Perspective: Zhuge Han
Honestly, I still couldn't understand how things had gone so wrong — and so quickly.
It all seemed to have collapsed around me absurdly fast, as if fate itself had been waiting for a single act of goodwill just to punish me for it.
And the most irritating part was that I could swear my intentions had been pure.
Every single one of them.
No hidden motives, no calculation, no benefit.
Just... courtesy.
But apparently, even courtesy had a price in this world.
Thinking back on how it all began almost felt naïve now.
The Yuan He Clan — respectable, though a little too eager for alliances — had approached me last winter. Nothing unusual.
Two siblings: the elder, Yuan He Ming, and his younger sister, Yuan He Lian. Young, well-mannered, polished.
They had visited my mother's estate during the sect's winter recess, bringing small gifts and the kind of deference that minor families usually displayed before an imperial title.
At the time, I saw no harm in it.
Being a prince had never been a role that appealed to me, but I learned early that certain formalities were unavoidable.
People didn't visit a Zhuge just for companionship — they came seeking something, even if it was merely the reflected prestige of the name.
And to be fair, I didn't mind.
If they sought benefits through good relations with me, they could have them. I had nothing to lose.
My mother received them graciously, as she always did with northern guests.
There was tea, polite conversation, compliments about the landscape and the island's winter — the kind of scene I'd witnessed all my life.
The Yuan He siblings, at least, had the merit of restraint: they spoke little, gestured little, and knew when to leave.
Nothing — absolutely nothing — suggested a problem.
So when the final day of the recess arrived and they sought me out again, I still thought it was merely a gesture of courtesy.
This time, however, they didn't come empty-handed. They brought a request — simple, direct, and seemingly harmless.
They wanted me to introduce them to the Xintou Sect.
It was at that moment that the pieces fell into place.
They weren't interested in friendship.
Nor in me, for that matter.
They wanted access.
The Xintou Sect was no ordinary name. Though not among the largest cultivation centers, its territory was a sanctuary for scholars and practitioners seeking balance and knowledge.
And I, being a relatively respected disciple — not a star, far from it, but someone with a decent reputation and free access — was the perfect shortcut for anyone wanting an easier path through its gates.
And that was precisely why I saw no issue.
Introducing two promising young people would cost me nothing and wouldn't affect my reputation within the sect.
Besides, Yuan He Ming and his sister had always conducted themselves with the kind of refinement that made refusal seem rude.
So I agreed.
The journey was peaceful at first.
The weather was clear, the wind gentle, and the mountain roads were shrouded in a thick white mist, like folded veils of morning frost.
The silence suited me well.
Silence had always suited me well.
But the girl, Yuan He Lian, seemed to have a... conflicted relationship with it.
At first, it was just innocent chatter —
about the weather, the mountains, the differences between the north and her homeland.
Then came the questions.
Some trivial — about the sect, my daily routine, the life of inner disciples — and others far more personal than propriety should allow.
Nothing offensive.
But nothing I particularly enjoyed either.
She spoke a lot.
And while her words weren't foolish, there was in them a constant enthusiasm, an almost invasive curiosity, as if every answer I gave was an invitation for ten more questions.
It wasn't exactly uncomfortable — at least, not at first.
But I began to sense something different in the way she looked at me.
Yuan He Lian was young, perhaps two or three years my junior, and possessed that kind of calculated beauty that is built with intent: perfectly arranged clothes, perfumed hair, a practiced smile.
The kind of beauty that draws attention because it knows it should.
I, on the other hand, had little interest in noticing such things.
I remained polite.
Answered what was necessary, avoided what wasn't.
And when silence fell, I let it linger — but she, unlike me, seemed incapable of tolerating it.
It was as if every pause between our exchanges were obstacles she had to conquer immediately, filling the air with more words, more comments, more questions.
She sought closeness.
And I... only wanted to reach the sect in peace.
Even so, nothing she did crossed the line of decency.
There was curiosity, yes — perhaps even a touch of admiration — but no overtly improper intent.
She wasn't vulgar, nor bold. Just persistent.
So I decided to do nothing.
There was no need to correct her.
As long as her words stayed within the bounds of courtesy, there was no reason to create discomfort.
And thus the journey continued — she talking, I listening, and her brother watching quietly, as though nothing was worth noting.
The steady rhythm of the horses' hooves, the soft wind against our cloaks, and the distant crackle of the spiritual torches lighting the trail at night formed an almost peaceful setting.
Almost.
But something lingered — a faint thread of unease I couldn't yet name.
Something small, but real.
Perhaps it was merely the instinct of someone who learned too early that peace rarely lasts.
Or maybe just the premonition that, once again, fate had plans to place me somewhere I never wished to be.
Then, that night, the premonition took shape.
I woke without knowing why.
No loud noise. No sudden movement.
Just the clear, cold certainty that something was wrong.
My body reacted before my mind.
The air felt thicker. The Qi within the inn — which should have flowed serenely through walls sealed with runes — now moved erratically, as if touched by an unfamiliar presence.
I opened my eyes slowly, keeping my breathing steady, letting my vision adjust to the dim light.
Moonlight filtered through the translucent paper window, casting a pale rectangle on the wooden floor.
Everything was still.
Too still.
My room was simple — deliberately so.
A tatami bed, a low table, a small portable altar, and a spiritual lamp resting beside it.
Nothing there should have inspired fear.
Nothing could inspire fear.
And yet, the chill running down my spine was no illusion.
The air was heavy, and the silence… the silence felt alive.
Then I saw it.
Standing before me, on the polished floor, half bathed in shadow and light —
was a swan.
But not an ordinary one.
A Black Swan.