Perspective: Zhuge Hei Lan
When the charade finally revealed itself, I didn't act.
I could have ended it before it even began — one move, two whispers, and not a single shadow of the Yuan He Clan would have drawn another breath.
But I wanted to see.
I wanted to know how far my little brother could go once thrown to the wolves.
And to my surprise, he didn't just survive — he fought.
From where I stood, hidden among the trees, I saw the exact moment the assassins revealed themselves.
The air trembled; black cloaks flared like a rising tide, and spiritual blades caught the pale light of the sun.
But at the center of that circle of death, Zhuge Han did not move like prey.
He breathed.
Just breathed — slow, deep, as if the chaos around him were nothing but a distant sound.
And then, suddenly, the silence broke.
The first attacker lunged with a curved blade, and Han reacted as if he had foreseen the movement.
The spear in his hands sliced the air in an elegant, precise arc — no hesitation, no brute force.
The tip pierced the man's chest with the grace of a painter's brush touching paper.
The elegance of the strike made me smile.
"Oh, so you're not just handsome, little brother."
The second enemy came right after, trying to exploit the opening.
Han turned, stepped back half a pace, and brought the spear down in a short, clean motion, deflecting the blade and forcing it to the ground.
The attacker fell to his knees — and Han, without thought, turned the weapon and struck him across the neck.
The precision was impressive.
No wasted motion.
No brutality.
That silent coldness… definitely came from Zhuge blood.
But there were too many of them.
With every passing second, more cultivators moved around him, like wolves circling in turns.
And yet, Han stood tall, the spear spinning as naturally as breath itself.
The metallic sound of impact echoed through the trees, mingling with quick breaths and muffled cries.
The forest became a theater of shadows and blood.
I could feel the spiritual energy pulsing around him — intermediate stage of Spiritual Refinement, nothing more.
But the way he used it…
was almost artistic.
Each strike had a purpose.
Each defense, a calculation.
And most remarkable of all: he fought without rage.
While the others screamed, panted, and flailed between fear and fury, Han remained calm.
Every movement felt natural, inevitable — a continuation of who he was.
For a moment, I forgot I was on a mission.
I simply watched, fascinated.
That serenity reminded me of Su Yeon — the same control, the same posture.
But there was something different in Han… something more human, less imperial.
He fought to live, not to dominate.
The attacks didn't stop.
With each new adversary, the spear moved faster, more precise.
Two fell, then three.
Blood stained the ground, and leaves quivered with the pressure of Qi explosions.
Even wounded, Han stayed upright — breath steady, gaze focused.
The blue light in his eyes clashed against the red around him, and for a moment, he looked like a living painting.
But even art has its limits.
The enemies began coordinating.
One distracted him from the front while another hurled a spiritual blade from behind.
He managed to dodge by instinct, but the strike grazed his shoulder.
Blood.
And with the blood, his rhythm began to break.
The spear still spun, but slower.
His steps, once precise, now faltered.
And even with all his resolve, I knew —
he wouldn't last much longer.
My smile vanished.
Curiosity turned to irritation.
Not at him — at myself, for waiting so long.
From my perch high above, I closed the fan in my hands and sighed.
"Tsk… you people really don't know how to choose your time to die, do you?" I murmured to myself.
Spiritual energy gathered around me — dense, cold, precise.
My black mantle stirred with the wind.
And before the next strike could reach Han, I leapt.
The sound of my descent was like the beat of a swan's wings.
The shadows of the Yuan He Clan didn't even understand what had happened.
I was already among them.
When the final shadow chose to reveal himself, the air shifted in a way that made every hair on one's body rise.
It wasn't a roar or a leap — just a step.
And that step carried enough authority to make the others retreat a full pace.
He appeared at the edge of the clearing with the calm of someone who believed himself master of the place.
No rush in his stride — only measure.
His cloak hung straight, his boots barely sinking into the loose earth, and the presence he emanated was solid as carved stone — heavy, controlled, not theatrical.
I confess that even I, accustomed to darkness, found the sight surprising.
The Yuan He Clan was small, respectable within its limits, but far from grand.
For the patriarch himself to descend to that field meant this was no petty roadside quarrel.
It was a direct act against the throne.
He looked at me, then at Han, then swept the scene as if assessing a chessboard.
There was defiance in his gaze — the calm audacity of a man who valued risk more than reason.
And that alone told me what kind of opponent we were facing.
Han, bleeding, still held his spear upright; his breath was shallow but firm.
I could see the tension along his jawline, the cold glint in his eyes — not fear, just focus.
Behind me, the trees whispered in the wind; the ground itself seemed to hold its breath.
Words were unnecessary.
The patriarch's gesture — his choice to appear there in person, leading the ambush — was declaration enough.
If he came to challenge the Emperor, then he had to accept that such a gesture demanded an answer.
I looked at him once more.
He was there by his own will.
And if he had come to confront the crown with blades and formations, he would find one ready to answer.
And though the moment was grave, it all seemed very simple to me:
If he came, I would bring him down.