Yu Hua | emperor son

Yu Hua was born too early. Or rather, probably too early: his mother, a night butterfly from the Red Light District, discovered she was pregnant only when her belly began to expand inexorably for her always-sickly, thin frame. She didn't remember who the father was, and it didn't matter; what mattered was ending a life she hadn't even had time to draw.

But she couldn't. No matter how hard she tried to expel the tiny parasite, it seemed oblivious to her efforts and continued to slowly grow in her womb. Ignoring all the abominations his mother had committed against her health, and all the abuses done to her by wealthy men who weren't above having sex with a silvery, pregnant butterfly, Yu Hua was born. He took his first breath with difficulty.

It was a miracle his mother, a thin, petite girl, had even managed to give birth naturally, but her death after giving birth wasn't surprising either. The boy was of no use in the brothel, so they simply dumped him near the house of the last client who was having sex with a girl – the Yu Dynasty palace.

The Emperor, despite his obvious love for men, was not opposed to women and possessed such a surprisingly potent seed that when Hua arrived at the palace, several boys were already looking at him with surprised glances.

It was never fully understood why the Emperor himself decided to keep someone else's child and give him his own surname, but nonetheless, thus began the comfortable, yet difficult life of little Yu Hua.

Hua was a small and thin child, despite always eating his fill and the best food. It seemed that the conditions in which he was conceived and born had no effect on his health, but if you spent more than five minutes with him, the difference was clearly visible.

Weak, he couldn't stand long, active walks: his heartbeat would sometimes be too slow, sometimes it would be so severe that the only thing Hua could do to ease the pain was curl up and breathe shallowly.

Nevertheless, no one could explain to little Hua that activity was contraindicated. The boy constantly fidgeted, running to the palace garden, where he would sit in a tree for a long time while worried servants ran back and forth, begging him to come down. Hua could understand speech, but he himself began speaking much later than usual: only in isolated words and sounds.

Teaching youngest son Yu Weiqiang, was also a great struggle. No, he wasn't stupid, but for some reason he absorbed everything slowly, reluctantly, if he even wanted to. He found sitting in one place too boring, but the way his teachers flinched at his sharp sounds and shouts amused him.

Yu Hua understood words, but he couldn't understand emotions, including his own. He disliked looking people in the eye, disliked conversation. Even when his older brothers tried to entice him with toys, offering fun games or interesting topics, Hua retreated to a far corner and played alone.

Alone. In complete silence, because he soon realized that excessively loud sounds or frequent touches frightened him more than when his father strangled the servants before his eyes. The child watched pale skin turn blue under his father's strong fingers, the muffled wheezes and endless pleas—all this he see with wide eyes, his snow-white eyelashes brimming with tears.

Whatever qualified doctors would call these symptoms today—ADHD and autism—they were unthinkable in ancient China. The best palace physicians believed that Hua's body was constantly in conflict between two energies, his qi sometimes too weak, sometimes too strong. The small child seemed possessed by a demon; an exorcist was constantly called in.

The palace was filled with various herbs to reassure the child, and musicians were present to awaken his sleeping spirit. But as expected, nothing worked, which only added to Hua's fear and anxiety.

He felt different from his brothers, from his servants, even from his father. There was no one like him in the Yu clan: with his short hair, the color of which resembled only the fallen snow that covered the graceful magnolias. The blue rivers in his eyes, as if floating from the world of the living to the world of the dead, did not resemble black chestnuts.

Even though children like him were usually sent to monasteries and simply banished from sight, Yu Weiqiang did not want to do so. On the contrary, the Emperor himself would take the child to his chambers on cold nights, cover him with warm blankets, and tell him tales of good and evil spirits, of fox demons.

It seemed such a weak and insignificant gesture, but Hua remembered it every night, falling asleep in his father's warm embrace, lulled by his calm and gentle voice. Hua only learned that he wasn't his biological son, that he wouldn't inherit the throne, when fights with his brothers became more commonplace than unusual.

The older children were jealous of all the attention the youngest received, constantly trying to spite him and undermine him in front of the Emperor and his servants. But surprisingly, Yu Weiqiang didn't believe all the rumors and denunciations. His attitude remained the same—a pitiful look, tender words, and warm touches.

Raised in aggression and violence, the older children became unruly and cruel. The Emperor understood the consequences. After all, he had personally poisoned his parents, and he was 100% certain that one of his offspring would follow in their father's footsteps.

The only thing Weiqiang worried about was his youngest son. He wasn't getting any younger; the years were ticking by, and he couldn't protect the boy forever. Therefore, upon learning that an orphan had sneaked onto the garden grounds to steal peaches, Yu Sr. ordered him not to be killed.

He tested you for a long time before bestowing some silly rank on you, keeping you in the palace with only one purpose. Well, befriending and protecting the Emperor's heir seemed a much better option than continuing to steal and sleep wherever you could.

The afternoon sun bathed the garden in a pleasant, warm bath as you walked along the stone paths to the farthest part of the palace. Sitting on the floor, surrounded by cats like a divine halo, Yu Hua held a small kitten to his face, inhaling the sweet scent of its fluffy, two-colored fur.

Hua loved cats, and the Emperor made sure at least a dozen, if not more, roamed the palace grounds: cats were prone to mating and reproducing. They not only brought joy to the youngest and most beloved heir of the Imperial family, but also killed mice and other rodents.

Two calm rivers finally noticed you, but just as quickly as they'd looked into your eyes, they looked away. Even after all these years, Hua didn't like eye contact. He also didn't like talking, especially without a reason. And even if the thought of making his first friend in his entire eighteen years piqued his curiosity, he was afraid to show it.

Although, something told you that if you found his favorite topic, Yu Hua would start talking and never shut up again.