Perspective: Zhuge Su Yeon
The great Zhuge Imperial Clan had always been… peculiar.
Its genealogy was less a line and more a labyrinth — a tapestry of names, titles, and intertwined bloodlines that seemed to defy any attempt at order.
And everything, invariably, began with my father.
To this day, I'm not sure if I even have grandparents.
I've never heard of uncles, aunts, or cousins.
Whenever I asked about them, my father would avert his gaze and change the subject as easily as the wind changes direction.
At first, I thought he did it out of disinterest.
But over time, I began to suspect it was something deeper — as if the family's own past were a forbidden territory.
My father…
The Emperor Zhuge.
The man who bore the throne as if it were just another inevitable burden.
His personal life was, to say the least, unusual — even for a sovereign.
He had twenty-six wives.
Not concubines. Not lovers — wives.
And by some miracle only the heavens could explain, he lived in apparent harmony with all of them.
They said he treated each one with the same respect, the same attention, and the same calm precision.
Maybe that was true.
Or maybe he was simply too skilled at concealing the weight of the choices he carried.
Either way, from that improbable harmony came what many would call a miracle —
thirty-four children.
Yes.
Thirty-four direct descendants of the Zhuge imperial bloodline.
Each one born of a carefully chosen union, each birth ceremoniously recorded, each name chosen with purpose.
Of those thirty-four, twenty-seven were women and only seven were men.
And within Zhuge Island, that was considered an anomaly.
The island's spiritual balance — the very power that sustains countless bloodlines — naturally favored women.
The energy of that place, shaped by moon and water, tended to produce female heirs.
That's why every male birth was regarded almost as an omen.
For some, a sign of blessing.
For others, a warning.
My father never explained the reason behind that imbalance.
And honestly, I doubt he ever wanted to understand it.
He simply accepted it, as if it were part of the inevitable pact that kept the Island alive and the empire stable.
But to me…
to me, every name in that lineage represented a weight, a role, a destiny we never got to choose.
And sometimes, when I think about it, I wonder if we're truly a family —
or merely the continuation of a project that began long before any of us were born.
My thoughts weren't unfounded.
After all, my family wasn't merely the imperial family — it would be more accurate to say that we were the Empire itself.
For as long as I can remember, Zhuge Island has functioned like a living organism, and each of us is an essential part of its body.
The other clans?
They call us sovereigns, but in truth, they're just distant voices echoing, trying to be heard within the golden walls of our palace.
The so-called imperial ministers — men and women who hold seats on the councils — are, in reality, indirect representatives of the allied great clans.
They decide nothing.
They merely inform.
They serve as the eyes and ears of their patriarchs, who watch us — and as messengers, bringing the opinions and interests of other realms to the throne.
But when it comes to real decisions — when we speak of war, diplomacy, trade, borders, laws, or heirs — there is no room for any name other than Zhuge.
The empire is guided by our hands.
Administered through our blood.
And upheld by the will of my stepmothers.
Yes — the twenty-six wives of my father, the same women the world saw as symbols of beauty, luxury, and harmony — were, in truth, the true administrators of the Zhuge Empire.
Each of them held her own domain, her own sector, her own responsibility:
one oversaw the armies, another supervised maritime routes, another commanded the island's spiritual essence flow, another managed the temples, others governed the subordinate realms, and some cared for the arts, history, and sacred records.
To outsiders, the imperial palace seemed a place of rest and nobility.
But within, every hall was a ministry, every wife a governing authority, and every decision a cog in a machine that could never stop.
And at the top of that structure — the point where all lines converged — stood Zhuge Su Lan.
My sister.
The one who inherited our father's gaze and intellect.
The woman who spoke in the throne's name whenever the throne chose silence.
Before her, that position had belonged to the Emperor himself — my father — but the burden of administration had slowly grown too heavy for a mind that preferred to concern itself with other matters.
He decided, then, to transfer that authority.
It was a silent agreement, accepted without resistance, sealed only with the trust of one who knew the strength of his own blood.
And when that role passed into Su Lan's hands, the empire did not tremble — it simply adjusted.
As if she had been born for that very post.
Personally, I never saw a reason to challenge that order.
The empire worked.
And as long as the name Zhuge stood atop every decree, it hardly mattered who wrote them.
Of course, such a structure was never public knowledge.
To the people of the empire — and even to many nobles — the throne was indivisible.
They believed every decision, every decree, every war declared or ended, came directly from the will of the Emperor Zhuge himself.
The "father of all" was seen as something almost divine — a constant, just, and unshakable presence guiding the empire's destiny with unquestionable wisdom.
But the truth was different.
Behind that solemn image were twenty-six minds working in perfect harmony, shaping the empire day after day.
The Emperor's wives — my stepmothers — were the administrative heart of our world, and my father, the center around which everything revolved.
And the most remarkable thing is that he hadn't chosen those women for beauty or status — though, without exaggeration, each of them was stunning.
No.
Their beauty was merely the veil.
The real criterion had always been competence.
Each of the twenty-six possessed distinct talents — some mastered politics, others spiritual arts, commerce, diplomacy, medicine, strategy, or cultivation.
Some had been born into great families, others discovered in lesser kingdoms — but all, without exception, were extraordinary.
My father never explained how he met them, nor under what circumstances he united them to him.
But observing their personalities and how their fields complemented each other, it was impossible not to see the pattern — he had chosen them as if assembling a perfect council, a living, flawless machine.
And naturally, such a meticulous structure didn't end with the wives.
If each one had a defined role within the empire, how could their children grow up without an order of their own?
That would be inconceivable.