognized because it burned inside me too.
None of them fit the portrait of the "ideal princess" my mother had always described.
None seemed to fit perfectly within the gilded frames the clan had crafted for us.
There was in each of them the same restlessness, the same contradiction, the same untamed spark I had always believed was mine alone.
Every look, every stance, every quiet breath of theirs contradicted the myth of Zhuge docility.
And for a fleeting moment, I felt a strange euphoria swelling inside my chest — a mixture of relief and recognition.
Perhaps, in the end, we were all just six versions of the same restless spirit,
shaped by different hands but forged in the same fire.
The first who caught my attention stood closest to me — a tall woman, her presence almost incandescent.
Her long hair, a deep shade of crimson, cascaded over her shoulders like rivers of tamed fire.
Her violet eyes were serene yet carried a quiet strength, and there was in her a mature, intense kind of beauty that made the air around her feel warmer.
Her attire, formal but light, was a rich scarlet, embroidered with golden lotus and flame patterns, its layered fabric moving gently with the breeze.
She radiated power — but the disciplined kind, like a blade wrapped in silk.
The second was her complete opposite, and perhaps that was why the contrast struck me so much.
She had long, sleek black hair that gleamed like polished glass, and eyes so pale blue they seemed to reflect the sky itself.
Her features were cold, calculated — an elegance that bordered on the otherworldly.
She wore a white and navy robe in the traditional style, adorned with delicate sapphire jewelry.
She looked like a priestess from an ancient temple — beautiful, serene, and utterly unreadable.
The third sister had a completely different presence.
Her silver hair, braided with thin red ribbons, shimmered beneath the blue light of the hall.
Her pale skin and sharp blue gaze contrasted against the quiet strength in her posture.
She looked like someone accustomed to battle — shoulders straight, expression calm yet confident, the kind of woman who spoke little but said everything through her eyes.
Her clothes were simple yet refined: a dark crimson hanfu with gold trim, cinched by a jade belt engraved with the Zhuge clan's sigil — the soaring swan.
She radiated quiet authority.
The fourth was… different.
Her nearly white-golden hair flowed down to her waist, and faint spiritual cracks laced across her skin, glowing softly like lightning beneath the surface.
Her eyes — golden, bright as restrained thunder — contrasted with her calm, melancholic face.
She wore a light brown and silver set of spiritual armor, each plate pulsing now and then with stored electric energy, as if her very body held back a storm.
Even standing still, she looked like thunder waiting for the right moment to break the silence.
The fifth, unlike the others, didn't exude power — she exuded presence.
Her hair was a deep red, curly and untamed, tied back loosely with a violet ribbon.
Her green eyes sparkled with mischief and curiosity, and the half-smile playing at her lips suggested she rarely took anything as seriously as she should.
She wore dark trousers and a fitted black tunic beneath a violet cloak — practical, agile, the outfit of someone used to moving fast and breaking rules.
There was something relaxed and dangerous about her, like a storm that laughs before it falls.
And then… there was me.
The smallest among them — and, until this moment, the most isolated.
As I looked at them, a storm of feelings swirled within me: admiration, insecurity, and, above all, curiosity.
Each of them seemed to carry a whole world within — stories I didn't know, paths I'd never walked, powers I had only ever dreamed of.
The silence of the throne room was broken only by the whisper of the wind weaving through the icy vaults above.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt the Zhuge blood thrum powerfully within me.
Not as a burden…
but as something alive — something far too vast to fit inside me alone.
After all… if these five women were truly my sisters,
then perhaps — just perhaps — I had never been alone after all.