From Zhuge Fei's Perspective
No matter how hard I tried to deny it — no matter how fast my heart beat with the excitement of finally meeting my sisters — I had to admit it: nothing that day compared to the moment he entered.
The most remarkable event of my day could only belong to the arrival of my eldest brother,
the current Emperor — Zhuge Su Yeon.
Until that moment, I had only known him through stories.
Stories that changed depending on who told them.
To my mother, he was the very image of responsibility and virtue — the son who inherited both the throne and our father's wisdom, the ruler who kept the empire steady despite countless wives, children, and court intrigues.
To the servants, he was almost ethereal — quiet, courteous, and, according to some, frighteningly beautiful, though so distant that even his shadow seemed to follow imperial etiquette.
And to me… he was just a name.
A name that appeared in reports and prayers, but never once before my eyes.
Until now.
The great doors of the throne room opened with a deep sound — like the echo of contained thunder.
The air grew colder — not by magic, but by the sheer presence that came with him.
And then he entered.
For an instant, I almost called him Father.
The resemblance was… terrifying.
The same posture — straight and regal — the same sculpted features of fire and ice, the same quiet authority that made the air itself seem to bow.
Even the rhythm of his steps — firm, steady, and silent — mirrored the one I remembered from childhood, when my father would cross my mother's hall to watch my secret training from afar.
They were identical — reflections separated only by the mirror of time.
And had he looked directly at me in that first moment, I might actually have spoken the word aloud: Father.
But only a few seconds of observation were enough for me to see it — the differences.
Subtle, but profound.
The first — and most striking — difference lay in his eyes.
My father's eyes were red.
Predatory eyes — the kind that hunt without moving, that strip you bare with a glance.
Eyes that burned even when he smiled.
It was a gaze that made the world bow — out of respect or fear, it didn't matter.
The world simply bowed.
My brother, however…
His eyes were black.
Not the ordinary black of ink or coal — but a dense, opaque black, as if it hid something vast within.
Looking into them for too long felt like falling into a silent abyss.
There was no fire there, no fury — only depth.
And that's when I noticed the second difference.
The presence.
My father was impossible to ignore.
Even among a thousand men — amid shouts, steel, chaos, and blood — you would always know exactly where he was.
His energy radiated like an invisible flame: consuming, commanding, absolute.
It didn't ask for respect — it demanded it.
But my brother… was the opposite.
Su Yeon walked so naturally that the world seemed to mold itself around his silence.
His presence didn't impose itself — it dissolved.
He was there, yet almost not; tangible, yet elusive.
If I looked away, I felt I might lose sight of him entirely — as if he were made of mist, of shadow, of silence.
And still, something about him froze the air.
Even the soft breathing of the servants seemed to fade away in his wake.
It was a different kind of authority — not that of the lion who roars, but of the predator who doesn't need to.
Zhuge Su Yeon advanced toward the throne, calm steps, serene gaze.
And when he sat down, the entire hall seemed to adjust around him — as if the throne, the light, even the cold of the spiritual ice itself recognized the true master of that place.
And I…
I stood there, watching in silence, not knowing what I was feeling.
Admiration?
Fear?
Or the strange certainty that this man — my brother —
was not merely our father's successor,
but the living echo of everything the Zhuge name represented.
That was when I felt a small tug at the edge of my robes.
I startled, thinking it was just the cold wind passing through the hall.
But when I turned, I saw it wasn't — the touch was human, gentle, discreet.
It was my sister — the one with crimson hair, the living flame amid the ice of the throne room.
Her lilac eyes were slightly widened, wordlessly warning me.
And when I followed her gaze, I realized the magnitude of my mistake.
All the others were kneeling.
The five sisters — each in her own way — bowed before the imperial throne, hands resting on the frozen floor, heads lowered in reverence.
The lights of the hall reflected across their robes, turning the scene into something almost sacred —
a portrait of order and devotion.
And I, standing among them… was the only one still on my feet.
For a moment, I froze completely.
It felt as though the blood in my veins had turned to ice.
My mind, usually so quick, simply stopped working.
I, Zhuge Fei — the daughter who had spent half her life being lectured on nobility and decorum, who had been forced to memorize every posture, every rule of etiquette —
had just forgotten the most basic of them all before the Emperor himself.
To kneel.
A simple gesture — yet, at that moment, it felt heavier than any sentence.
My heart raced, my face burned.
I could feel the heat rising to my ears, and the only thought that crossed my mind was:
If my mother were here, she'd die on the spot.
She would collapse right there — maybe take half the servants down with her — and haunt me for eternity afterward.
Because I had just turned a solemn imperial ceremony into an awkward comedy.
I dropped to my knees as fast and gracefully as I could — which, in truth, wasn't graceful at all.
The fabric of my robes slid across the icy floor, and the sharp sound of impact echoed far too loudly.
"F-forgive me!" I blurted, my voice much louder than I intended.
The sound pierced the silence like an arrow that missed its target.
And then — before panic could consume me entirely — a quiet laugh echoed above us.
Followed by a calm, steady voice that carried an almost impossible familiarity.
"Rise, sisters."
The tone was gentle, yet firm enough to leave no room for hesitation.
It was an order — cloaked in kindness.
"We are family," he continued softly. "There is no need for such formalities among us."
That voice…
It was his voice.
My father's.