Axolotl Translations

“38.9°C?! How—how did it rise this fast?! That’s way too sudden! How is he now? Can he eat? Any other symptoms?”

The walkie-talkie hissed with static, a faint electrical buzz cutting through the white noise. Grandfather’s voice, slightly distorted, crackled through.

Gu Mengran had just finished showering, his damp hair still dripping water. With one hand, he toweled his hair dry, while the other held the plastic-wrapped walkie-talkie.

He pressed the PTT button. “A little dizzy. He ate a bit, took some medicine, and went to sleep.”

His voice was hoarse and weak, heavy with exhaustion. Each word dragged with drowsiness.

On the other end, Grandpa Meng’s throat tightened. He steadied his voice, offering reassurance.

“It… it might not be as bad as it seems. Maybe he was coming down with something before this and just didn’t notice.”

“I hope so.” Gu Mengran sighed, rubbing his temples with his free hand.

“What’s the situation on the Windwing? Engine room holding up, right?”

Instead of answering, Meng Gaoyang countered, “Didn’t you just get back? You’re going again?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s burning up. This virus is strange—I don’t feel at ease. Besides eating and sleeping, I’ll probably stay with him these next few days.”

At that, Meng Gaoyang tensed up.

Humans are selfish creatures. He worried about Liang Zhao, yes—but he worried about his grandson even more.

This ‘chickenpox’ spread too quickly, unnaturally fast. Whether it was treatable was still an open question.

He knew there was no talking Gu Mengran out of it. His grandson was stubborn—and the patient needed someone to care for him. After a long pause, he finally relented, his voice patient but firm.

“I know you won’t back down, so I won’t argue. But you need to protect yourself. Don’t take any risks. Eat properly. Rest on time. Don’t overwork yourself. The crew is already stretched thin. If you go down, who’s going to take care of both of you?”

Though unspoken, Gu Mengran felt his grandfather’s deep concern. Forgetting the other couldn’t see him, he nodded firmly, then replied obediently, “I know, Grandpa. I’ll be careful. I wear full protective gear every time I go in and out. I only eat and drink outside.”

He hesitated, then added with a touch of guilt, “These next few days… you’ll have to work a little harder. Try using the high-frequency radio to check with Sister Xu. See if we’ve got anyone tailing us. If not, you can steer during the day and rest at night. We should isolate first—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Don’t worry about that,” Grandpa Meng cut him off, his tone light and breezy. “The Windwing’s fine. Just a few dents in the hull. We’ll find a dock and patch it up once you’re done with quarantine.”

Hearing his grandfather’s calm plan, Gu Mengran finally relaxed a little. He gave a quiet acknowledgment and was about to set the walkie-talkie down and dry his hair when another voice broke through the static.

“Grandpa Meng~ I’m so huuungry~” Zheng Yijie’s voice dragged out the syllables, sounding pitifully weak, as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

The old man chuckled, shaking his head. “Stop being dramatic, kid. I’m driving the ship right now—I don’t have time to cook. Just wait a bit. Let me check in with Heng Rong Sheng first.”

“So we only eat when Grandpa Meng takes a break? Does that mean it’s one meal a day from now on?!” Zheng Yijie’s voice shot up an octave in horror.

Grandpa Meng chuckled, clearly amused. “It’s not that bad. Mengran, leave some biscuits and snacks outside his door. He can help himself if he’s hungry.”

Zheng Yijie perked up immediately, his tone eager. “Now you’re talking! I’ll take some beef jerky, those steamed buns from before, the ‘gout special,’ and—”

Before he could finish his order, Gu Mengran, his voice still hoarse, cut him off coldly. “I’ve been in close contact with a patient. You sure you want to eat food that’s passed through my hands?”

Zheng Yijie: …

Gu Mengran continued without mercy, “But you did remind me of something. Grandpa, don’t worry about meals for me and Liang Zhao. We’ll just eat the pre-packed stuff. As for Zheng Yijie, there’s bread and biscuits in the cupboard—just send some his way.”

The moment he finished speaking, a dramatic wail blasted through the walkie-talkie. Without hesitation, Gu Mengran set it down, plugged in his hair dryer, and started drying his hair.

Ten minutes later, he was done tidying up. Grabbing some essentials from his storage, he suited up in protective gear, then slid open the door to the second-floor deck and stepped out into the night.

One of the perks of living close by—a few steps was all it took to reach the neighboring balcony.

Sliding the window open, Gu Mengran stepped inside—to find Liang Zhao awake.

He should have been fast asleep, but instead, he was sitting up in bed, rummaging through the first aid kit on his nightstand. His movements were sluggish and stiff, as if he barely had the strength to move.

Gu Mengran rushed over, dumping the supplies in his arms onto the table before hurrying to the bedside. “Why are you awake? Are you feeling worse?”

Liang Zhao didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted a hand and pointed at his throat.

“Thirsty? Sore throat?” Gu Mengran wasn’t sure, so he instinctively grabbed a cup of water and brought it to Liang Zhao’s lips.

Seeing that Gu Mengran intended to feed him, Liang Zhao hesitated, then reached for the cup himself. But Gu Mengran was quicker. He raised his arm out of reach, his expression stern. “You’re the patient. Act like one. Sit still and don’t move.”

Liang Zhao was too weak to argue. His head pounded, his limbs drained of energy—he couldn’t resist. He had no choice but to inch back, leaning against the headboard for support.

Instead of giving him water right away, Gu Mengran stood up, rummaging through the pile of supplies he’d brought. After a few seconds, he pulled out a long straw and dropped it into the cup. Then, he finally returned to the bedside.

A straw made everything easier—less risk of spilling, less mess.

After drinking about half the cup, Liang Zhao’s parched throat felt a little better. He let go of the straw and murmured, “My throat hurts. I think I need some medicine.”

His symptoms were worsening—fast. It was almost certain now that he was infected.

Gu Mengran sighed quietly, silently breaking off a few tablets.

Liang Zhao took the anti-inflammatory and painkillers with another sip of water, then sank back into the warmth of the blankets. But sleep wouldn’t come. He turned his head slightly, watching Gu Mengran, his lips moving faintly—but no sound came out.

Gu Mengran’s attention was fixed on him. He didn’t miss the detail. Without hesitation, he set down the water, leaned in, and craned his neck forward. “What is it? What do you want to say?”

Liang Zhao’s throat felt like it was filled with sand. It hurt so much that even forming words was a struggle. His lips moved, but it took a long moment before he finally forced out two words: “Sleep… now.”

“Alright, alright. Close your eyes and sleep,” Gu Mengran said softly, coaxing him like a child.

Liang Zhao’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I meant you. Go back and sleep.”

Gu Mengran shook his head. “No rush. I’ll leave once you’re asleep.”

The blanket had slipped down, exposing Liang Zhao’s shoulder. Gu Mengran grabbed a corner of it and gently pulled it up, about to tuck him in properly—when his gaze unintentionally swept over Liang Zhao’s neck.

His hand froze mid-air. Despite the persistent fever, a thin sheen of sweat coated Liang Zhao’s slender neck, glistening under the soft light. That wasn’t what caught Gu Mengran’s attention, though.

On the left side of his Adam’s apple, a glaringly red rash had appeared.

Too fast. It had only been a few hours since morning—how could it spread this quickly?

Even though Gu Mengran had mentally prepared himself for the worst, the sudden sight of the rash still jolted his heart. His mind flashed back to what he had seen earlier—those grotesque, fist-sized blisters, stretched so tight they made the skin nearly transparent. A shudder crawled up his spine. Goosebumps prickled his arms.

“Mengran?” Liang Zhao immediately noticed his daze. He must have sensed something was off, because he instinctively reached for the blanket, trying to pull it down.

But compared to a sick man’s sluggish movements, Gu Mengran’s reflexes were far sharper. He acted instantly, pressing a firm hand against Liang Zhao’s chest and giving him two light pats. “It’s nothing. Just sleep.”

Liang Zhao clearly didn’t believe him. His eyes were filled with suspicion.

Gu Mengran forced down the unease weighing on his chest and, after a brief pause, gave a sheepish chuckle. “Alright, fine. It’s just… I feel like your Adam’s apple is way bigger than mine. That’s all. Now, close your eyes and sleep.”

“Okay,” Liang Zhao responded softly, then slowly closed his eyes.

He had slept for most of the day, so he assumed he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. His plan was simple—close his eyes, pretend to sleep, and wait for Gu Mengran to leave.

But he never expected that, within mere minutes, a sudden wave of exhaustion would drag him under. His body slept, yet his mind remained wide awake. He dreamed—a strange, endlessly long dream.

The dream pulled him back years ago, to the days leading up to his grandmother’s hospitalization. It was as if he were sitting in a movie theater, forced to watch the inevitable unfold.

He saw her diagnosis. Her body growing thinner by the day. Her once warm presence fading into cold emptiness. Until finally, she was gone—reduced to nothing but a box of ashes.

The scene shifted. He saw himself packing up his few belongings, leaving school behind, stepping into a life of aimless wandering.

He had been a mechanic, a waiter, a dishwasher. There was nowhere he wanted to go. Nothing he truly desired. Survival, at that time, was the only purpose.

Then, one day, he stumbled upon a job listing online—a recruitment ad for sailors. The pay was good. The job meant spending long stretches at sea, sometimes ten days, sometimes weeks, without setting foot on land.

That kind of life sounded perfect. Not because of the salary—but because it meant drifting, unanchored, detached. No attachments. No need to return.

But in the end, he never became a sailor. Because the moment he reached the seafarer training center, standing just outside its doors, a sudden realization struck him—

He still had attachments. He wasn’t as free as he thought. There were still things he couldn’t let go. Threads of the past he couldn’t cut.

And so, he sat in this silent, dreamlike theater, watching his younger self skulk around like a thief, secretly gathering bits and pieces of news about Gu Mengran.

Then—he learned that Gu Mengran was in Xinjing. Without hesitation, he bought a same-day train ticket—a standing ticket—and rode through the night, standing all the way to Xinjing.

He abandoned the idea of becoming a sailor. Instead, he became a crew member, drifting between Yuntian and Xinjing, only coming ashore when his shift rotations allowed.

And every time he had shore leave, he would take a walk through Xinjing University.

He never searched for him. Never deliberately got close. Just a distant glance—that was enough.

Revisiting the past was far from pleasant.

Mostly, it was embarrassing. Embarrassing to remember the things he had done. Embarrassing to recall how he had once skulked in the shadows, no better than a rat hiding in the gutters.

The dream flickered forward, scene by scene—until it reached that day.

The day Gu Mengran reached out to him. Liang Zhao was particularly interested in this part. He watched closely, because he remembered exactly where he had been and what he had been doing. So, in his mind, he began to count down.

Ten, nine, eight…

The phone should ring any second now. But it didn’t.

Liang Zhao frowned. Had he misremembered?

Then, the dream spun out of control.

Suddenly—a volcanic eruption. An earthquake. Blistering heat. Relentless storms. The world unraveled in a cascade of disasters. And just like that—everything was different.

The call never came.

Which meant he never boarded the Windwing.

Which meant he never reunited with Gu Mengran.

Instead, he remained exactly as he had been before—alone.

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