Axolotl Translations

The wind howled. Waves churned, their white crests swallowed by the thick, eerie fog that cloaked the water. The night was pitch-black, suffocating—like drifting through an endless abyss.

BZZZZZZZZZZZ— The engine rumbled on, its deep roar shaking the cabin like rolling thunder. The Windwing set off once more, slicing through the dense fog like a lone vessel lost at sea, pressing ever eastward.

An hour into the journey, the ship sailed on, steady and smooth. Behind the wheel, Meng Gaoyang allowed himself to relax, leaning back into the captain’s chair. His gaze drifted to the folding chair beside him. There—where he should have been sleeping in his cabin—was Gu Mengran. He had dragged a foldable moon chair onto the bridge and made himself comfortable, sprawled out as if he were on a camping trip. Next to him, a small fold-out table was laden with snacks and fruit—a full-blown picnic setup.

Meng Gaoyang was speechless. On one hand, the kid certainly knew how to enjoy himself—choosing this over a perfectly good bed. On the other, if he was worried about the ship, he certainly wasn’t showing it. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, lost in thought, as if his soul had wandered off somewhere.

The old man couldn’t bear it. Everyone else was on shift, and here he was, taking a damn vacation. With a pointed cough, Meng Gaoyang barked, “You going to eat all that or just let it sit there? Pack it up and go to sleep. You have the night shift, don’t you?”

No reaction. Gu Mengran continued staring at the ceiling, completely zoned out.

Meng Gaoyang scowled. “Mengran! Gu Mengran! What, did a wild dog chew off your ears?!”

“Huh?” Snapping back to reality, Gu Mengran blinked, his eyes darting around as if he had forgotten where he was. “…Grandpa, were you calling me?”

Meng Gaoyang: “…It’s just the two of us here. Who else would I be talking to?”

Before he had even finished, Gu Mengran was drifting off again. The kid had been like this all morning—distracted, lost in thought, as if his soul had wandered. Clearly, something was troubling him.

Meng Gaoyang no longer had the heart to chase him away. Instead, he straightened his posture, softened his tone, and shifted into the role of a concerned elder. “Something on your mind?” he asked. “You’ve been looking troubled all day, and it’s worrying your old grandpa. If something’s bothering you, just say it—don’t keep it bottled up.”

Gu Mengran sighed deeply, then slowly sat up. He looked genuinely conflicted—his lips parted, hesitating, as if struggling to articulate his thoughts. After a long pause, his gaze settled on the glistening grapes in the fruit tray. His voice was rough, almost hesitant, when he finally spoke. “Grandpa… Wine gets better with age, right? Do people work the same way?” His fingers curled slightly against the armrest.

“I mean… Someone who’s never lifted a finger in the kitchen can, with enough practice, become a great chef. But what about someone who’s selfish to their core—can they ever change? Can a person who only looks out for themselves… ever truly become kind? Can they ever learn to put others first?”

Meng Gaoyang inhaled sharply. He stroked his chin, deep in thought. “Now that’s a tough one. People are naturally selfish, you know. It’s easy for a good person to turn bad… but for a selfish person to become selfless?” He exhaled sharply. “Unless their conscience awakens, I’d say it’s damn near impossible.”

Gu Mengran fell silent, his gaze wandering, unfocused, like a man standing at a foggy crossroads, unsure which path to take.

Clearing his throat, Meng Gaoyang continued, “That said, it’s not unheard of. People are complicated. Sometimes, all it takes is a life-altering event—something that shakes them to their core. If that happens… maybe, just maybe, they’ll decide to change for the better.”

At first glance, Grandpa’s words seemed reasonable. But in reality, they were utterly useless. Because Liang Zhao wasn’t a bad person to begin with. Comparing him to one was a fundamental misunderstanding.

Frustrated, Gu Mengran ruffled his hair, his thoughts swirling. Meng Gaoyang silently observed his reaction. Though his expression remained neutral, his curiosity intensified. Seeing that Gu Mengran wasn’t going to elaborate, the old man decided to probe further.

“This person you’re talking about…” he asked casually. “It’s Liang Zhao, isn’t it?”

Boom. Gu Mengran jolted as if he had been electrocuted, his eyes widening. “How could it be?! Grandpa, stop talking nonsense! Liang Zhao—he’s not selfish at all!”

Oh? I see. Meng Gaoyang chuckled heartily, completely disregarding his grandson’s indignant glare. “No need to hide it. Come on, tell me—Liang Zhao’s personality isn’t quite the same as it was in your dreams, is it?”

The accuracy of the guess left Gu Mengran momentarily speechless. He still attempted a weak protest. “What are you even talking about, Grandpa? Liang Zhao and I—we’ve been friends for years—”

“Please.” Meng Gaoyang snorted. “I may not know him, but I know you. The way you two interact? Friends? My foot. You barely know each other. At best, you’re like old classmates who lost touch ages ago—except without the shared memories.”

Gu Mengran deflated like a punctured balloon. All his resistance vanished in an instant. “…Fine. You got me.”

The old man grinned triumphantly. “Good. Now spill the beans—let’s hear it. Your old grandpa will help you analyze the situation.”

Unable to dispel his doubts, Gu Mengran decided he might as well come clean. Since Grandpa had already surmised most of it, there was no point in concealing the rest. Omitting the details about his past-life injuries and disfigurement, he provided a rough summary of how Liang Zhao had risked his life to save him—how he had treated him with such unwavering kindness.

Gu Mengran expected Grandpa to launch into another round of analysis. But the moment he finished speaking, the old man simply clicked his tongue. Then, he gave him that look—the kind reserved for utter fools.

Gu Mengran’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“I just realized—you’re actually rather dense,” Grandpa sighed, shaking his head. “You keep fixating on how much Liang Zhao’s personality has changed. But did you ever consider that perhaps he hasn’t changed at all? That the real difference… is you?”

Gu Mengran blinked, completely bewildered. “Huh?”

Meng Gaoyang looked at him as if he were a hopeless case. “It’s obvious! Just look at the difference in how he treats people. He couldn’t care less whether others live or die. But when it comes to you? He’s willing to risk everything.”

“Did it never occur to you, even once? That maybe—just maybe—Liang Zhao… likes you.”

***

That night, Gu Mengran didn’t sleep. Not because he wasn’t tired—he was exhausted. But his mind wouldn’t stop racing.

During the day, he lay awake, unable to rest. At night, he had to take over the helm, steering the ship. He gritted his teeth and pushed through, pinching his arm to stay conscious. By the time his night shift ended, he was so sleep-deprived he could barely walk a straight line.

But at least the long hours alone gave him ample time to think. And after an entire night of internal debate, he reached a firm conclusion—Grandpa’s theory was impossible. Absolutely, 100% impossible.

Liang Zhao had survived alone in the apocalypse for too long. He had grown accustomed to the loneliness, so when he finally found a companion, he naturally clung to them. That was all. He had saved Gu Mengran because he didn’t want to be alone. He had treated him kindly out of nostalgia—because they had once been classmates. That was it. Nothing more. Absolutely, nothing more.

Of course, none of this was the real reason. The real reason Gu Mengran was absolutely certain Liang Zhao couldn’t possibly like him—was because Liang Zhao himself had once stated, plainly, that he liked girls.

Reborn or not, there was no point dwelling on something like this. It didn’t matter why. It didn’t matter how much had changed. Liang Zhao was still Liang Zhao. He would always be his companion—his family.

7:30 AM. Half an hour left until the end of his shift. Gu Mengran stretched his arms, yawning as he climbed down from his seat. He rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness in his neck, then moved into a full-body stretch.

Just as he was mid-stretch, a quiet cough suddenly sounded behind him. He turned sharply—only to find Liang Zhao standing in the doorway, holding a tray. How long had he been there? For a split second, neither of them spoke. The air between them seemed to hang still.

Then, in the next instant, a familiar aroma drifted to Gu Mengran’s nose—warm, rich, and unmistakably fresh. “You made breakfast?” Hunger quickly trumped awkwardness. Gu Mengran forgot all about his stretches and strode toward Liang Zhao.

But before he could reach him, Liang Zhao had already stepped inside, placing the tray on the console. Gu Mengran peered down at it—congee and buns, just like yesterday. Only… something was very different about those bowls of congee. A thick, yellowish mush, speckled with unidentifiable black bits. Technically, it could still be called congee—but visually, it looked more like… a paste.

It smelled good, though. A deep, almost toasty aroma, with a hint of something savory. Still, he couldn’t quite place it. After staring for a few seconds, he finally looked up at Liang Zhao, confused. “…Corn porridge? I think I smell meat—meat and corn porridge?”

Liang Zhao hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly rubbed the tip of his nose. His voice was barely audible. “…It’s century egg and lean pork congee. I made it myself. The heat was a little off, so it got… burnt.”

Century egg and lean pork congee?! Gu Mengran stared at the bowl, dumbfounded. Who would have guessed that from looking at it?! He had never encountered anything quite like this. But the moment he heard Liang Zhao had cooked it himself, he faltered for a second—his mind flashing back to his grandfather’s ridiculous words from the night before. Liang Zhao had actually listened to him. He’d mentioned the congee in passing yesterday, and today… here it was.

Of course, Gu Mengran wasn’t so conceited as to assume Liang Zhao had any ulterior motives, but still—it was strange. And he was curious.

Before he could overthink it, Liang Zhao suddenly spoke up. “It’s a little too burnt. You shouldn’t eat it—I’ll go make something else.” The prolonged silence must have given the wrong impression, because before Gu Mengran could react, Liang Zhao had already turned to leave, tray in hand.

“Wait, wait—don’t go!” Gu Mengran snapped out of his reverie and blocked his path just in time. “So what if it’s a little burnt? It still smells good, right? That means it can’t be that bad.” Before Liang Zhao could protest, Gu Mengran snatched the tray from his hands, plopped it back onto the console, and grabbed a spoon.

Scooping up a spoonful of the thick, sticky mess, he popped it into his mouth without hesitation. The texture was a bit… off. Sticky. Definitely too charred. But the flavor? Actually kind of nice. Seeing Liang Zhao still watching him, Gu Mengran licked his lips, then flashed a casual grin. “Not bad. Got that nice toasty flavor, you know?” It wasn’t technically a lie. The taste was good. It just… burned his throat a little.

By the time breakfast was over, they had already arrived at their next stop. Gu Mengran didn’t head straight to bed—because the Windwing’s fuel tank was running low. They needed to refuel. Refueling a ship was no simple task. It usually required docking at a port or linking up with a fueling vessel at a designated station.

Thanks to his spatial ability, refueling was far less of a hassle. The moment the Windwing came to a stop, Liang Zhao remained in the cockpit to monitor the fuel gauge, while Gu Mengran, wearing a gas mask, made his way down to the lower deck. Navigating through the thick fog, he felt his way to the fuel hatch, pried it open, and got to work.

But no matter how much effort his ability saved, the Windwing’s fuel tank was massive. Squatting on the deck for over two hours, pouring in fuel nonstop, Gu Mengran’s legs went numb. His mind was hazy, his body felt disconnected—as if it no longer belonged to him.

Finally, he closed the hatch, took a deep breath, and dragged his heavy feet back toward the cabin. The distance wasn’t far—five minutes at most. Even in his exhausted state, he managed to find the entrance by memory.

But just as he grabbed the door handle—ready to step inside—a shrill, bone-chilling scream pierced the steady hum of the engine. The sound was strange. Like an animal howling—but also like a mournful wail. It rang out once—then silence.

For a brief moment, Gu Mengran thought he was hallucinating from exhaustion. He tried to ignore it. Lifting his foot to step inside—

“Awoooo—!! Woof—!!”

This time, the sound was unmistakable.

---

Previous Chapter | TOC | Next Chapter