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Years ago, a grand, routine dinner party was held at a rural estate in California. Almost every nation was invited. Once the formal dinner concluded, the floor opened up for free socialization and entertainment. That night, the rooms were packed and buzzing with noise, filled with loud, blasting gangster rap. The heavy, thumping bass from the subwoofers shook the crowd, making everyone feel as though their feet had to keep moving every single second.
The karaoke machine brought over by Japan himself was quite a hit at the party. America was singing his heart out happily, while Japan stood aside, clapping along and occasionally joining in for a few tunes. Although Japan’s English carried an inevitable accent, his adaptations were pretty well-done. Both he and South Korea knew a surprisingly large number of English songs, which kept the crowd thoroughly entertained.
China muttered to himself in disdain. He found it hard to believe that Japan—who usually acted so aloof, cold, and unapproachable in front of him—could completely shift personalities when partying with this crowd. So he’s two-faced after all, China thought. Who knows where all that usual reserve went?
Then again, looking at himself, China realized his own persona in these social settings was a stark contrast to his everyday life. Every time he attended these parties, he always wished no one would approach him. He would try his best to sit quietly and say nothing, offering only polite, superficial pleasantries if someone actively struck up a conversation.
China thoroughly detested participating in these Western-hosted parties and social events. Occasionally, he would make up excuses and pretexts to skip them. However, missing every event wasn't a good look either; it made him seem antisocial and out of touch with the mainstream international community. As one of the five permanent members of the UN Security Council, constantly absenting himself from such gatherings was inappropriate. Even though barely anyone paid much attention to him after he arrived, he still needed to be able to confidently tell others that he had, indeed, shown his face.
While the karaoke session was still going strong, a few tipsy male acquaintances began casually slinging their arms around China's shoulders. The physical crowding made him quite uncomfortable and uneasy, but he chose to endure it silently, feeling it wasn't worth making a scene.
Later on, as most people grew tired of singing, they drifted off to their own preferred activities. For instance, the Philippines happily continued with the karaoke, while a group of nations headed out to the open-air balcony to drink and chat. Meanwhile, America, Britain, and the Netherlands retreated into a small room. They used bank cards and credit cards to chop up small pills into fine powder to snort up their noses, or stuffed weed into glass pipes, smoking relentlessly. Once they took the lead, their Five Eyes brothers would usually follow suit and join in. China had always looked down on this troublesome crowd, so he deliberately kept his distance.
Planning to get some peace and quiet, China topped off his cocktail glass with a mix of other spirits and sat alone at the bar, taking slow, solitary sips. But his anticipation of quiet solitude was bound to be shattered. Out of nowhere, men started throwing him flirty winks. Yes, sleazy men popping up from god-knows-where, never women. Though China sometimes gashed himself, wondering if they were just being friendly and that he was suffering from paranoia, it still made him incredibly uncomfortable, leaving him covered in goosebumps. He tried changing locations, but even that didn't work. Those men would invariably push boundaries, overturning his earlier doubts. Eventually, perhaps fueled by alcohol, they would actively approach him and start getting handsy.
At that point, China’s fists began to itch. He felt a sudden, fierce urge to lure these creeps into a small room or the bushes outside and beat them to a pulp. He had actually done it once before, nearly crippling the guy. Back then, because the opponent was blindingly drunk, China managed to gloss it over by claiming the man had passed out and fallen into a ditch himself. This time, however, he couldn't verify their level of intoxication. If he took action again, it might trigger an international incident.
Forcing down his rising anger, he took a deep breath, politely pushed the harasser away, and found a quiet, windy corner on the balcony. Leaning against the railing, he lit a cigarette, letting the cold breeze clear his head.
Suddenly, cheers, whistles, and shouts of encouragement erupted from inside the house. It looked like the party's signature event—the arm-wrestling match—had begun. Usually, America claimed the final championship. The only consistent challengers were Russia and Britain, while others occasionally joined just to play along as sparring partners. Russia would challenge with a fierce, stubborn determination to win, while Britain would curse up a storm as he lost, his drunken "Bloody hell!" roaring so loudly it filled the room. Some in the crowd even placed bets on the odds, seizing the opportunity to gamble. The scene was incredibly raucous. Although it was just a game among the guests, the tension was comparable to a hot-war battleground between superpowers.
Of course, none of this had anything to do with China. He never had any desire to participate, and fortunately, America had never actively dragged him into the challenge. Turning a deaf ear to the clamor, China watched his cigarette smoke drift upward. He kept his eyes fixed on the moon, completely ignoring the noisy party echoes well past midnight.
"What's wrong? Do you hate being here that much?"
Another figure materialized beside China. He didn't know where she had suddenly appeared from, but he glanced over and found Vietnam. She walked up, leaned her back against the railing, turned to face him, and initiated the conversation.
He was somewhat surprised that anyone would notice him at a party like this, but he didn't particularly mind the silence being broken.
"Not at all. I quite like coming here," China replied casually, still looking at the moon. "Attending these social events occasionally enriches my spare time and promotes international exchange. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Then why aren't you inside? Why run out here by yourself?"
"It's getting late, and I'm feeling a bit tired. Just out here to clear my head. I'll go back in shortly." He exhaled, blowing a neat smoke ring.
"I remember you didn't show up two parties ago."
China turned his head to look at Vietnam. His initial surprise quickly turned into a flash of alertness, but he immediately turned back and regained his composure.
"Oh, I just had some business to attend to that day," he dismissed it casually. It’s not some grand secret that requires airtight cover for fear of exposing a massive flaw, he thought, lifting his glass to his lips again.
"You know," Vietnam said, leaning in just a fraction closer. "When we women chat together, we love to gossip about which gentleman is more charming... Do you know how they evaluate you?"
"..."
Although China appeared entirely nonchalant, looking as if he weren't interested in such trivial topics and wasn't really listening, his ears involuntarily perked up the moment he heard those words. His drinking motion faltered slightly. He admittedly had terrible luck with women; it had been ages since a woman had actively chatted him up. The only memorable time was when a female spy tried to use a honey trap on him, nearly catching him off guard.
"They say your face looks like it never fully matured, and with that long hair, you look too feminine. Like a sissy..."
The word sissy was delivered with a slight, deliberate emphasis, and its effect hit his head like a massive sledgehammer.
"What?! Who are you calling a sissy... cough..."
Hearing that word evidently struck a raw nerve. Every pore on China's body seemed to flare up. Caught off guard, he choked on his drink and sprayed it right out. This piece of gossip—whether true or fabricated—instantly shattered the composure of the man who had been perfectly mellow just a second ago. True or not, China secretly vowed that if he ever got the chance, he would thoroughly clean house back home. Anything remotely resembling a "sissy man" would be wiped out from his sight. Even if it wasn't the word itself, any highly suggestive imagery wouldn't fly either. Damn it! To hell with being called a sissy!
Seeing the smug, triumphant look on Vietnam's face, as if she had caught him dead to rights, China knew he had accidentally shown weakness. He quickly suppressed his emotions—at least outwardly. Pulling a handkerchief from his suit pocket, he hurriedly wiped the wet corners of his mouth. When he spoke again, his tone had reverted to its previous calm.
"This is a Taoist immortal body cultivated over thousands of years; that is why I look this way. It's not something ordinary people can easily achieve. Furthermore, our bodies and hair are gifts from our ancestors. Long hair represents my deep, enduring culture. Since I no longer have to forcibly shave my head to save my life, why should I cut it? I am who I am, let others say what they will."
However, even though he quickly regained his composure, it was futile. Vietnam was clearly intent on adding fuel to the fire.
"Right. So I explained to them that because your anatomy is different from ordinary people, you are essentially... genderless. Self-castrated. It doesn't matter if your lifestyle resembles a monk's... seeking only an early ascension to heaven with no desires and a strict vegetarian diet. Naturally, you wouldn't have the slightest interest in women."
"Listen here," China turned to face Vietnam fully.
What a joke. China had extensive experience in bed, and now he was being misunderstood as a virgin or asexual?
"Is this your first day knowing me? Do you actually believe what you're saying?"
"I don't know if I believe it, but they certainly did. And..." She lowered her voice slightly. "Actually, I have my doubts too. I’ve truly only ever seen you hugging and being held by men... Are you really not interested in women anymore?"
"...Everyone here gets hugged and held."
"But you are the only one who has never embraced a woman."
"..."
"Furthermore... you're always making women's clothing at home. Oh, wait, no. It’s Japanese anime cosplay stuff, isn't it? You put them on yourself, acting all weak and cute in a bizarre way, looking even more fragile than a woman. It’s as if you’re practically inviting people to mistreat you and take advantage of you. I’ve honestly been wondering... is this how you expand your so-called international appeal and influence? Just waiting for others to trample over your threshold, trading your dignity for a living? China, are you putting on an act? What on earth are you pretending for? Look—"
Vietnam pushed up her sleeve, revealing a bright red wound on her arm that looked as though it had only recently begun to heal.
"Someone who looks so weak and foolish didn't hold back at all when he struck me back then. Although I don't consider myself the loser—I won that war beautifully—this wound just refuses to heal properly. Every time it seems close to mending, it breaks open and bleeds anew just from lifting heavy objects, as if it will never scar over. You lost, so why do you look as if nothing ever happened? You’re doing all of this on purpose, aren't you? You..."
"That's enough."
Seeing her emotions and tone becoming increasingly volatile, he had to cut her off again. China felt a pang of displeasure. How did she find out about such private matters? Who had leaked it? Ultimately, however, he chose not to press the issue with her.
"I know you've never been satisfied with me. But first: I don't do that to earn a living; it's just to amuse the kids at home. And what's wrong with anime costumes? I frequently cross-dress to perform as Zhang Yingying and Du Liniang in Kunqu opera."
"Second, while no woman on earth can match the charm of my own performance as a virtuous young lady in Kunqu opera, that doesn't mean I tolerate perverts harassing me. If anyone dares try, I’ll take them down. Bring one, I'll beat one; bring a pair, I'll beat both."
"...I don't believe you."
"There's nothing I can do if you don't believe me."
"There is a way." Vietnam pointed toward the crowd inside. "If you're a man, go challenge him. Even if you can't win, I’ll respect you a bit more. Deal?"
Inside, the crowd was cheering. America had defeated Russia once again, claiming the championship.
"Oh, so after all that talk, you're just trying to egg me into playing with them? You must be joking. What am I supposed to prove in a childish game like that? Go join their circus, exhaust myself, come home, and watch you gloat from the sidelines?"
"You're scared."
"No, it's just unnecessary..."
"A prominent permanent member of the UN Security Council, yet you have so little presence here. Does that make sense?"
"Presence isn't meant to be wasted on things like this. There are more important matters."
"...Coward. Weakling."
"Say whatever you want." He turned his face away, refusing to look at her.
Vietnam looked back inside, then at China, taking a deep breath. "I don't know if you're truly dense or just playing dumb. A childish game? Didn't you see them placing bets? They are all just a bunch of opportunists watching which way the wind blows to pick a side..."
"I know. That's exactly why I don't want to make it easy for you to pick a side right now." He glanced at Vietnam again, but soon went back to staring absently at his cigarette smoke. He continued, "At the very least, you must take responsibility for your own choices. Don't expect me to hand you a reason to align yourself right now. Cozy up to whoever you like; I'm not giving you the satisfaction of goading me into this."
"...Fine!" She still refused to back down, determined to have the last word. "A guy with no power isn't all that charming anyway. Even within Asia, you're not as romantic as South Korea, nor as polite and easygoing as Japan. You're just full of patronizing, archaic lectures. No wonder even Taiwan looks down on you..."
"...What does that little brat know?" China shot Vietnam a sideways glance. "A true man should harbor great ambitions and focus on building grand estates. Women are like disposable clothes; there is no need to dwell on them. And I must say—Little Yue, no, Comrade Vietnam, please stick to your path of socialist construction. Keep your resolve firm and don't let these trivial matters cloud your judgment or disorient you. Be careful not to stray further and further from the correct track!"
Vietnam let out a dissatisfied scoff and didn't reply. China checked the time; it was time to go home. He turned around to head back to the main hall, completely ignoring Vietnam. But before taking a step, he turned back around, eyeing her up and down. He noticed she was wearing a men's suit today, one that looked barely any different from his own, as if it had been slightly altered from the exact same design.
"Next time you come chat me up, don't dress like a man. My house isn't short on mirrors; I don't care to carry one with me when I finally travel far from home."
Before leaving any party to head home, China always made sure to time his exit perfectly. Compared to the others, it couldn't be too early, nor could it be too late. He had to wait until a portion of the guests had already left, leaving behind a smaller crowd—yet not so small that he would stand out conspicuously among the remaining few.
Gatherings like this were held several times a year, ranging from once or twice at least, to five or six times at most. In recent years, however, the frequency seemed to be increasing, and along with it, the pressure weighing on him grew heavier.
As time flew by and the years blurred together, many events unfolded across the world. At some point, China suddenly realized that the sleazy men who used to harass him were thinning out, but in their place, a vague sense of hostility had multiplied. It was a subtle, adversarial atmosphere that no one would openly voice or crudely display on the surface, but one he could clearly perceive. This intuition likely stemmed from a survival instinct honed over thousands of years—the very same instinct that Hong Kong and Taiwan frequently mocked as a classic case of persecutory paranoia. Yet, this gut feeling warned him that even if not everyone was unfriendly, and even if they maintained a polite exterior, there was still an undeniable, heavy air of oppression. Consequently, he stopped drinking any alcohol or beverages provided at the parties. To keep up appearances, he always pretended to mingle with a filled glass held high in his hand, only to slip into the restroom whenever no one was paying attention and secretly pour the liquid down the drain, bit by bit.
But despite his best efforts to erase his presence, he never expected to be caught red-handed. On one occasion, just as he thought he could slip away unnoticed by blending into the departing crowd as usual, America suddenly nabbed him, grabbing his ponytail. Whether it was out of playful mischief or a deeper hidden agenda, China had already prepared himself mentally for the day their hostility and conflict would break into the open. He deliberately kept his emotions in check, showing no visible agitation on his face. He simply asked a question, even as his heart rate quickened.
"What is it, America? Is there something you need?"
"Oh, China, don't be in such a rush to leave," America said with a grin. "How about a little match with me? I almost forgot—I've never actually arm-wrestled you before. Heaven knows why that never crossed my mind until now. I guess it was my oversight that let you exploit these loopholes for so long."
He definitely had an agenda. China was forced to steady his breathing once more, responding in a measured, unhurried tone.
"Because of my advanced age, it is inconvenient for me to participate in these youth activities. If you haven't had your fun today, go find someone else to play with. I won't spoil the festive mood."
Naturally, America wouldn't let him off that easily. "Come on, as nations, none of us are exactly young. Even if you've lived for ten thousand or hundreds of millions of years, as long as you're still alive, kicking, and running around, it doesn't make much of a difference to me, right? Dear?"
"But I am not running around and kicking. You remember what happened last time on that deserted island. Besides, everyone is leaving now, and barely anyone is participating. What's the fun in that? Shouldn't a party activity be about sharing joy with the crowd?"
"That time was different; that was ages ago during World War II. Who's to say you haven't been secretly working out and improving yourself in private? You always wrap yourself up so tightly, as if you're terrified of anyone seeing anything. Who knows what you look like under those clothes? Besides, it doesn't matter if no one else is around. This time, we can enjoy ourselves in private."
"It's just a game. Is all this really necessary?"
"It is. After all, I'm the host. Ensuring that every participant feels involved isn't an unreasonable demand, is it? You Chinese always say that saving face is incredibly important. So if you won't even grant me this much face... we're old friends, aren't we? An invitation like this isn't asking too much."
"..."
America’s hand came down heavily on China’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as if trying to gauge the density of his muscle. China couldn't help but shudder.
"America-kun, how about you and I have another private round instead? I didn't admit defeat in the last one, you know."
Russia stepped forward, clapping a hand onto America's shoulder.
"Stop messing around, Russia," America replied. "A loss is a loss. Being a sore loser isn't a good habit."
"But I believe you cheated. You took way too many performance-enhancing drugs, so I don't accept it. The effects have probably worn off by now, so now is the time for a real rematch. Isn't that right, you bloated fat man?"
"Did you just call me a bloated fat man? It's called muscle, do you understand? What right does a clumsy, giant bear like you have to judge me? Fine, a match it is! Today, I'll let you taste the fist of freedom. The great United States will make sure you go home thoroughly defeated! Bring it on! Come on! Go ahead!"
With that, the two flared up and locked hands in another intense duel. Seizing the moment while they were locked in combat, China found an opening and made his escape. Yet, he knew full well that while he could run for now, he couldn't hide forever. He realized he needed to ramp up the intensity of his fitness routine and swimming training, not daring to slack off for even a single second. He had no idea when the next invitation would arrive, and avoiding it would likely be impossible. He had to prepare for the worst well in advance.
Sure enough, a few months later, another invitation arrived. Unsurprisingly, it was at another of America’s rural villas—each one more remote than the last, leaving China to wonder if America was trying to cut costs. Ever since the incident at the previous party, there had been no communication between them. China couldn't help but mentally rehearse the dialogues that might transpire when they met again. Perhaps America wouldn't even wait for the party to wind down; he might drag him out for a match right in front of everyone during the very first round. Or perhaps America would bring some secret weapon, plotting to maim or permanently cripple him, or inflict wounds that would require a long and grueling recovery. Or maybe he would conspire with others to humiliate him publicly or sabotage him from the shadows... A million possibilities raced through his mind, and who could say for sure?
This time, China did not share his anxieties with his family, nor did he mention what had happened after the last party concluded. He didn't want to spark unnecessary concern, which would only fill the house with chaotic noise and trigger another grand family meeting. Everyone assumed he was merely attending another ordinary, routine social outing, so he didn't make any solemn announcements to anyone before leaving. He adjusted his own tie, took a deep breath, and quietly set off without a word.
After a long and tedious journey to the designated location, he discreetly entered the venue along with the flow of traffic and guests. The building this time was older than expected, though it had clearly undergone a heavy renovation; the interior was brightly lit, almost making one overlook its age. China began going through the motions of socializing, masking the trace of unease in his heart perfectly so that no emotion showed. Though he thoroughly detested it, he had to play the part. When he covertly scanned the room for America, he saw him busy socializing, seemingly oblivious to his arrival. China instantly breathed a sigh of relief.
Outside, the weather looked ominous, like the eve of a major storm. Consequently, the indoor air felt stifling, and the dense crowd added to the oppressive discomfort. China decided to step outside alone to catch some fresh air. He thought to himself that America was truly a cheapskate for not even installing air conditioning, masking it under the high-sounding pretext of "emission reduction measures to combat climate change." He was undoubtedly cutting corners on purpose, betting that not a soul in this packed house would stand up to protest against him.
He stood on the deserted open balcony for a short while. Yet, as he turned to walk back inside, he unexpectedly ran right into America, who was walking toward him alone. China’s heart skipped a beat. The house had a bizarre layout; the path leading from the balcony back to the main hall passed through a somewhat lengthy, semi-circular corridor. Walking through it felt as if this short stretch of path was intentionally designed to temporarily isolate anyone clearing their head outside from the crowd in the main hall. It was entirely unlike America's style to wander into a place like this on his own. China grew instantly alert. However, he saw America open his arms wide, sporting a brilliant, sun-drenched smile that felt entirely welcoming.
"Hey, what's up? Isn't this China? Man, I'm so sorry I was too busy to say hi earlier. Long time no see, old friend. I've had so much on my plate lately that I haven't had a chance to get in touch. How have you been?"
"......Yeah, I'm doing well. Everything's as usual, thanks for asking..."
Before he could finish his sentence, he was pulled into America's embrace. The overpowering scent of heavy Western cologne washed over him, turning suffocating.
What caught him completely off guard, however, was a sudden, vicious punch straight to his abdomen. A sharp spike of pain forced him to bend forward slightly, and a surge of heat rushed upward from his stomach, threatening to force its way past his throat.
China realized that an instant of carelessness and a lapse in vigilance had blinded him; he hadn't anticipated that a face plastered with a warm smile could simultaneously deliver a sucker punch. His vision blurred as the world seemed to spin violently around him. He nearly lost his footing, only to feel a blast of hot breath near his ear as America leaned in, whispering softly.
"What a shame. Last time I did this to Russia and Japan, I delivered the heavy blow right under everyone's watchful eyes. I watched them bend over in pain, dropping to their knees and vomiting blood all over the floor. But today, I didn't give you that kind of show in front of all these people. Though I'm a bit unsatisfied, consider it a reward. A reward for successfully flying under my radar and laying low for so long. Logically speaking, it really is impressive. But today, I want to see just how long you can hold out. Pray to God, my friend, and don't make too much of a mess here—otherwise, I'll be forced to call a medical team and have you carried out on a stretcher in front of everybody."
With that, America patted China on the back and let him go. He took a few steps backward, facing China to savor the look of agony on his face, blew him a kiss, and sauntered away. Clutching his abdomen, China fought through the searing pain, forcing himself to stand tall instead of collapsing to the floor. Resting his hand against the wall, he slowly made his way back to the main hall. He wanted to find an opportunity to slip into the restroom without drawing attention. Nonetheless, he was noticed by Hong Kong and Macau, who questioned him in Cantonese.
"Big brother, why do you look so pale? Are you feeling unwell somewhere?" ("大佬，点解面色咁差？系咪边度唔舒服？")
"Yeah, did you eat some bad snacks yesterday and get an upset stomach?" ("系呀，琴日系咪食咗啲衰零食，食到肚屙呀？")
"......I'm fine... There's no... air conditioning here, it's very stuffy... I'm going to... the restroom first..." ("……冇事呀，呢度……冇冷气都好焗……我去吓……洗手间先……")
China replied to them in Cantonese, then fought to steady his steps as he paced into the restroom. Once inside, he finally let his guard down, releasing the hot surge trapped in his throat and spitting a mouthful of blood into the sink. He quickly turned on the faucet, washing away the traces of blood from his mouth and the basin. Reaching into the hidden pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out a small vial of a herbal concoction he had spent a long time preparing, downing half the bottle in one gulp. The liquid slid down his throat, bitter and burning like fire. He coughed violently, turning around to lean against the vanity as he struggled to calm his breathing.
Once his breath steadied a bit, he faced the mirror again. His pale face under the lighting looked completely drained of color. He noticed that the condition of this restroom seemed to expose the reality of a tight budget hidden beneath the building's luxurious exterior. The old mosaic tiles stained with a mossy green hue, the incessant dripping of water, and the dim, flickering fluorescent tube that seemed long overdue for repairs—it all reminded him of a scene from a horror movie. It stood in stark contrast to the warm, joyful atmosphere of the main hall, as if that hall was merely the facade, and this was the true interior.
Once his breathing smoothed out a little more, he combed his hair and readjusted his tie. Unexpectedly, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed, and someone else walked into the restroom. His face paled in shock—it was America. Had he followed him?
Whistling a tune, America stood right beside him, looking into the mirror to fix his own appearance. His eyes were bloodshot; China guessed he must have gotten high on some drug again. Best to stay away from this guy, China thought. Pretending everything was perfectly fine, he finished straightening his collar, gave a polite nod, and turned to head for the door.
"Hey, don't be in such a rush to run away!"
China felt the hair at the back of his head grabbed in a tight grip once more, followed by the heavy weight of the other man's arm slung roughly over his shoulder.
"Not bad. I didn't think you'd still be standing after all this time. Fascinating. Definitely something worth celebrating."
Having no idea what this man would do next, China could only passively let himself be dragged along. On their way back to the reception hall, they ran into Vietnam. America tossed her a greeting and continued walking with his arm hitched over China. China didn't catch the expression on her face at that moment, nor did he particularly care to. He could only surmise, based on what his peripheral vision could catch, that she must be watching the drama unfold, likely gloating over his current disheveled state.
Thus, China was forcibly dragged all the way to the karaoke machine. He watched as America snatched the microphone straight out of South Korea's hand, addressing the crowd in the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Good evening, everyone! Tonight, to celebrate many years of friendship between myself and an old friend, I've decided to sing a duet with him dedicated to you all: Ain't No Mountain High Enough. Come on, my friend China, let's toast to our friendship, and I hope everyone has a blast tonight!"
Applause erupted. China felt incredibly uncomfortable being suddenly and forcefully thrust under the spotlight like this. Even after taking his potent medicine, he could feel that his internal injuries hadn't recovered. America was clearly doing this to humiliate him.
"I don't know how to sing it. My apologies."
"Quit joking around. How long has it been since your Reform and Opening-up? This is a song everyone knows from the streets to the alleys, and you're telling me you don't know it?"
"That is... the streets and alleys of your house. It has nothing to do with me..."
"That won't do. You're leaving me hanging on stage here. Even if you really don't know it, you have to find someone qualified to take your place."
"..."
"America-kun."
Russia walked over. "Forget about singing. Let's get straight to the main event. I won't make things easy for you this time. You haven't even figured out how to save yourself from embarrassment, yet you're in the mood to sing here? Hahahahaha."
"What do you know, you round-faced peasant? This is called a pre-battle warm-up. It won't stop me from beating you again. Besides, you aren't my only target today."
With that, he glanced at China, causing China's chest to tighten once more.
"I don't care who your target is. Bottom line: today, I'm going to make you lose to me. Stop wasting time with extra nonsense and let's start the game!"
"No way. Today, I insist on finishing this song first. Mind your own business, you damn bear. Don't forget that I'm the host of this party. Where do you get the right to command me? Am I right, Mr. China? Come on!"
"I will sing in place of sensei. He truly doesn't understand these things, sir. I am quite familiar with English songs, and given my status, I can completely represent him."
Macau suddenly stepped forward on his own initiative. America adjusted his glasses and glanced at him.
"Fine. Since you came along with him, I guess that works. I'll let him off the hook for one round. He won't be able to dodge the next one anyway."
China's mind shifted into high gear, focusing sharply. So when the cheerful music and the roar of the crowd erupted, he felt completely isolated from it all. Fortunately, Macau had stepped in to defuse the situation. While everyone's attention was locked onto America, China seized the opportunity to slip into an empty corner. Fighting through the burning sensation, he swallowed the remaining half of the herbal medicine in one gulp.
Whether he was fully prepared or not, he had to step up.
Only after the fiery liquid slowly burned through his stomach and settled into a calm did China slowly straighten his posture. He returned to the crowd, waiting for the new round of the game to commence.
Russia had finished the first round of the challenge. America seemed to win with a bit of a struggle today, though whether it had to do with his heavily drugged appearance back in the restroom remained uncertain. In short, his form wasn't as sharp as before.
"I'll do it."
China calmly stepped into the dead center of the spectating crowd and slowly sat down.
"Alright," America said, looking at him with a cold smirk. "I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. Glad to see you're self-aware enough to show up without me having to drag you over."
China's gaze sliced through the crowd. He could see Vietnam leaning sideways against a nearby doorframe, holding a glass and raising it to her lips. Her eyes were casting a sidelong glance right in his direction.
His resolve hardened further. Placing his right hand firmly on the table, he spoke.
"Let's begin."
Side Story (Extra)
Vietnam opened the elevator door and stepped inside alone. Breaking her usual habit today, she wasn't wearing men's clothing. Instead, she wore a long black dress that nearly swept the floor, a new style of hairband tied at the back of her head, and she had even put on makeup. The occasional change of style put her in a quite a pleasant mood today.
Just as she pressed the floor button and the elevator doors began to close, someone whistling a light tune triggered the sensors, and the doors slid open again. A figure walked in.
She looked over and saw it was China. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, sporting a lazy, nonchalant posture—exactly matching the descriptions she had occasionally overheard from one of his family members complaining about his private behavior behind his back.
China walked into the elevator as if there were no one else around, not even glancing at Vietnam, treating her as if she were thin air. He completely ignored her, standing right beside her to the point where she felt she had to automatically step aside to give him some space.
Despite her annoyance, she couldn't resist stealing a glance at him. Seeing him staring up at the ceiling, he suddenly blurted out an unexpected question.
"Is that new?"
"No, I made it myself."
"Yeah, alright."
"...Cough. It seems Westerners are much better at giving compliments," Vietnam remarked. "For instance, they would say, 'Miss Vietnam, you look truly beautiful today, stunning, so different from usual. You are stunning today...'"
"Listen here—" China cut her off.
"Miss Nguyen, no, Comrade Vietnam, please stick to your path of socialist construction. Keep your resolve firm and don't let these trivial matters cloud your judgment or disorient you. Be careful not to stray further and further from the correct track!"
With that, the elevator doors slid open. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he continued whistling his little tune as he strolled out.
"Hmph..." Vietnam shot a disdainful glance at his retreating back and followed him out of the elevator bay.