Perspective: Zhuge Han
I would very much like to say that everything ended that night — with the letter, the imperial seal, and the woman who vanished before my eyes as though swallowed by the air itself.
But that would be a lie.
That night didn't close the chaos of my week.
It only split it in half.
From then on, every day that followed felt like an extension of the same silent tension — a continuation of that cold weight I now carried on my shoulders.
An imperial warning wasn't something one easily forgot — especially when it bore my brother's seal.
In light of his words, I did what seemed most sensible: I obeyed.
Throughout the journey, I kept my distance from the Yuan He siblings.
Not rudely, but with the cold politeness a prince learns from childhood — the kind that sounds courteous but builds invisible walls.
I answered only when spoken to, with short, direct, neutral replies.
I avoided sharing meals.
I left before dawn and retired at dusk, claiming studies and meditation as my excuse.
Even the sound of their voices during dinner began to irritate me — not because of what they said, but because I now knew that every gesture of mine might be observed… and perhaps reported.
I needed silence.
Silence and distance.
It was the least I owed the Emperor — and myself.
The road to the Xintou Sect felt longer than usual.
The mountain chill, which I once found pleasant, now seeped into me like a constant reminder: the Empire always watches.
Every misplaced word, every misread glance… could become politics.
And in the Zhuge family, politics was simply another name for war.
So, whenever we stopped at inns along the way, I seldom stayed in the main halls.
I took my meals in silence, withdrew early, and kept company with books rather than people.
Silence, at least, never betrayed anyone.
But the peace I tried to preserve wasn't shared by everyone.
On the third night after the letter, when we had finally left behind the last stretch of the imperial road and began climbing the spiritual paths leading to the Xintou gates, I heard three soft knocks on my door.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
The sound was controlled, polite — but there was no mistaking who it was.
I opened the door with the calm of someone who already knew what he would find.
Yuan He Lian stood there.
Alone.
The corridor's lamplight fell across her face.
Her hair, tied into a simple bun, let a few strands fall loosely over her shoulders.
Her eyes — wide, bright — carried that mix of curiosity and impatience.
And her voice, when she spoke, had a sweetness wrapped in mild disappointment.
"Young Master Zhuge," she said, offering a faint smile. "The sky is beautiful tonight. The stars are especially bright. I thought… perhaps you'd join me to see them."
The invitation was simple.
Harmless, even.
But to me, at that moment, it sounded like a minefield.
For an instant, I considered accepting out of courtesy.
At that point, any other man in my position would have.
But the dragon seal still burned in my memory — and I knew what it meant.
I took a slow breath and bowed slightly.
"I appreciate the invitation, Lady Yuan He," I replied evenly, "but I'm afraid I can't join you tonight. I have a report to finish for my master at the Xintou Sect, and… it wouldn't be proper to neglect my duties."
For a moment, her smile held.
Only for a moment.
The gentle brightness in her eyes shifted — subtle, yet unmistakable.
Her gaze grew cold, distant.
The soft curve of her lips flattened into a rigid line.
"I see," she said quietly. "Duty above all, isn't it?"
I simply nodded, careful not to say anything that could sound like an excuse.
But the silence between us carried the weight of every unspoken word.
She lowered her gaze, gave a minimal bow — courteous, yet sharp — and turned away.
The faint echo of her footsteps faded down the corridor until nothing remained.
I closed the door, and for the first time since our departure, the air in the room felt colder than usual.
The lamp flame wavered, as though even the light hesitated to stay.
That night, I took long to sleep.
Something in her look unsettled me — not anger, not disappointment, but the shadow of wounded pride.
The kind of wound people hide… until they choose not to.
And it was only the next morning that I realized just how upset she truly was.
The day began like any other — and perhaps that was what made it dangerous.
The sky was clear, the air cold, and the pale sun filtered through thin white clouds with the soft glow typical of northern routes.
Our small group had left the inn less than two hours earlier.
The sound of hooves on stone blended with the whisper of trees and the distant hum of mountains.
Everything seemed normal.
Ordinary.
Peaceful.
And, as so often happened, peace was merely the disguise of a coming storm.
The Yuan He siblings rode ahead, side by side, exchanging soft words I didn't care to hear.
I kept a measured distance, matching their pace without drawing closer.
My mount — a calm gray mare — moved with steady rhythm.
Behind us, two caravan guards managed the cargo with their usual distracted diligence.
Nothing out of place.
Then, something changed.
There was no sound of attack. No shout. No gust of warning wind.
It was the silence that alerted me first — that unnatural kind of silence, heavy and deliberate, the kind that precedes predators.
The road, once flanked by low trees and brush, suddenly felt narrower.
The shadows around us grew longer — and when I lifted my eyes, I saw them.
Dozens.
Men and women clad in dark robes, positioned along the slopes and across the path, forming a closed arc ahead of us.
The metallic gleam of weapons caught the sunlight, turning the valley into a field of steel.
The horses stopped almost simultaneously — my mare gave a low, nervous whinny, and I noticed the Yuan He siblings' mounts tense the same way.
My heart quickened, but my mind stayed cold.
Experience had long taught me: panic is just another way to die early.
For a moment, I thought they might be bandits — some group of road cultivators ambushing travelers.
But one glance told me otherwise.
The robes, the belts, the weapons — all too coordinated.
Too disciplined.
And then I saw it.
The emblem.
A golden circle surrounded by crimson petals — the crest of the Yuan He Clan.
My stomach tightened.
This wasn't an ambush.
It was a siege.
But not a siege against us.
The way they stood, the direction of their gaze, the tension in their drawn weapons — it all pointed to one thing:
the target wasn't the group.
It was me.
I looked at Yuan He Ming — the elder brother — and caught the brief glance he shared with his sister.
Quick. Almost imperceptible.
But enough.
The kind of look that leaves no doubt.
They knew.
My first instinct was to count.
Five ahead. Six around. Possibly more in the trees.
No haste. No fear.
They were prepared.
And confident they wouldn't need to run.
My second instinct was to accept the irony.
By trying to avoid the problem, I had provoked it.
By choosing discretion, I had become a target.
And in that moment, I understood just how wrong the Empire was about "political relationships":
sometimes, the simple act of saying no is enough to start a war.
A breeze passed, lifting dust from the ground and setting the attackers' robes fluttering.
The markings on the earth began to glow blue — restriction formations.
The exits were sealed.
I tightened my grip on the reins and drew a slow breath.
The faint clink of armor beneath my cloak broke the silence.
Around me, the air began to shift — Qi condensing like the first tremor of a storm.
And then the truth crystallized within me:
They hadn't come to intimidate.
Nor to talk.
They had come to eliminate an obstacle.
And that obstacle, on that day…
was me.