Perspective: Zhuge Su Yeon
If someone asked me to describe the woman standing before me, I'd call it a challenge — a true challenge.
The word beautiful was far too weak for this particular case; perhaps disarming would be more honest.
The magnificent scoundrel I called my imperial father had many flaws, but denying his taste would be foolish.
Choosing this woman as my fiancée — even when we were still children — was, in my sincere opinion, the most impeccable decision he had ever made.
Now grown, she was living proof that the frozen north still hid miracles when it came to women.
Her skin looked as if it were made from the finest porcelain, glowing like freshly fallen snow.
Her hair, a soft silver-white, flowed like strands of cold silk down to her waist — half-tied with delicate ribbons and fabric flowers, each ornament catching the light and returning it in a faint halo.
Even from afar, I could feel the softness of each strand as if it were already between my fingers.
At the center of her forehead rested a small ivory ornament — discreet, perfectly symmetrical — that drew attention to the flawless arch of her brows.
Her eyes weren't merely bright; they were mesmerizing, a grayish lilac that shifted with the angle, like ice reflecting the sky.
Her nose was straight and delicate, sculpted by the finest of artisans; her lips, pale pink, could drive any man insane if stared at long enough.
The whole of her was harmony — a harmony so absolute that, before meeting her, I hadn't believed such perfection could exist.
Her neck was long and smooth, its graceful lines begging to be kissed, followed by her slender collarbones, where a silver necklace lay — crafted in intertwining branches and translucent petals.
Her dress… was treacherous.
It wasn't bold — no daring slits, no revealing neckline — and yet, it was simply lethal.
Layers of spiritual gauze and thick silk formed a nearly white veil of pale lavender, embroidered with raised flowers that seemed to bloom directly from her skin.
The transparency was calculated: where the fabric touched, her form appeared in clear contour; where it fell in waves, it merely suggested — and that suggestion, I could only describe as the deadliest weapon I'd ever encountered.
The sleeves of her gown opened like petals, cascading from her shoulders like melting snow.
Her chest wasn't exaggerated, but rather shaped in perfect proportion — the kind that could make one redefine the meaning of balance itself.
The seams that supported and framed her curves were embroidered with floral patterns that subtly guided the eyes toward them without allowing distraction.
Her waist — her waist — was a problem of its own.
So impossibly narrow it seemed drawn with a plumb line, forming a brutal contrast with the soft, flawless curve of her hips — the fabric hugging that transition before falling straight.
There was nothing excessive about her; only the most precise proportions a woman could ever possess.
Her entire body was an equation of curves solved with surgical precision — delicate shoulders, a sleek torso, a sharply defined waist, and a full, harmonious hipline, every transition followed perfectly by the dress as if it remembered her movements.
And unfortunately — for my mental health — it didn't stop there.
Her hands — long-fingered, with short polished nails — were the embodiment of delicacy.
Her ears, the kind that made anyone want to touch them, bore earrings of crystal threads that trembled faintly with each breath.
When she tilted her head, a few loose strands brushed against her cheek and rested along the clean line of her jaw — and it became impossible not to imagine what it would feel like to touch that sculpture of flesh and bone.
Her posture was upright but never stiff — she occupied space like the moon filled a lake: effortlessly, without struggle, reflecting supremacy itself.
Even amid all the glamour of Zhuge Island, among dresses engineered to break any man's discipline, none could stand beside her.
She was the number one — the most beautiful of all.
Her presence alone reduced that entire parade of elegance to background noise; the rest became scenery, repetition.
In her presence, the world lost its color, the wind lost its voice — and I, the supposedly unshakable Emperor, found myself counting breaths just to keep calm, as if preparing for tribulation.
Yes, my father was without a doubt a magnificent scoundrel.
But in choosing this woman as my fiancée, he proved that even scoundrels, sometimes, can understand the Dao — if such a thing could be called a Dao at all.
Of course, fate never allows perfection to stand unchallenged.
And the smile Bai Xuan Hua — my fiancée — gave me now was proof of that: a delicate curve of lips that could light up winter, yet hid something far sharper beneath its beauty — ferocity.
It wasn't a gentle smile, nor a submissive one.
It was the smile of someone who knew her worth — who measured the room and never backed down.
A refined smile, with a spark at the corner of her eyes — a blue flame within ice: discreet, but impossible to ignore.
Xuan Hua's beauty wasn't static. It moved.
And with it moved that fierce personality — visible in every microgesture: the subtle lift of her eyebrow when I took too long to answer, the slight tilt of her head when she wanted to challenge me without words, the posture that seemed to silently declare that, Emperor or not, I still had to earn my place.
It was a violent contrast — but a perfect one.
She was water and fire at once — everything my life in the frozen north lacked: warmth, challenge, unpredictability.
I, who built my inner world like a spreadsheet of cold calculations, couldn't remain untouched before her.
Not after meeting her.
Not after standing by her side — dressed like that, with that posture, that smile that was both an invitation and a warning.
No man could resist that, no matter how disciplined he believed himself to be.
It was like trying not to look at the sun after seeing its light for the first time.
And yet, even knowing all that, I had to admit:
Bai Xuan Hua made my life infinitely harder.
Every gesture of hers felt strategically placed to test my composure.
Every word, a tiny fracture against the icy surface I cultivated within myself.
And every smile — that smile, the one she wore now as she sat beside my mother, watching my torment with faint amusement — was proof that, even as Emperor, I was just another player on a board where she moved the pieces as easily as she breathed.
She didn't need to raise her voice to destabilize me.
She just had to exist — fierce and beautiful — and the entire world felt tighter around me.
But even knowing that, even as my composure crumbled with every second in her presence, I was fully aware of one undeniable truth:
There was no turning back.
Not after meeting Bai Xuan Hua.
Not after having her as my fiancée.