Perspective: Zhuge Hei Lan
I felt the exact instant Han gained enough distance.
That retreat of his wasn't chance — it was Zhuge calculation: breathe, create space, buy the time I needed to turn reaction into action.
With Han out of immediate reach, the patriarch of the Yuan He Clan lost his only comfort there — numbers.
All that remained was brute force and his desire to end everything with blood.
I smiled beneath my cloak.
It was time to remind him of the old rules — the ones that govern the world of cultivation and that fools often mistake for superstition.
One of them is simple: attacking the younger generation is a shortcut to eternal hatred.
To kill someone's heir is to sow two lifetimes of vengeance.
Perhaps the patriarch hadn't thought of that.
Perhaps he believed the cost was worth the victory.
I wasn't about to let him keep that illusion for long.
He charged with everything he had.
No tricks, no restraint — a direct assault, raw and overwhelming, designed to obliterate anything in front of him.
His Qi erupted in waves; the air vibrated; the leaves bent under the pressure.
It was the kind of strike that would force even a higher-level warrior to block with everything.
Exactly the kind of opening I needed.
I blocked.
The impact hit like compressed thunder.
My legs buckled half a step.
The shock rippled through my tendons, each bone trembling with strain.
For a heartbeat, all I thought about was endurance — hold the line, prove that a shadow can stand against stone.
And in that heartbeat — in that breath between forces — I moved.
Movement Technique — Ice Shadow.
It wasn't a leap; it was a fold in space perceived only by those who know the cold that cuts deeper than blades.
The image he struck was only a reflection — my silhouette shimmering for a second like mist under moonlight.
His blow tore through that illusion, and by the time the echo faded… I was already gone.
The sensation was glass-clear. The wind lost sound.
His blade cleaved the air where I had been, and the roar of impact rang hollow.
He let out a short, frustrated laugh — offended at striking nothing.
He hadn't yet realized that I had already chosen the piece that mattered.
Because in the world of cultivation, there are unwritten codes.
One of them: never touch another's offspring unless you're certain your own is safe.
He had forgotten that.
Or perhaps he didn't care.
I, on the other hand, fully intended to remind him — in flesh and consequence.
Time was short.
There was no room for elaborate displays.
So I chose the simplest target and the movement that required less flourish and more precision.
I opened my fan — a nearly casual motion, one smooth sweep of the hand guiding the air's flow — and the hidden blade flashed.
The metal kissed the heir's neck.
A single sound, thin and sharp.
The young man's throat gave a guttural cry — the kind born of shock and pain fused together.
The patriarch's expression changed instantly.
A father's agony is immediate, unmasked; it cracked the façade of pride.
He groaned — an animal sound, raw, instinctive — the sound of a man watching his own blood fall.
But I didn't intend to stop there.
The fan's edge continued its dance — after all, if I didn't end this in a handful of motions, their numbers and fury would shred me apart.
Before the heir's body could even fall — before his life could leave his eyes — I was already in front of the sister.
The clearing turned to slow motion.
Her face went pale, eyes wide, throat exposed like an unspoken promise.
My blade sought that fragile line; it moved with the grace of one who closes acts without noise.
And then something happened — something I hadn't entirely expected:
the patriarch reacted.
An unnatural motion — speed that didn't match his heavy frame.
He lunged, seizing his daughter and pulling her out of reach.
His body arched, muscles locking in an effort that looked as though it burned something deep inside him.
I saw the color of his Qi change.
It wasn't the cutting blue of ordinary refinement.
It was red — thick, searing — like burning spiritual blood.
He was consuming his own life essence, a forbidden and desperate technique: channeling one's vitality to create a brief miracle of speed and strength.
The crimson aura flared around him; glowing veins traced across his face.
Each heartbeat left deep furrows along his skin.
He was sacrificing something vast to save something greater — his daughter.
His eyes shifted the moment she was safe in his arms — not relief, but restrained panic.
I saw the veins in his neck bulge, his face twist as if he held the world itself between his teeth, and then — the gesture:
the patriarch took two steps back, cast me one last look heavy with promise and fear, and turned away.
He didn't hesitate.
He broke into a sprint with a speed that defied his size — a run driven by desperation and a forbidden fuel.
The reddish aura wavered around him, every stride burning more of his own life to gain distance.
It was raw, brutal, and utterly rational: flee, preserve blood, avoid collapse.
I could see the logic of his choice as clearly as if someone had written it in the air.
While the blood burn lasted, he'd have speed and strength; when it ended, the backlash would come — an irreversible breakdown of body and Qi.
If he stayed to fight, every strike would cost him more than he could afford; if he fled, he might save his daughter and rebuild enough strength for vengeance later.
That was the decision he made: his child's life over pride — calculation over honor.
He vanished toward the horizon, toward Zhuge Island, his steps tearing the sky between the trees.
Dust rose in his wake; the sound of his escape faded into silence, leaving behind a heavy void.
The fan in my hand folded shut by itself — as if it knew the game was over.
I didn't pursue him.
His head, without question, could have bought me gold and status in the palace — and the idea of bringing it back as a trophy had a savage allure.
But in that moment, the choice was obvious: Han was still bleeding somewhere in that forest, surrounded and barely alive.
Family outweighed politics.
I preferred keeping my brother's head on his shoulders to collecting another man's for glory.
Turning my back to the horizon where the patriarch had vanished, I felt the cold breeze of the clearing touch my back.
Without looking behind, I stepped into the forest.
The canopy's shadows swallowed me; the scent of bark and moss wrapped around me.
I followed Han's Qi trail — faint, uneven, flickering like a trembling candle — and disappeared into the green.