Axolotl Translations

When did he wake up? Ruan Zhao hesitated as he pushed open the door, his breath catching slightly. But in the end, he could only steel himself and step inside, meeting Gu Xingyan’s gaze head-on.

Gu Xingyan’s expression was unreadable, his dark eyes emotionless, as if he were looking at a stranger. Cool. Indifferent. Unmoved.

Ruan Zhao found it unbearable. It was as if nothing could surprise Gu Xingyan, as if nothing could stir him.

He pulled a chair from under the table, sat down, and crossed his arms. “Since you’re awake, let’s talk business.”

Gu Xingyan’s voice was rough, almost painful—like gravel scraping his throat. “What…business?”

The sound instinctively made Ruan Zhao grab the water bottle on the table. He hesitated briefly, then, expression unchanged, handed it over.

Gu Xingyan took it. “Thanks.”

Ruan Zhao shot him an annoyed look. “What are you thinking?”

“Did you really think that water was for drinking?”

Gu Xingyan blinked, momentarily confused. “…?”

“I meant for you to open it.” Ruan Zhao lifted his chin, every bit the arrogant peacock. He issued the command effortlessly, as if Gu Xingyan’s obedience were a given. “Don’t tell me you can’t even open a water bottle?”

“I can,” Gu Xingyan’s voice was low and hoarse. He obediently twisted off the cap and handed back the open bottle.

Ruan Zhao wasn’t thirsty. He took a token sip before setting it aside.

Gu Xingyan’s gaze finally shifted from him to the water bottle. He stared at the barely lowered water level, then licked his dry lips. “If you’re not drinking it…can I?” The quiet hope in his voice made it hard to refuse.

Ruan Zhao tossed him the bottle, his words still sharp. “Someone like you? You’re only good enough for my leftovers.”

Propping his chin on one hand, Ruan Zhao watched Gu Xingyan tilt his head back, drinking in quick, deep gulps. He drank too fast. A few drops escaped, rolling down his sharp jawline.

Without thinking, Ruan Zhao grabbed a tissue. The moment he realized what he was doing, he almost slapped his own hand for acting on its own again.

Before Gu Xingyan noticed, Ruan Zhao discreetly slipped the tissue back into his pocket.

Meanwhile, Gu Xingyan had finished the entire bottle.

“Feeling better?” Ruan Zhao asked. “Now that you’re done, let’s talk money.” He pulled out his phone, enlarged the hospital bill, and showed it to Gu Xingyan. One zero. Two zeros. Three zeros. Four zeros…

Gu Xingyan’s eyes widened slightly, his expression shifting from calm to uncertain.

“This is your medical bill,” Ruan Zhao said casually but firmly. “I paid it. So, when will you pay me back?”

“I don’t…have any money right now,” Gu Xingyan admitted.

Ruan Zhao interrupted. “So you think that means you don’t have to pay me back?”

“No,” Gu Xingyan said immediately. “I’ll pay you back. Of course.”

“Then give me a timeline. How long?”

“A week. Is that okay?”

“Nope. Too long.”

Gu Xingyan lowered his lashes. There was no way he could work today. But in three days, a huge debt repayment was due—far more than the hospital bill.

Realistically, he could delay repayment. But if he did, those people would come looking for him. They’d harass him relentlessly—maybe even at school. A complete headache. A pain in the ass.

But…Ruan Zhao had helped him. That meant this debt had to be paid first. “I’ll give you the money in three days.”

Ruan Zhao shook his head. “Not good enough. I can’t wait that long.”

It was an unreasonable demand, but Ruan Zhao wasn’t after the money. He raised his phone again, this time displaying not the hospital bill but a contract he’d just drafted with the system’s guidance.

Clause One: Gu Xingyan must follow Ruan Zhao’s instructions. No questions asked.

Clause Two: Whatever Ruan Zhao tells him to do, he must do. No objections, no defiance. (Note: Nothing illegal will be involved.)

Clause Three: The above rules apply only during school hours. After class and on weekends, Gu Xingyan is free from obligation.

Clause Four: This contract is valid for one month, beginning today. Upon its expiration, all financial obligations between the parties will be considered fulfilled.

Ruan Zhao waited patiently for Gu Xingyan to finish reading. Given the boy’s reclining posture, the distance was awkward, forcing Ruan Zhao to lean forward to hold the phone close enough. Maintaining the position for so long made his wrist ache, and finally, he couldn’t stand it. “Are you done yet? You read awfully slow.”

Gu Xingyan looked up. “I’m finished.”

Ruan Zhao rolled his eyes, his impatience showing. “Slow reader, too? What are you good for?”

Gu Xingyan remained silent.

Ruan Zhao flexed his wrist to relieve the ache, then, affecting a tone of mock generosity, said, “Well? It’s a pretty sweet deal, isn’t it? All you have to do is be my—”

He stopped abruptly. Nope. Not saying that.

Damn the system. It had been nagging incessantly, calling this contract a “highly-rated obedience agreement” it had found online. Apparently, countless users swore by its effectiveness. The original template had been pure lunacy, riddled with all sorts of…questionable phrases that required censorship. Ruan Zhao had heavily edited it, slashing half the content and rewriting the rest before arriving at the version Gu Xingyan had just read.

Snapping back to the present, Ruan Zhao coughed lightly, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his features. “What I meant was—if you agree to a month of service, your debt is cleared.”

“I won’t bother you on weekends or after school. Even during class, you won’t have to do anything. I’ll only need you during breaks or lunch—at most, two hours a day. With twenty-two school days a month, that’s just forty-four hours total.”

“That’s less than two full workdays. And your hourly rate? Nearly a hundred yuan. Name one other job that pays a high school student that much.” Ruan Zhao spoke confidently, unaware that the boy before him could earn five hundred in just two hours tutoring middle schoolers.

Gu Xingyan wanted to refuse. But then he saw the light in Ruan Zhao’s eyes, the anticipation gleaming within them. And suddenly…he couldn’t.

He had collapsed in the street, feverish and bleeding. Without Ruan Zhao’s intervention, he might not have survived. Not that he particularly cared—death wouldn’t have been such a terrible end. But he had been raised to value gratitude. Ruan Zhao had saved his life. He was in his debt.

“So,” Gu Xingyan asked, “as your…assistant, what would I be doing?”

“Help me with homework, take notes, and buy me snacks.” Ruan Zhao paused, his fourth finger hovering in the air. He couldn’t think of a fourth task. “Help me…uh…”

Watching him freeze, Gu Xingyan asked, “And?”

“And…” Ruan Zhao struggled, his mind blank. Under Gu Xingyan’s steady gaze, he grew irritated. “Why so many questions? Just do as I say when the time comes. Enough talk!”

Gu Xingyan quietly said, “Okay.” Honestly, he suspected he’d also be Ruan Zhao’s stress reliever. The guy seemed high-strung, always snapping over trivialities.

The contract needed signatures, of course. But printing it? Too much effort. Ruan Zhao scrolled through his phone, his fingers flying across the screen until he found an online signature option. …Wait. What the hell? It requires a VIP subscription?!

Sure, his allowance had seven digits, and he could easily ask his family for more. But still—paying for VIP just for this? Absolutely not.

“It’s just for this one time—you’ll never need it again. No point spending thirty yuan.” With a decisive tap, Ruan Zhao closed the window.

Suddenly, a discount coupon appeared, drastically reducing the monthly VIP fee to just six yuan. Compared to thirty, six yuan was a steal—practically irresistible, especially with the countdown timer flashing urgently, Buy now or miss out!

After a moment’s hesitation, Ruan Zhao paid. Remembering system 0606’s thoughtful reminder, he immediately disabled auto-renewal.

He signed the contract and handed the phone to Gu Xingyan. The signatures were rushed and sloppy, lacking any formality. It felt like the contract could be voided at any moment. Gu Xingyan likely knew a hundred ways to invalidate it.

Ruan Zhao glanced at the “Party A” section, where his name was written. Perhaps unused to writing on a phone, his “Ruan” was crooked, and his “Zhao” was equally messy—the characters uneven in size.

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