Axolotl Translations

Class started.

The math teacher entered, a stack of tests in hand. The class representative collected them and moved down the rows, distributing them one by one.

While he waited, Ruan Zhao glanced back.

Gu Xingyan sat in the last row, tucked into the corner. His long bangs shadowed his eyes, and with his head bent, Ruan Zhao could only see the sharp, clean line of his jaw. He seemed oblivious to Ruan Zhao’s scrutiny, or perhaps simply indifferent, absorbed in his own world.

Gu Xingyan shrugged off his damp school jacket, folding it neatly onto the empty seat beside him. Beneath, he wore a pale blue button-down shirt, the sleeves faded with countless washes. With a fluid movement, he rolled up the slightly long sleeves, pulled out a pen, and began scribbling equations on a scrap of paper.

Ruan Zhao’s eyes narrowed. Physics? He was working on a physics problem? In the middle of math class? A daring move.

“Ruan Zhao, your test.” The class representative stood at his desk, holding out the paper.

“Thanks,” Ruan Zhao murmured.

He took the test and saw the familiar number: 143. Five points lost on a multiple-choice question, and two more on a long-form problem at the end.

Scanning the paper, he noted the question types and difficulty were similar to those in his original world—nothing seemed amiss. It was fortunate his accident had occurred just after the college entrance exams. A few months later, after starting university, he might have struggled to recall how to solve these problems.

Setting the test aside, he noticed the boy in front of him turn, peering over with undisguised curiosity. When the boy saw Ruan Zhao’s score, his pupils widened, and he barely stifled a gasp.

He quickly glanced down at his own paper. It was a sea of crimson X’s. Some answers were so wildly incorrect the teacher’s pen had practically ripped through the page in frustration. One particularly violent X seemed to radiate sheer murderous intent.

Thirty-five out of 150. Not even a quarter of Ruan Zhao’s score.

The boy winced, flipping his test face down, clearly unwilling to endure further humiliation. Then, remembering the inevitable review, he tapped his knuckles on Ruan Zhao’s desk. As Ruan Zhao looked up, the boy clasped his hands together in a silent plea.

“Let me borrow your test after class, please, Ruan Zhao!”

Ruan Zhao chuckled, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, and nodded.

One by one, other students approached Ruan Zhao, asking to borrow his test. He readily agreed, without a moment’s hesitation. His so-called villainous trait only applied to the protagonist. Around everyone else, he maintained the façade of a gentle, kind-hearted soul.

From the corner of his eye, Ruan Zhao saw Gu Xingyan receive his test. The score was clearly visible: 140. Three points lower than his own.

A flicker of surprise crossed Ruan Zhao’s face. It wasn’t that he was shocked by Gu Xingyan’s high score; as the protagonist, a perfect score would have been entirely predictable. What surprised him was that Gu Xingyan had scored lower than him.

In Ruan Zhao’s mind, the protagonist was supposed to be untouchable, leagues ahead of everyone else, leaving them trailing in his dust. That was simply the natural order of things.

He couldn’t resist turning to look at Gu Xingyan again. In a classroom where every other head was facing forward, listening to the teacher, a sudden, fluffy head turning backward was impossible to miss. There was no need for Gu Xingyan to raise his head; Ruan Zhao’s gaze was easily caught in his peripheral vision.

Gu Xingyan’s fingers twitched slightly, but he gave no other sign of acknowledgment. He simply lowered his head further and continued working on his problems.

Last night, he’d worked his part-time job until late, not getting home until 3 a.m. By the time he’d washed up and settled into bed, it was closer to 3:30. His mind felt sluggish, like a rusted clock struggling to turn. Problems he could normally solve in an instant now required agonizing concentration, and even then, the solutions eluded him.

Haicheng No.1 High School began morning reading at seven sharp. To avoid being late, Gu Xingyan had to wake up at six, leaving him with barely two and a half hours of sleep.

One day of this wouldn’t have been so bad. But this had been his routine for an entire week—late nights, early mornings, and never more than four hours of rest.

The constant exhaustion, irregular meals, and sleepless nights had wreaked havoc on his stomach, which now clenched in near-constant spasms, waves of pain demanding attention. His body burned, yet his hands and feet grew colder, almost numb.

His fingers trembled uncontrollably, making his written formulas waver and slant across the page, a mess of crooked lines. The pen in his hand refused to cooperate, dragging uneven black marks. He had to grip it tightly just to steady the tip.

Gu Xingyan had been sick often enough to recognize the signs. He was running a fever, probably between 38 and 39 degrees Celsius. Not dangerously high, but enough to make him feel wretched. A dose of fever medicine would likely bring it down within a couple of hours.

With practiced ease, he rummaged through his bag for the medicine box, only to find an empty blister pack. He paused, then remembered: he’d taken the last pill last night. He hadn’t had time to buy more this morning.

No medicine… what should he do? Should he ask for leave?

Gu Xingyan lifted his gaze toward the teacher at the podium.

The homeroom teacher, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, was passionately explaining a math problem at the front of the class. Her voice, laced with a mix of frustration and forced patience, emphasized, for what must have been the hundredth time, that this was a simple question—how could anyone still be getting it wrong?

Gu Xingyan hesitated, glancing down at the physics test he’d been working on. It took him a few seconds to register the discrepancy—this wasn’t physics class. This was math.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, encountering only searing heat. Was his fever this bad? He’d completely confused the math and physics teachers.

But wait—hadn’t the physics class representative just handed him this test? Frowning, he pulled the paper from his bag’s side pocket and squinted at it.

Oh. It was a math test.

Even someone as oblivious to his own well-being as he was couldn’t ignore the warning signs any longer. This… probably wasn’t good.

Maybe he should go to the hospital. If his fever worsened, he might actually fry his brain. But a hospital visit meant endless procedures. If it was serious, the doctor might even insist on an IV drip. That would waste precious time.

He had a tutoring session scheduled after school, teaching a middle schooler. After that, an overnight shift at an internet café, working as a network administrator until one in the morning.

There was simply no time for a hospital visit. Skipping work for a day meant losing five hundred yuan. And a hospital visit would cost at least four or five hundred. A thousand yuan total. Way too much.

Gu Xingyan convinced himself he could endure it a little longer. After class, he’d go to the infirmary, buy some painkillers, take a pill, and everything would be fine. The pain, the discomfort, would disappear. That was the plan.

He set down his pen, deciding to rest for a moment. But the persistent, unwavering gaze locked on him made it impossible to relax. His nerves were on edge, making it difficult to even close his eyes, let alone sleep.

This was new. He’d never experienced this kind of attention before. In class, he was practically invisible. No one ever paid him much mind, much less turned around to stare. Yet, for the past half-lesson, this guy had been watching him—as if he were inexplicably fascinating. Every few minutes, he’d turn, glance over, and just… stare.

Gu Xingyan opened his eyes and shifted his gaze, meeting Ruan Zhao’s directly. The boy seemed momentarily startled, his eyes flickering uncertainly. But then, he met Gu Xingyan’s gaze head-on, bold and unwavering. His eyes widened.

And then—he just looked at him. It felt like a silent contest; whoever looked away first lost.

Gu Xingyan: “……”

He barely knew anyone in this class. Many faces were unfamiliar. And this boy who’d been staring at him? Gu Xingyan had absolutely no recollection of him.

But then—memories surfaced. This same boy had cornered him in the restroom just the other day, bringing two others along. He’d shoved him hard, sending him sprawling onto the grimy floor, ruining the freshly laundered clothes he’d just dried that morning.

And afterward? He’d leaned in close, whispering nonsensical threats—words that made no sense, as if he were trying to intimidate him. Like that long-tailed bird outside his apartment, the one that wouldn’t stop chirping before dawn, making a racket.

Gu Xingyan frowned, confused. When had he ever offended him? He searched his memory, double-checking. Nope. Before that incident, they’d never even spoken. The hostility was completely one-sided, irrational, and unprovoked.

Gu Xingyan couldn’t understand it, and frankly, he didn’t care to. He was about to look away when—Ruan Zhao looked away first.

Someone had called his name. His delicate features softened as his lips curved into a smile, his eyes forming gentle crescents. Just below his right cheek, a shallow dimple appeared—a fleeting touch of warmth, like honey dissolving in tea. His voice, when he spoke, was light and gentle, every syllable infused with kindness. He seemed like the type who never got angry, a person with endless patience.

Completely different from the arrogant, domineering demeanor he’d displayed moments before. It was like looking at two entirely different people.

The student in front of him borrowed his eraser.

Ruan Zhao rubbed the corners of his mouth, which had grown stiff from smiling. Only then did he remember—his little staring contest with Gu Xingyan was still ongoing. His lips pressed into a thin line, he shot Gu Xingyan a fierce glare. Even the slight upward curve of his eyes conveyed a distinct air of displeasure.

Gu Xingyan’s gaze flickered, momentarily surprised by the sudden shift in demeanor. Did I do something that awful? Why do you hate me this much?

Thud, thud, thud…

The math teacher rapped on the blackboard.

At the sound, Ruan Zhao snapped his head forward, straightening in his seat. The teacher’s eyes lingered on him for a fleeting moment before she spoke, her tone serious and pointed: “Certain students should focus on their work. The answers aren’t at the back of the classroom.”

Because Ruan Zhao consistently performed well and maintained excellent grades, the teacher was quite fond of him. She gave him a gentle reminder, nothing harsher. Seeing that her star student had acknowledged his mistake and was now sitting attentively, her expression softened.

“Alright, let’s move on to the next question.”

…

By the time school ended, Ruan Zhao felt utterly drained, as if his life force had been depleted. Every muscle ached with exhaustion, and he could barely muster the energy to move. Slowly, he packed his bag and followed the stream of students out of the classroom.

At the end of the hallway, a lean figure flickered into his peripheral vision for a moment before vanishing. Ruan Zhao’s steps faltered briefly. Then, feigning indifference, he continued walking.

Right now, he was tired and hungry—the last thing he wanted was to go to work.

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