Perspective: Zhuge Han
Honestly, never in my life had I been more grateful for the military upbringing my mother had forced upon me.
Every frozen dawn, every training session that ended in pain, every harsh lesson about discipline and endurance — everything I had once mistaken for cruelty now revealed itself as inheritance.
She hadn't been trying to kill me.
She had been preparing me for this very moment.
Because there, surrounded by the Yuan He Clan, nothing but instinct and technique could keep me alive.
The first strike came without warning.
A crescent of spiritual steel sliced through the air, aimed at the space between my neck and shoulder.
I pulled the reins, and my mount reared back with a sharp neigh.
At the same time, my body turned — the spear came off my back in a fluid, almost automatic motion.
The enemy's blade grazed my shoulder, parting the air with a muffled snap.
I answered with one of my own — the spear's tip drew a half-circle and struck his chest.
The impact threw him backward, his body twisting in the air before hitting the ground.
There was no time to breathe.
Three more came right after, spreading around me like coordinated wolves.
Their black cloaks turned them into shadows in motion — human silhouettes dissolving into dust.
The spear spun in my hands with the cold precision of memory.
The metallic ring of its shaft clashing against swords reverberated between the mountains.
I lunged, twisted, struck one in the thigh — his scream mixing with the hiss of wind.
Another tried to come from behind — I hit him with the spear's butt, shattering his jaw.
The third hesitated.
Hesitation was the first mistake.
The spearhead cut through the air — and a red line appeared where he stood.
Three down.
Ten still standing.
Dust began to rise.
The rhythm of battle filled the valley — steel, breath, spiritual energy trembling in the air.
The scent of iron mingled with earth.
My spear, dark with blood, gleamed beneath the pale sun as though it breathed.
But the problem wasn't their strength — it was their number.
And their coordination.
They advanced in waves, as if the formation had been rehearsed.
While two attacked head-on, others moved along the flanks, switching positions to disrupt my focus.
Their Qi was heavy, oppressive, and the synchronized thud of boots against stone beat the tempo of death.
With each exchange, I stepped back half a pace.
With each breath, their formation tightened.
My body still obeyed, but my mind had already begun to calculate the inevitable.
The spear danced through the air, intercepting blades, deflecting strikes, sweeping wide to keep them at bay.
But little by little, the movements grew shorter — less space, less breath, less time.
One strike came from above, another from below.
I blocked the first; the second tore through my robe.
Warm blood trickled down my side.
Nothing fatal. Not yet.
I lunged forward on instinct — the sound of the impact thundered through the field.
One warrior dropped to his knees — a direct blow to the chest.
But before I could finish the motion, something struck my leg — a spiritual talisman.
Explosive.
The blast sent me sprawling.
My spear slipped from my hands for a heartbeat.
I rolled across the dirt, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.
I rose immediately.
My muscles burned, but the spear was already back in my grip.
The steel ring at its base chimed as I spun it again, raising a wall of air to hold them back.
But the effort was beginning to take its toll.
The pressure of their Qi bore down on mine.
The dust had thickened to mist; my vision blurred.
And amid the chaos of weapons and breath, I noticed what I'd been trying not to —
the Yuan He siblings were watching.
Standing still.
At a distance.
The sister, Yuan He Lian, observed me with her arms crossed, an expression I couldn't quite define.
Not cold. Not cruel.
Just satisfied.
As if she had finally corrected an inconvenience.
Anger tried to rise — but there was no time for it.
Two more enemies struck from the right.
I spun the spear, blocking both.
The impact vibrated through the shaft.
One fell back; the other came close enough to carve a deep line into my shoulder.
Blood spilled freely, and my left arm began to feel heavier.
Ten against one.
Now eight.
But I already knew the outcome.
No amount of training, no reflex, no echo of my mother's shouted orders could undo the difference in numbers.
They were many — disciplined, cold — just as I had been trained to be.
But they had something I didn't:
the order to kill.
And by the rhythm of their attacks — fast, precise, unrelenting — I could tell they were merely waiting for the right instant to finish it.
The ground was painted red, and the sound of my breathing was the only rhythm left.
I still held the spear, but there was no room left for hope.
All that remained was instinct —
and the thought that if I fell here, I would at least fall standing.
My body was failing.
The once-fluid movements of the spear had turned heavy — it felt more like a burden than an extension of myself.
With every clash of steel, the sound grew distant, as though the world itself were dimming around me.
One attacker came with a diagonal slash.
I blocked on reflex, but another followed, cutting across my side.
Blood soaked my robes and spattered the ground.
The chill of the wind mixed with the heat of the wound, the taste of iron rising to my throat.
My vision narrowed, the world shrinking to the rhythm of my own breath.
My mind was calm — accepting the inevitable.
At least I would die upright — spear in hand, never kneeling.
And then…
A voice.
Soft.
Serene.
And yet sharper than the blade about to cut me down.
"How very cunning of you, Clan Yuan He…"
The words floated through the air, gentle as wind.
But their effect was devastating.
The warriors before me froze.
Their Qi faltered, their breathing broke, and even the sound of the wind seemed to vanish for an instant.
That voice was no ordinary voice — it carried authority, the kind that didn't need power to command fear.
I turned my head — and saw her.
She stood there, exactly as I remembered.
The woman who had delivered the letter days before — the Black Swan.
The shadow of the Empire.
One of my sisters.
Her black mantle rippled faintly in the breeze, drinking in the sunlight.
The golden runes stitched into her robes pulsed softly, and her red eyes — cold, luminous — fixed on the enemies with impossible calm.
The dust around her began to settle, as though even the air respected her presence.
No sound.
No motion.
Only presence.
The warriors of the Yuan He Clan, once so confident, instinctively stepped back.
Her aura pressed upon the field — dense, restrained, like a blade still sheathed.
My chest, still heaving, began to slow.
The spear in my hands suddenly felt lighter.
Not because the battle was over — but because the weight of death had shifted.
The woman turned her face toward me, and for a brief moment, our eyes met.
There was no emotion in her expression.
Only recognition.
And the faintest hint of gentleness — as if to say, without words:
You did what you had to do.