Hello there. I am back with my new update. Three chapters. This one is on Chu, and the rest are on PruHunAus. No Fruk this time, and the Gerita comes a little later. Sorry, they live in the 15th century, and Yao can't always be with Ivan. Trains have not been invented yet. xD Besides, they need some time off from each other to let the characters develop.

Reply to History Freakk's review:

Lool. Well, I think Mongolia just looks a little taller and more muscular than an average Asian guy. Same facial features. Maybe skin that is a little more tanned, cause he is more of an outdoor type. :D Long black hair, tastefully groomed facial hair, little rugged. Not fat though... That is -cough-Ivan. No, wait, I don't want to die. I meant to say that Ivan is big-boned. xD

Hope that helps!

It was early in the morning, and the Forbidden City stood in heavenly lifelessness. Shy rays peeked from above the tower beside which they stood, showering the corrugated roof in golden silk. The air was still. So were the stone walls, the paved ground, and for a second, so was time itself.

All was frozen in a state of wonder, of purity, of absolution.

All was silent, save for Japan, China, a group of servants, and the emperor's chancellor gathering around a roaring fire.

"Sensei, Why are they doing this to her?" Japan asked. He was referring to the woman in rags who was tied to a stake, standing silently around of a bush of cackling, hissing flames.

China frowned, slightly irritated that his few seconds of serenity had been disrupted. "She was a whore," he said, slowly, simply. No more words were needed.

But, looking back at Japan's increasingly curious face, he chose to continue, "She was one of the chancellor's concubines, and such is the punishment for infidelity."

However, China knew that, like all women of the palace, she once danced with riches and bathed in finery. She had thought that she transcended fate, before it stabbed her in the heart.

Japan said nothing in reply, and turned his gaze back to the woman's fading figure. China spared a few more seconds for looking at burning pyre, before telling Japan that they must leave. The chancellor and his servants bowed as the two men passed them, to which China paid no heed.

Behind the palace was a mountain, with rocky scaling and a burly growth of timber. Though its peak now hid beneath the morning fog, on a sunny day, all of Jingshi layed beneath its feet. It was the perfect place for training, which was Yao's true purpose for taking Kiku out so early. Climbing such steep cliffs was the perfect way to build stamina, which Kiku direly lacked. If he were to master all of Yao's sword techniques, he would have to be able to traverse across mountains like flat ground. Much work needed to be done, as by the time they reached the top, Japan's hands had already bled through the thick layer of bandages that China had wrapped. His body had no energy left to even stand up straight, but his determination was enough to muster a makeshift fighting stance, as Yao, weapon in hand, launched at him at full speed.

The incident stabs and cuts were by no means intended to take his life, nor even make contact with Kiku. They were for him to practice how to reflexively dodge attacks and counter them with his own. But, worn-out as he was, Kiku couldn't help but let the blade win at cutting him every once in a while.

Though, he didn't show a sliver of pain as the weapon shot repeatedly, mercilessly at him, letting rivulets of blood run down his sun-burnt skin. Not once did he forgo an attempt at defence, no matter how futile. His sword cowered at his sensei's, but he refused to.

Not wanting to hurt him anymore, Yao threw the sword aside and resorted to hand-to-hand combat. But no matter what Yao threw at him, Kiku never faltered to retaliate, even if it meant breaking his knuckles at trying to out-punch his sensei. By now, he looked like he was about to tip over, but he still seemed unwilling to just... give up. Yao stopped, finally, to allow Kiku to catch his breath. His knees gave out as he dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach and desperately trying to balance hoarse breathing with swallowing blood.

Even China was surprised at his student's vigour today. For the hundreds of years Japan had stayed under his wing, China had never witnessed such relentless ambition, such angry determination. It disturbed him, but not more how it made him feel proud. Spirit saved mere physical strength in the world of martial arts, after all.

It was cool and rainy, the kind of lazy, debonair spring afternoon where one stayed at home, drank tea, watched the rain drape its gossamer cloak onto the greenery outside. However, Yao didn't wish to stay indoors, since it was all that he had done for weeks— writing proposals, signing letters, reading scrolls. Now that he finally had an afternoon off, he wasn't going to stay in his room, which stank of ink and stale parchment. So, he told his maids to kindly leave him be, took his umbrella, and left for a little stroll.

The air felt mild enough for Yao to not wear a thick, heavy cloak. After months of being torn by winter's savagery, he treasured having misty waters kiss his skin once more. Winter had been more cruel than usual this year, afflicting famine to the provinces that usually never got affected. Yao wrote letters to anyone he could find, asking, no, begging for aid, which was why he had been stuck in his room in the first place. He knew that if he didn't do it, no one would, since the emperor and everyone under him had become too greedy, selfish, and corrupt to care.

The people, on the other hand, could only be kept suffering for so long before they revolted. Yao could already feel another revolution tugging at his bosom, like the one he had a few centuries ago, and the one before that.

Yao didn't view the inevitable chaos as horrific. Instead, bloodshed cleansed his land and people, like what the rain was doing to his body. Also, like the rain, when it came, it came. Nothing could be done to stop it.

He walked through the garden, taking small, delicate steps across the paved path. The garden was still young, and completely flowerless save for one peony he found peeking shyly beneath the leaves. The stem snapped with a twist of Yao's wrist, and the flower fell into his palm, dripping with dew. The petals were an intense scarlet, as if they were glaring at him, mad that he decapitated it. Yao liked that colour. Keeping his new treasure between his fingertips, he ventured on.

Yao eventually reached a willow tree which stood beside a pond, sadly dipping its leafless hair into the water. Deciding to take shelter under the poor creature, he set his umbrella aside and gazed into the pond. The water was clear, the colour a deep, brooding emerald. There were a few pieces of unrecognizable plant life scattered about, and a school of kois swam to and fro. Yao decided that there were five, until a couple poked out from under the rocky cave. Very well, there were seven. No, nine. Wait, eight. He silently cursed his arithmetic skills, and gave up on the count.

He decided that he had become very bored indeed.

It had been a while since he had any excitement. Mongolia rarely visited him anymore. When he did, it was about mere politics, and Yao was not one to beg. He had laid with a few human boys since Mongolia had left, just for fuck's sake, but all of them were dead now.

Sighing, Yao gazed at his reflection in the water, looking at the face that had not aged for thousands of years. This was the blessing, or perhaps curse of being an immortal. Indeed, if an immortal had a beautiful face, being able to maintain it for all of eternity would be a blessing. But, to him, the word had become insipid in its meaning, after being told by so many people. He had come to understand that it was a common compliment simply uttered out of politeness, or nonchalance. Even Ivan had once said so, like the stars in the night sky.

Of course they were, silly child!

Yao wished that he could age, like humans did, so that when he did become wrinkly and hideous, he would have memories to hold onto. Perhaps, then, he wouldn't have to paint his lips a bright red, adorn his hair silver chains and golden trinkets, nor drape on his body this royal purple gown made from fine southern silk.

If he were truly beautiful, he wouldn't have to mar himself with such hideous vanity.

A new face appeared behind his own reflection, one which belonged to his boss's youngest son. He was a handsome boy with a well-angled face, deep-set eyes, and olive skin. But, according to the emperor, he was a delinquent child, who, despite being in his late teens, failed to show notable talent in anything. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he was raised by a surrogate who was rather neglectful, having naturally shown an affinity for her own children. Ever since he had been of age, he spent his days browsing around the palace and putting his good looks into use, sending his love to all the pretty women he could find. Maids, princesses, foreign guests, he didn't seem to discriminate. Perhaps, he didn't care. Yao had spoken with some of his past lovers, and according to them, he wasn't too bad at what he did. He had even witnessed some kind of a cold war among the female servants to see who would win his heart. For them, it meant finally leaving their wretched profession to become the wife of a rich man, and none of them were willing to let such an opportunity pass. Graciously, Yao had even agreed to lend a bottle of perfume to his favourite maid in support of the cause. Though, he knew that none of them would win in the end. They were only maids, after all.

Yao smiled slightly into the watery mirror. Plus, the poor boy reserved an enthralled, almost obsessive gaze for him, and him only. Yao had kindly rejected his advances before, for pride's sake. But, because Yao was bored right now, he might need to ask for that bottle of perfume back later tonight.

"What is a pretty lady like you doing out here in the rain?" The boy finally ventured to speak, as Yao turned to face him. His voice was soft, innocent, and a little nervous.

Yao refrained from speaking, and instead freed his fan from his waist sash, opened it with a swing of a wrist, and placed it near his face. He looked away shyly, for the boy did call him a "lady."

The boy assumed this as permission to inch his body a little more closely to Yao's, touching the hem of their robes. He reached a shaky hand towards the flower Yao still held in his palm, lightly plucked it from his grasp, and tucked it behind the lady's ear, fingers almost accidentally brushing his pale cheek.

Very well, Yao figured that he had better settle. He put his fan away, gave him a rosy smile, and said, "I do feel a little cold, sire," drowsily putting a palm on his forehead in conviction, "But I left my cloak at home."

If he was going to condescend himself to sleeping with this little delinquent, he would have to be in control.

"Then I shall keep you warm," said delinquent whispered into his ear, his long hair splattering onto Yao's shoulders.

His breath felt so warm, and it had been too long since anyone had done that...

Finally, Yao turned around to face him. He let his feet slip, as the boy automatically caught him in his arms.

"Yes, please do," Yao responded, reaching a hand up to caress his cheek. His skin felt firm, a little prickly near the jawline, and softer down to the neck— like how a man was supposed to feel. A pair of arms wrapped around his waist, and he was reeled in. In response, Yao raised his one knee slightly, and brushed it right between the boy's legs.

Yes, he would do just fine.

Japan was not the type of person to concern himself with the affairs of others. He liked to keep to his own, and preferred that others extended him the same courtesy. For example, his sole errand today was to find China, ask him for advice on this piece of poetry he had been writing, and give himself the rest of the night off. He had not questioned the servants why the palace was surprisingly empty today, nor where else China possibly could be other than in his study. He didn't want to trouble anyone. But now, he thought it ought to have been better if he did. He couldn't find China anywhere.

Walking along the veranda which fenced the garden, Japan thought that he had heard laughter emanating from the bushes by the pond, over the pitter-patter of raindrops on the wooden deck. He would have dismissed it, if the voice had not sounded so much like the person he had been searching for all this time. Japan stepped down onto the grass and walked over slowly to investigate. He placed a hand on the hilt of his katana, in case he was was mistaken.

As nervous and inexperienced as this boy's performance was, his sheer eagerness atoned for it. Yao, on the other hand, would not allow himself to be disadvantaged in bed. He knew exactly where to touch, bite, or pull, to elicit from his partner what he wanted to have. All men were the same. They all would submit eventually, and the more eager they were, the harder they'd fall.

Most people who lived in the Forbidden City knew not of Yao's secret promiscuity, and he made sure of that. They fared well in not knowing too much. China was China, not Yao.

His past lovers never dared to speak of their affairs either. Yao had his own ways of dealing with little boys with big mouths. But, he was also meticulous in his choice of time and environment. All he wanted was just an episode of momentary release every once in a while, and couldn't bear to see too many lives lost due to his own selfish needs.

Do what one must...

When Yao saw a blurry figure walking closer to the bushes, he knew what he must do. There was a reason why he sharpened all of his hairpins before wearing them... While his one hand was pleasuring his lover, making him growl like a tamed beast, he reached the other up to his head, pulled out a particularly pretty one, and shot it at where he knew was the spectator's forehead.

Not expecting a woman's hair accessory to randomly dart out of the bushes, Japan managed to dodge it, narrowly, but not without its sharp edge slashing across his cheek. The hairpin flew across the garden, and was finally embedded into a wooden post. He stood still where he was, as China rose from where he hid.

China's hair was tousled, with loose locks sticking haphazardly at odd angles. His lip stain was smudged across his face, and his robe was undone, barely dangling from his naked body. Japan was no genius, but it didn't take much to figure out what his sensei had been doing. He realized it would be wise to hold his tongue.

After China saw that it was Japan, he was relieved that his shot had missed. He ignored the tugs and pulls from his lover for him to come back, and walked up to him. He grabbed a handful of fabric from his sleeves, and without uttering a word, he gently dabbed Japan's face clean of blood. Japan couldn't help but shudder away, either from the sting of his touch, or at the sight of seeing China's bare chest littered with pink bruises.

"I shall see you tomorrow morning then," China finally said, placing a dirtied hand on Japan's stiff shoulder.

Japan nodded and walked away, finally deciding that the advice on his poetry could wait for a few days.

China was his sensei, and this angered Japan as much as it confused him.

I will leave it to the reader to adjudicate him, lool. He has many good qualities, and a few rather... interesting ones.