From the perspective of Zhuge Su Yeon
The ancestral hall was immersed in silence.
The smoke of the incense rose in lazy lines, curling toward the high ceiling as if even the air itself hesitated to move. The carving of the dragon that supported the back of my chair seemed to watch the scene with me—patient, motionless, eternal.
In front of me, ten figures stood in line.
Ten youths, ten promises.
They were no longer the children who once shrank at the mere word "tournament." Those weeks of insane training had burned away their hesitations like fire consuming straw. Each stance carried firmness; each gaze, a spark not easily extinguished. Yet there was still reverence in them—the reverence that always arises when one realizes they stand before the patriarch.
Silently, I relived the memory of some months ago.
Back then, they were only heirs eager to prove something. I forced them to forget the styles inherited from their fathers, styles that served more as decoration than weapon. I tore comfort from them, molding them with techniques that were not their own but that suited the little time we had. And it worked. The whole of Grey Sky witnessed their victory—the tournament was not merely won, but turned into a stage for the rise of the Zhuge name.
Now, however, the board had changed.
What stood before me was not just a row of young warriors.
They were pieces of a future I needed to carve.
I observed them in silence long enough for them to wonder if my voice would come at all. The weight of the moment piled up, as if the very walls of the hall waited with them.
Finally, I spoke.
— A few months ago, I gave you a truly difficult mission — my voice was low, firm, but its echo ran across the hall as if every stone wanted to repeat it. — And I must say, you have greatly exceeded my expectations.
I let the phrase rest between us. It was not a free compliment; it was a fact. Each one of them knew how much they had bled, how much they had suffered. And each one of them now had the right to hear those words without a shadow of doubt.
— Therefore, — I continued, raising my chin slightly — each of you in this room deserves my praise.
The answer came without delay.
As if rehearsed, the ten bowed lightly, their voices united in solemn cadence:
— We did no more than our duty to the clan, Patriarch.
The sound reverberated, not as a shout, but as an oath.
I smiled faintly.
Naturally. In stories like this, young men always respond like disciplined soldiers. The author would love to call it absolute loyalty. I called it by another name: successful molding.
— This time I have summoned you here with a proposal that is somewhat new, yet also complementary. — My voice was calm, but its weight made even the torches on the walls seem to listen. — As you should already know, the foundations of any battle cultivator are five: Cultivation, Mental Cultivation, Body Cultivation, Martial Art, and Movement Art.
The breathing of the ten seemed to align, as if each had just engraved those words into stone.
— Previously — I went on, adjusting my robe and tilting my head slightly — due to the little time we had, I gave each of you only three of those foundations. In addition to your cultivation technique, each of you received a set of two distinct techniques, chosen to forge in you a foundation solid enough not to tremble before the tournament.
I recalled the haste of those days: the nightly training, the weary eyes, the way each one swallowed pain in silence simply because the order came from me. All survived. All won. That already said enough.
— Now, — my voice fell firm, like the blade that completes a cut — I will give you the two complementary techniques.
I stretched my hand to the side.
A low table of polished black wood awaited in silence. Upon it, twenty manuals rested in pairs. Each pile bore a name, inscribed in fine jade, and each pair of techniques seemed to pulse with dormant Qi. The discreet glow of the inscriptions formed a strange contrast with the austerity of the ancestral hall.
They were not ordinary techniques.
All were of Earth rank, initial level—legacies that any youth of a mid-tier sect would sell their lineage to obtain. Chosen carefully, taken from the dusty shelves of the black castle, they now lay there, like seeds waiting for hands capable of making them sprout.
— Each of these piles has been separated for you. — I added, letting the sentence rest as the promise it was.
The silence that followed was dense, almost tangible. The ten, however, did not move forward. None dared even set a foot toward the table. Their backs remained straight, their eyes fixed on me, not on the manuals.
Only then did they bow in unison, like a river that naturally finds its bed.
— We thank the Patriarch.
Nothing more. No steps, no haste.
They waited for me to continue.
I smiled inwardly.
Discipline was not the fruit of blind submission—it was the result of what I had planted. They did not run after techniques like starving dogs. They knew how to wait. And that simple detail already set them above most young cultivators of the empire.
The flames of the incense wavered slowly, projecting long shadows across the young faces before me. All remained motionless, awaiting each word, as if the ancestral hall only breathed when I decided to speak.
I folded my hands over the arm of the patriarch's chair and proceeded:
— I will not dwell long on explaining your strengths and weaknesses this time. — My voice echoed firm, unhurried. — I know each of you has proven such points on your own skin… and therefore, you also know the path to improve.
Some faces hardened. It was not rebuke, but memory. Every fall in the tournament, every training that tore muscles and broke bones still lived in their bodies. I did not need to repeat it.
— Moreover, — I continued, my gaze sliding from one to another — as you may have already realized, the martial techniques you have mastered, as well as those I now give you, are profound. So profound that, at present, you cannot truly show their full potential.
The statement fell upon them like cold water. But none recoiled. Only firm eyes, breathing deep, absorbing each syllable.
I inclined my head slightly, letting my tone become even calmer:
— Therefore, in the coming years, I do not want you to rush your cultivation… or your learning. Take the time necessary to evolve at a steady, solid pace. With stable foundations, only then will you be fit to truly display your talents.
The hall remained silent. The kind of silence that weighs more than any roar.
— These are my counsels for you. — I concluded, raising my eyes as if issuing a decree. — Are you willing to listen to me?
The words fell like an invisible test, and even the incense seemed to hesitate before releasing more smoke.
The answer came in unison, firm as the beating of ten drums in the dead of night:
— We are willing, Patriarch.
The sound echoed through the ancestral hall and faded slowly, as if the very stones wished to keep the promise.
I inclined my head in a brief, almost imperceptible gesture. There was nothing more to say. Excess words only weaken an order—and I had already spoken too much for a single day.
I waved my hand lightly.
Mei Lan stepped forward. Without altering the cold rhythm of her breath, she guided them in silence, leading them to the black wooden table. One by one, in perfect order, each youth extended their hands and collected the pile that bore their name carved in jade. There was no haste, no disorder. Only discipline.
The techniques, chosen from the heart of a forgotten ruin, now passed into hands that still trembled with youth. Yet, seeing them hold those manuals as if they were sacred burdens, I realized that perhaps the author still had not learned: true inheritance lies not in the pages, but in the silence each of them carried within.
When all had finished, they turned to me, bowed in respect, and then withdrew.
Their steps echoed through the hall like rhythmic drops, until the ancestral door creaked and closed behind them.
Silence returned.
It always does.
There, alone once more, I remained seated in the patriarch's chair, surrounded by incense and long shadows. An empty hall… but in its emptiness, fuller of future than ever.
It was then that an ancient yet familiar voice emerged from the hall's shadows.
There was no weight of demand, no coldness of judgment. There was… affection.
— If I had known you would be such a good patriarch, I would have handed you the position long ago, little Yeon.
The sound echoed softly, but each word had the firmness of stone polished by a river.
From the dark corners, a figure revealed itself.
An old man, yes, but with a presence so solid he seemed capable of holding up the very ceiling with his posture alone. His shoulders were broad, his back straight as walls, and even under the evident weight of age, each step revealed the strength guarded in muscles that never surrendered to weakness.
His hair, entirely white, was cut short—not in a rigid military style, but with a careless nobility, like snow resting on threads of steel. His face bore few wrinkles, only discreet marks left by time, as if fate itself had hesitated to carve too much upon that skin. A short, well-trimmed beard outlined a strong chin.
His robes were traditional, in the pattern of the Zhuge clan: thick layers of silk in deep gray and dark blue, embroidered with the Zhuge white swan in silver thread. He dressed not as a warrior in battle, but as a rock that had crossed eras and still stood firm.
His eyes… ah, those eyes.
They were a misty blue, marked by serenity, yet hiding the vigorous gleam of one who never surrendered. A grandfather's body, but with the soul of a patriarch that never fades.
This was Zhuge Liang Shen, my grandfather.
Father of my mother, Zhuge Mei Yun.
And the former patriarch of the Zhuge clan.