Axolotl Translations

The air was filled with the fresh scent of soil. Three perfectly square plots of rich, dark brown soil stood out starkly against the surrounding dry, compacted ground. Anyone could tell at a glance—this soft, fertile land was far better suited for growing crops.

Liang Zhao’s brows furrowed, confusion clear in his eyes.

Gu Mengran didn’t keep him in suspense for long. He handed Liang Zhao half a handful of cabbage seeds and, with a cheerful smile, explained, “I don’t really understand the exact mechanics myself. This space doesn’t exactly adhere to normal logic. Maybe it’s some kind of compensation for the fact we can’t use tools? You don’t need to till the soil—just drop the seeds, and the ground sorts itself out.”

“Oh, and you don’t even have to worry about weeding or fertilizing—unless there are weed seeds mixed in, of course. Pretty convenient, right? Farming without the hassle—it’s basically effortless.”

Liang Zhao lowered his gaze, silently studying the freshly turned soil.

Gu Mengran nudged his arm. “What? Are you spooked?”

“No, just… this is quite something,” Liang Zhao said slowly, drawing out the last word. Then, he looked up at Gu Mengran. “At least it’s still within the realm of believability. As long as the seeds don’t sprout into baby cabbages right before our eyes.”

Gu Mengran laughed. “If only it worked like that.”

Then, with a sigh, he shook his head regretfully. “If only. But aside from automatically tilling the soil and eliminating the need for weeding and fertilizing, there’s nothing particularly special about it. The crops grow at the same pace as they do outside—slowly. And we still have to water them.”

Water them? Liang Zhao blinked, then instinctively glanced towards the distant stream, its silvery ribbon shimmering in the light. His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed. “I think… we might have overlooked a small problem.”

“Hm?” Gu Mengran hadn’t caught on yet.

Liang Zhao’s expression was serious as he analyzed the situation. “The water source is too far. Without tools, how are we supposed to transport water for irrigation?”

Oh, right. Realization dawned on Gu Mengran. He glanced at the stream, hundreds of meters away, and scratched his head in frustration.

If they planted crops near the stream, the poultry and livestock would destroy them. But planting at the far end of the space meant they were too distant from water. How were they supposed to irrigate? It wasn’t as if they could just scoop water up with their hands and carry it back, right?

In his past life, food had been scarce—he’d never been in a position to raise livestock. Only now did Gu Mengran realize that farming and animal husbandry didn’t always mesh well.

With such a large expanse of land, it would be a waste not to grow vegetables. But, at the same time, if they didn’t raise animals, they’d eventually run out of meat. What then? Become vegetarians?

Unable to come up with a perfect solution, Gu Mengran sighed, at a loss. Just as he was about to repack the cabbage seeds and consult his grandfather, three fearless chicks wandered over.

They scratched at the soil with their claws, pecking occasionally as they made their way from the stream to where Gu Mengran stood, completely ignoring him. Unbothered and carefree, they strolled right up to his feet.

Gu Mengran considered shooing them away but hesitated. Since he hadn’t thought of a solution yet, he decided to observe whether the chicks would dig up and eat the seeds. He exchanged a glance with Liang Zhao and waited.

Rustle, rustle, rustle—

The three chicks scratched and pecked, their steps light and quick as they approached the oddly dark brown soil. The most brightly colored chick took the lead. It lifted its claw, stepping onto the rich soil—only for its foot to suddenly freeze midair, as if blocked by an invisible barrier.

The chick didn’t seem surprised. After a two-second pause, it withdrew its claw and simply walked around the area.

One chick. Two chicks. Three chicks.

Each tried to step onto the soil, and each failed.

Gu Mengran was stunned. His pupils shrank as he pointed at the ground, stammering, “T-this…! Liang Zhao, did you see that? It looks like they can’t step inside—does this mean there’s some kind of protective barrier?”

“I saw it.” Liang Zhao was equally surprised, though he concealed it better. He studied the patch of dark soil for a moment, then glanced at the oblivious chicks nearby. Suddenly, without warning, he lunged forward and grabbed one of them.

Ignoring the chick’s frantic flapping, Liang Zhao held it firmly and stepped onto the black soil. Nothing impeded him. He walked in without resistance, the chick still in his grasp. Then, when he released it, the chick landed safely on the soft earth.

After repeating the experiment several times, Liang Zhao reached a definitive conclusion. “The soil with seeds definitely has a protective mechanism. Small animals can’t enter on their own, but humans can—and we can carry animals inside.”

“I knew it!” Gu Mengran nodded vigorously, his excitement evident in the flush spreading across his cheeks. Words spilled out of him in a rush. “I can’t believe the space has this feature—this is perfect! Now we can plant whatever we want, wherever we want.”

The discovery instantly lifted his spirits, sweeping away all previous frustration. Stuffing the cabbage seeds back into the bag, Gu Mengran practically skipped towards the stream.

Watching his retreating figure, Liang Zhao’s expression subtly darkened.

Something felt amiss. Despite owning this space, Gu Mengran didn’t seem to have any sort of ‘instruction manual.’ He was figuring everything out on his own, piece by piece. If he didn’t even know the details or the full extent of the space’s functions, then…

How did Gu Mengran know about the space’s automatic tilling function before ever planting anything? Even if he had somehow figured it out on his own, Grandpa Meng only learned about the space after the fact. So how did Gu Mengran know that he could bring others in?

Thinking back to his first entry into the space, Liang Zhao’s expression darkened. Gu Mengran hadn’t hesitated at all—he’d been completely certain that others could enter. It didn’t feel like an experiment; it felt like something he already knew.

With these thoughts swirling, Liang Zhao followed Gu Mengran back to the stream.

Gu Mengran was clearly in high spirits. Humming an unfamiliar tune, he crouched down and started stuffing cabbage seeds into the soil without a care in the world.

Liang Zhao didn’t rush to help. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Gu Mengran, studying him intently. After about ten seconds, he squatted beside him and casually asked, “I’m curious—am I the first person you’ve brought into this space?”

“Of course!” Gu Mengran answered without looking up. “Without a doubt, you’re the first! Even Grandpa only found out later. Why do you ask?”

Liang Zhao took some cabbage seeds and shook his head, keeping his expression neutral. “No reason. Just curious.”

……

They spent the entire afternoon planting nearly an acre of land by the stream.

Since it was their first attempt, they only planted three types of crops—cabbage, radishes, and sweet potatoes—all suitable as animal feed. Once that was done, they lined the stream with fruit tree seeds—walnuts, apples, peaches, pears… These trees would take years to fruit, so the sooner they planted, the better.

With the stream nearby, watering was convenient. Using empty seed packets as makeshift scoops, they made countless trips back and forth, completing their first round of irrigation.

The stream was their only water source, and as they expanded their fields, they’d be planting farther and farther away. Gu Mengran considered digging a canal, but the thought of doing it by hand… yeah, no. He’d rather wait for a free day and drag Zheng Yijie along for help.

After leaving the space, he showered. By the time he stepped out, the sky had turned dark.

A quick glance at the kitchen told him everything—fewer steamed buns in the fridge, and the stovetop still slightly warm. Grandpa and Zheng Yijie must have already eaten.

Too tired to cook anything elaborate, Gu Mengran simply made a pot of hot and sour noodles and reheated some buns. With that, he, Liang Zhao, and the dog finished their meal.

After cleaning up the kitchen, Gu Mengran stretched and rubbed his full stomach, heading towards the bedroom. He’d been looking forward to an early night, but just as he and Liang Zhao exchanged goodnights, the walkie-talkie clipped to his waist crackled to life.

“Liang Zhao, Gu Mengran, come to the cockpit!”

Hearing Grandpa’s voice—slightly distorted but undeniably serious—Gu Mengran tensed. Snatching up the walkie-talkie, he asked urgently, “What’s wrong? Is there a problem with Windwing?”

“No, just get up here. Now.”

Before Gu Mengran could protest, the transmission ended. He exchanged a glance with Liang Zhao, pouted in resignation, and sighed. “Let’s go.”

Night had fallen. Windwing was anchored in the middle of the river, but for some reason, the mooring chains hadn’t been lowered.

Inside the brightly lit cockpit, Grandpa sat in the captain’s chair, his expression serious as he stared ahead.

Zheng Yijie, perched on a small stool beside him, held a notebook. Every so often, he glanced up at the control panel before jotting something down.

Worried about Windwing, Gu Mengran and Liang Zhao rushed over as quickly as they could.

Seeing that nothing seemed amiss in the cockpit, Gu Mengran slumped in disappointment. He walked over to stand behind the captain’s chair, leaning against Grandpa’s shoulders as he grumbled, “What is it? We were just about to go to bed. Did you drag us here to play mahjong?”

“Mahjong?” Grandpa gave a dry chuckle. His voice turned serious. “This isn’t a game. Stop fooling around and look outside.”

Something about his tone made Gu Mengran’s stomach tighten. His nerves, which had just settled, tensed up all over again. He exchanged a glance with Liang Zhao, then hurried to the glass window by the control panel.

By now, the sky was pitch black. The cockpit’s bright lights cast a stark contrast against the inky waters of the Huang River. The glass reflected the light, turning it into a near-perfect mirror.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

Unable to make anything out, Gu Mengran leaned closer, pressing his face against the glass. But the reflection was too strong—beyond the dark river, there was nothing but more darkness. Just as he frowned in confusion, a faint sigh came from behind him. Then—

Click.

All the overhead lights snapped off instantly. Darkness enveloped the cockpit, leaving only the dim glow of the control panel.

Gu Mengran had just opened his mouth to ask why Grandpa had turned off the lights when his adjusting vision caught something outside. His breath caught in his throat. His jaw dropped.

Under the cover of night, the river lay silent and still, deep in slumber. But beyond the water—where there should have been only quiet mountains—thick smoke curled into the air. Faint flickers of fire danced along the ridgeline, like scattered embers in the wind.

A chill ran down his spine. His lips trembled.

“This is…”

Meng Gaoyang’s voice was grave. “Wildfire.”

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