Axolotl Translations

For Ruan Mother, her son’s well-being always took precedence over academics.

Ruan Zhao blinked, momentarily surprised, before quickly declining. “No, no, that’s not necessary…I’ll wake up. I won’t be late.” He offered further reassurances, successfully deterring her from calling the school.

By the time he finally lay down, it was nearly midnight. Perhaps he’d missed his window for sleep, because despite tossing and turning, he couldn’t drift off. Frustrated, he sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, and grabbed his phone. His fingers found the contact he’d saved earlier that day. If the side character is losing sleep, the protagonist shouldn’t rest either.

He tapped the video call button. The ringtone echoed for a long time before the call connected. The screen was initially black. Then, with a click, the room’s lights came on.

“…What?” A deep, sleep-roughened voice came through. The person on the other end sounded groggy, as if they had just been pulled from a deep slumber.

Ruan Zhao smirked. “Can’t I call you without a reason?” His tone was deliberately petulant—like a girlfriend starting a fight for no reason.

Gu Xingyan paused briefly before replying softly, “…Sure.”

The camera shifted, revealing his striking features. His eyes were undoubtedly his most captivating feature. The natural depth of his eyelids and the subtle upward curve at the corners gave his gaze an effortless intensity. When he looked down, it created the illusion of deep, unspoken emotions, making people instinctively hesitate to speak harshly.

Ruan Zhao noticed the fresh bandage on Gu Xingyan’s forehead, where a faint trace of blood was already seeping through. Rest was crucial for recovery. It was essential for regaining energy and healing.

“…Gu Xingyan.”

“Hm?”

Truthfully, Ruan Zhao had called simply to disrupt his sleep. Now that he’d succeeded, he was at a loss for words. After a moment of silence, he asked randomly, “Are you going to school tomorrow?”

It was a pointless question. The doctor had repeatedly stressed that Gu Xingyan needed at least three days of observation before discharge. Before Gu Xingyan could answer, Ruan Zhao interrupted, realizing the futility of his question.

“You should stay put in the hospital. I’ve already covered your fees—don’t waste my money.” Ruan Zhao stared intently, conveying, Don’t even think about sneaking out.

Gu Xingyan had briefly considered leaving. His gaze flickered, but under Ruan Zhao’s sharp scrutiny, he simply replied softly, “Alright.”

Ruan Zhao’s brow furrowed slightly. The harsh hospital lights strained the eyes. He noticed Gu Xingyan’s eyes were slightly red, a film of exhaustion glazing over them. He blinked more frequently, struggling to stay awake. His already pale complexion was alarmingly white, almost translucent. Now, because Ruan Zhao had selfishly kept him awake, his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked utterly pitiful, like someone who’d been mistreated.

Ruan Zhao lifted his chin and commanded, “Turn the camera away. I don’t want to see your face.” He knew that if he kept looking, he wouldn’t have the heart to continue bothering him. A rare twinge of guilt pricked Ruan Zhao. Sorry, he silently apologized.

Surprised by the sudden order, Gu Xingyan hesitated, then quietly turned the camera away without protest.

Watching Gu Xingyan’s obedient compliance, Ruan Zhao felt a surge of satisfaction. His spur-of-the-moment contract had definitely been the right move. Even though it wasn’t technically in effect yet, Gu Xingyan was already acting like his personal assistant, following his every whim.

With that contract, Ruan Zhao could justify tormenting him—constantly pushing boundaries, creating chaos, and deliberately being a nuisance. The more Gu Xingyan disliked him, the closer he was to completing his mission and earning points. That thought erased any lingering guilt. Bossing Gu Xingyan around now felt perfectly natural.

He complained about his insomnia and demanded a bedtime story, forcing Gu Xingyan to read aloud. But when Gu Xingyan’s delivery lacked emotion, Ruan Zhao feigned offense, accusing him of half-hearted effort. Gu Xingyan barely finished a sentence before being interrupted. Ruan Zhao nitpicked everything—tone, voice, even his “detached” expression.

Finally, Gu Xingyan quietly asked, “You’re not even looking at me. How do you know my expression isn’t lively enough?”

Ruan Zhao paused. “…I just do.”

“You’re making excuses.”

Ruan Zhao frowned. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

He didn’t need to hear clearly to know Gu Xingyan was likely muttering complaints. But since irritating him was the point, Ruan Zhao let it go. He urged him to continue reading—no more stalling. He was genuinely curious about the story’s ending.

Gu Xingyan: “…”

His deep, slightly raspy voice filled the quiet hospital room, reaching Ruan Zhao’s ears.

…

“…And finally, the little carp leapt over the Dragon Gate. Bathed in dazzling sunlight, it stretched its tail and transformed into a magnificent golden dragon. Its shimmering scales gleamed brilliantly, radiating light.”

Gu Xingyan finished the story, but the usual sharp comments from Ruan Zhao didn’t come. Surprised, he glanced at his screen. The warm lamplight illuminated the boy’s pale face, casting a gentle glow on his delicate features. His lashes fluttered faintly, creating wispy shadows beneath his closed eyes. He was sound asleep, quiet and still, clutching a white plush puppy. It was hard to believe this was the same argumentative boy who constantly bickered with him.

Realizing he’d been staring too long, Gu Xingyan blinked, looked away, and ended the call.

…

Three days passed quickly.

The moment Ruan Zhao entered the classroom, he spotted Gu Xingyan in the last row. He walked over and tapped lightly on the desk. “Move over. This is my seat.”

Gu Xingyan: “…?”

Ruan Zhao crossed his arms. “You were absent, so I told the teacher I’d sit here.”

Gu Xingyan raised an eyebrow. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

Ruan Zhao gestured toward the corner. “Over there.”

Gu Xingyan didn’t move, his expression darkening slightly. That spot was terrible—crammed between two walls, barely enough room. It would be incredibly uncomfortable for someone his height. Ruan Zhao wouldn’t want to sit there either, but proximity to Gu Xingyan was essential for his mission.

They remained at a standstill. Then, Ruan Zhao leaned close, his lips almost touching Gu Xingyan’s ear, and whispered, “First day back, and you’re already disobeying me?”

The weight of his words fell heavily on disobeying, laced with the unmistakable tone of mild displeasure—like a reprimand for a disobedient pet.

Gu Xingyan met Ruan Zhao’s gaze. The boy’s pale eyes narrowed, pupils contracting, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his features—as if he were truly displeased by the insubordination. After a moment’s hesitation, Gu Xingyan silently gathered his belongings, transferring his books and papers. Under Ruan Zhao’s unwavering gaze, he finally yielded the seat.

Though they were trying to be discreet, Ruan Zhao naturally drew attention. Curious glances flickered their way, students subtly watching. Chen Feng, sitting in front, craned his neck, but since it was morning self-study, he couldn’t approach. Instead, he texted.

Chen Feng: [What’s going on? Why are you sitting with that weirdo?]

Ruan Zhao casually replied: Obviously, I’m reforming him with love.

Chen Feng: [???]

Chen Feng: [Are you possessed?]

Ironically, Chen Feng wasn’t far from the truth.

Ruan Zhao: [Still me.]

Ruan Zhao: [Gu Xingyan and I had some misunderstandings, but we’ve talked things over.]

Chen Feng: [Image.jpg]

Ruan Zhao tapped the image, zoomed in, and immediately recognized it—the old, poorly edited chat log his past self had fabricated. The supposed “Gu Xingyan” messages were beyond offensive—the kind that would be instantly flagged online. Ruan Zhao cringed. So out of character! It wasn’t even a good forgery. Anyone familiar with Photoshop would spot the flaws instantly. But Chen Feng? A straight guy who couldn’t even tell the difference between a celebrity’s unfiltered photos and their heavily edited glamour shots? He’d never notice.

And so, the interrogation began.

Chen Feng: [???]

Ruan Zhao: […Gu Xingyan said he didn’t mean to send those messages.]

Chen Feng: [?]

Ruan Zhao: [He apologized, so I’m forgiving him.]

Chen Feng: ?

Ruan Zhao: [He promised to leave me alone and just be a normal friend.]

Chen Feng: [?]

Chen Feng’s relentless barrage of question marks finally tested Ruan Zhao’s patience.

Ruan Zhao: [Enough already! Just trust me—I have my own plan.]

Chen Feng: [.]

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