Through the eyes of Zhuge Su Yeon
It was impossible to deny—the Han clan understood the stage as well as they understood the blade.And I don't mean cultivation or technique alone, but the oldest art of all: politics.
The moment Han Qian left the arena, applause still fresh on his shoulders, the judge barely had time to breathe before plunging his hand into the urn and drawing the next name.
A name that did not appear by chance.
The choice came sharp, like trading a fan for a dagger: a Zhuge.
An invitation disguised as a draw.Or, for those who like more romantic words, a challenge."If Qian did this... can you do better?"
A clever trick.And at the same time, a pity for them.
Unfortunately for the Han clan, they chose the wrong actor for this play.They called Zhuge Cai.
The name rang through the arena like an unexpected bell. Not because Cai was known outside the Zhuge clan—quite the opposite—but because among us all, he was the last one I would have chosen to "prove" anything to an audience addicted to blood and spectacle.
Opposite him, the pairing made the crowd murmur grow louder:— Han Zhi Rong.
The greatest talent of the Han clan after Qian.The youth whose reputation was watered with promises.
The curious thing about Zhuge Cai is that, among the ten promising youths, he was the only one who knocked on my door after receiving his lot of resources and techniques.He didn't ask for rare elixirs. He didn't ask for forbidden scrolls or ancestral weapons.He asked... for clothes.
— "Clothes?" I raised a brow.— "Not just any clothes," he replied, calm as one who had already calculated my reaction. "I want expensive fabric, noble cut. Something that makes even a patriarch hesitate before speaking to me."
In my mind, an image slipped through—of etiquette consultants and fashion advisers from my previous world, speaking of an important business concept.Image. First impression. The silent weight that precedes any battle.It made sense.
— "So winning is not enough." I crossed my arms. "You want your opponent to feel he's already lost before the fight begins."
He smiled faintly.— "Brute force and dominance. They are the two pillars of my Dao. If the first is measured in muscle, the second begins in the eyes of those who look at me."
It wasn't greed.It wasn't vanity.
It was method.
I nodded.There was no need to ask more. I ordered the clan's tailor and three merchants specializing in imperial silk to spend the night in a side hall, taking measurements, choosing patterns, debating embroidery. Cai oversaw everything.
The result?
Now, in the arena, he was the only Zhuge—besides Yu Jin—not dressed in white.His deep purple robe, sewn in flowing lines like soft chains, shimmered under the sun, adorned with golden swans that seemed to glide with every movement. The swan was not chosen merely because it symbolized the Zhuge clan, but because it embodied grace and ferocity alike—able to glide serenely over water, yet savage when its territory was trespassed.
In his hand, his golden halberd did not look like a weapon but a scepter—heavy, radiant, perfectly balanced between function and ostentation.
While Han Zhi Rong stood poised as a warrior ready to clash, Cai observed him like a sovereign receiving a subject who dared request an audience.
Cai descended the steps unhurriedly, as though fetching water from a well, not facing one of the city's most dangerous youths. Rong, for his part, entered the arena with the bearing of one who had rehearsed the role a thousand times: chin at the right height, measured step, steady gaze declaring "I've already won" before the fight began.
The judge stepped between them.The crowd leaned forward.And I... leaned back, certain that in the next moments I would witness the sweetest irony fate can offer: when the author chooses the wrong character for the right scene.
The judge raised his hand.The air shrank between them.— "Begin!"
Cai moved first. The Heavy Thunder Steps were more than a movement technique—they were a declaration. Granite groaned beneath his feet, each step a muffled thunder rumbling in the air, his purple robe billowing like a banner in march. He advanced with the fury of a storm, yet never lost the bearing of a sovereign, as though every inch gained was his by right.
Han Zhi Rong did not retreat. He twisted his stance, rooted his feet, and leveled his halberd forward, channeling Qi until its blade trembled with technique.
The clash was sharp and grand.Cai's halberd point met Rong's frontal slash mid-way, Qi colliding in a burst of gold and blue. The sound resounded like a wall breaking, blasting the air from the arena. Both were pushed back three steps, the weight of their weapons and strength still reverberating through their arms.
The crowd understood in that instant: this would not be a staged fight.Han Zhi Rong was indeed skilled—precise strikes, firm stance, Qi control worthy of one already glimpsing the next realm.Cai, on the other hand, wielded the raw force of one who had just reached the ninth level of Body Refinement—still unstable, like a river newly freed from its banks. Yet even in that instability, there was presence—every move carried the composure of an absolute ruler, every defense a decree, every attack a sentence.
The halberds rang through the arena: steel against steel, wide sweeps forcing circling footwork, lunges straddling the edge between strength and control.Rong sought angles—low sweeps, high spins, trying to break rhythm.Cai answered with short, heavy steps, crushing advances, replying with upward strikes, always chin lifted, gaze steady, unyielding.
When both finally found the opening for a decisive strike, there was no hesitation.Cai raised his halberd overhead, Qi gathering along the edge as if the air itself was being drawn into the blade.
It was the Martial Emperor's Strike.
Rong spun his weapon in a full arc, channeling all strength into its tip, his whole body focused on impact.
Their weapons met at the arena's center.The explosion of Qi was so violent that pavilion banners snapped backward, and a shockwave swept through the stands, shaking dust from the columns.
The next moment, both bodies were flung out of the granite circle—each hurled to opposite sides, as if the arena itself had decided to expel them together.
The judge needed a few seconds to recover his voice.— "Draw! Both eliminated!"
Zhuge Cai, landing on his feet as though his posture could never be broken, adjusted his purple robe with a slow, deliberate motion... for even a retreat, to him, was part of the image one chose to leave in the world.
Han Zhi Rong, on the other side, was on his knees, lips stained with fresh blood. Though his cultivation was more stable at the ninth level of Body Refinement than Cai's, he could not withstand the force of an Earthly/Initial-level martial technique without paying the price.
My eyes returned to Cai.
And I could only wonder whether this youth had more talent as an actor... or as a cultivator.Perhaps both.And if it were up to me, he would be exactly that—with pride.
This kind of talent is not measured in Qi or accurate strikes alone. It is pure utility, adaptable to any organization. The stronger the Zhuge clan's image, the more enemies will think twice before choosing us as their target. The more time we will have to move the right pieces on the board. Even if my goal was to remain a shadow, it was good to have a card that could shine in the light.