Perspective: Zhuge Hei Lan
I had to admit to myself — I had underestimated the patriarch of the Yuan He Clan.
From the first instant I felt the density of his aura. The air around him seemed to bend, as if every breath weighed tons. He was one of those cultivators who didn't need to display strength for everyone to sense it — it simply existed, overflowing from every gesture, every firm step on the earth.
Yes, I already knew he was in the Realm of Spiritual Condensation, the same as I.
But the mistake wasn't recognizing that — it was underestimating the gap.
While I had only just pierced the barrier of the initial stage, he was dangerously close to the intermediate stage.
A small difference on paper, but immense in practice. The density of Qi, the control over one's spiritual body, the pressure released in each motion — all of it screamed experience.
And that, for me, wasn't necessarily a problem.
I knew how to fight above my level. I could compensate for disadvantage with speed, precision and the most neglected element among proud cultivators: strategy.
But there was something I couldn't ignore.
Zhuge Han was there.
While the man in front of me smiled with the confidence of someone who had already decided to kill, Han fought a few meters behind me — exhausted, wounded, his cloak torn and blood running down his flank. Still, he gripped the spear stubbornly, ready to support me if needed.
And that was the problem.
I couldn't protect him while facing the patriarch. Not against someone that strong.
One way or another, I had to get him off that field. The fight would be hard. Any distraction, however small, could cost both our lives.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw him trying to catch his breath. Dust clung to his skin, sweat gleamed in the light, but there was determination in his eyes — that calm obstinacy that seemed hereditary among the Zhuge. It was beautiful. And reckless.
I sighed softly.
There wasn't time for explanations.
"Run." That was all I said.
The word sounded simple, but it carried Qi. It crossed the clearing like a command, a spiritual wave that pushed the air and was forceful enough that he understood without chance to argue.
I didn't wait to see if he would obey.
The patriarch moved in the same instant — fast, heavy, each step cracking the soil. His cloak billowed like the wings of an ancestral beast, and his gaze… his gaze was that of a man who craved an opponent worthy of him.
A slow smile formed on his face, thick with confidence and the lust for combat.
"Finally, a worthy opponent," he said; his voice vibrated through the air.
His energy rose like an invisible wall — a living force that distorted leaves and shadows. Every speck of dust in the forest froze under the pressure. And yet, I walked toward him.
One step. Two. Three.
My cloak opened to the wind, the fan in my hand snapped shut with a dry crack — and the cold aura that radiated from me met his like ice against flame.
He drew his blade. I advanced.
The two presences collided, and the air tore between us with a sound that was not a sound — a snap of contained thunder. The wind shattered. The surrounding trees bowed under the impact.
Then, without looking back, without thought, without hesitation, I did what had to be done.
I attacked.
The fight turned into a dirty game of chess — and I like chess.
The patriarch struck like one who commands armies: heavy, methodical, each assault designed to crush. His Qi was denser than mine; I felt it as someone squeezing the air around me. But dense Qi is not technique. Dense Qi is not art. Dense Qi is mass — and mass can be cut with precision.
The battle dragged on — steady, controlled, infuriatingly balanced.
The man before me was indeed strong. His Qi moved like a heavy tide, a wall of pressure that warped the air and shook the ground with every step. But brute force impresses; it does not decide.
I'd faced cultivators like him before — full of strength, brimming with confidence, yet empty of refinement. The difference between a mid-tier clan and an imperial lineage isn't the amount of Qi… it's the quality of how you use it. And he began to learn that in the first few minutes.
My motions were small, calculated, designed to waste the least energy. Every block of his cost me half a step; every strike I landed unbalanced him. Simple, a dance, death disguised as elegance.
His blade roared with power, cracking the ground, but when it struck me it met only air. The fan in my hand was an extension of my wrist, deflecting attacks with light snaps — tac, tac, tac — short, dry, rhythmic sounds. He moved like a bear trying to catch a bird. Strong, but blind to lightness.
Yet he did not retreat. He did not rage. And that told me everything.
He knew. He knew he might not win easily, perhaps could not kill me. But he also knew he didn't need to.
The patriarch of the Yuan He Clan did not fight for glory or victory — he fought for time. His objective wasn't to defeat me. It was to occupy me long enough for the rest of his men to finish the real job.
Zhuge Han.
I inhaled and stepped back half a pace, letting my gaze sweep the field. Among the trees I felt spiritual traces moving — quick, impatient. Eight of them. And in the middle of that web of energy, Han's flame of Qi moved like a faint blue lightning — weak, but constant.
My little brother had heard. He ran. And in a way, he was doing everything right.
The forest echoed the chase: snapping branches, the whisper of blades, the hiss of air cut by movement techniques. The pack hunted him like wolves scenting blood, and without seeing him I could sense Han using every ounce of reason and instinct he had.
But eight… eight was too many, even for someone of Zhuge blood.
I knew what the patriarch intended — and even knowing it, there was nothing I could do then. Intervening now would be signing my own death warrant and, worse, leaving Han vulnerable. The only help I could give had already been given: time. Time to run. Time to think. Time to survive.
I turned my attention back to the man before me. The patriarch seemed satisfied. His half-closed eyes showed the calm confidence of one who believes he's in control. He knew I understood the plan — and he seemed to enjoy it. As if he wanted me to feel the same despair Han would feel when cornered.
A cold smile touched my lips.
"Hm… clever," I murmured, parrying another blow and spinning the fan until the metal flashed in the sunlight. "Planning the murder of a prince takes a certain talent, after all."
He only responded with a half-smile.
"A talent the empire has underestimated for generations."
Clever, arrogant, and confident — a lethal combination for someone who doesn't know their enemy.
His breathing was steady, his Qi pulsing in waves, but there was a subtle flaw: a small lag between the movement of his feet and the motion of his hands. Something a clan soldier would never notice, but an assassin… would never let pass.
Assassin.
Yes. He was one. A man who killed out of necessity, who calculated out of duty. A man who saw the world as a board to be played.
But he forgot something simple. Something obvious that most men with too much power tend to ignore:
I am an assassin too.
And we do not hunt on the same level.