Axolotl Translations

Ruan Zhao snatched the pouches with a look of utter disdain.

He had wanted to kill them. But—when a cultivator falls unconscious, their spiritual energy instinctively shields their body.

He had no proper weapon. The only thing he had was a hairpin. And that was so useless, it couldn’t even pierce skin.

Ruan Zhao tried for a while, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t leave so much as a visible mark on them.

The longer he stayed here, the more dangerous it became. In the end, he gave up. Without hesitation, he bolted—following the narrow path deep into the mountains.

His goal was simple. Leave Lingyuan City. And then, find a way to contact Chu Xinglan. He needed protection. It was the curse of being a Furnace.

If he didn’t have a powerful backer—wherever he went, he would become a target. With his strength alone, there was no way he could defend himself. So he would cling to the strongest thigh he could find. And Chu Xinglan was the best possible choice.

Ruan Zhao lifted a hand, brushing his fingers across his face.

Soft. Smooth. Like a freshly peeled egg.

Chu Xinglan… probably liked him. Or at the very least, he must like this face.

Otherwise, why would he have sent so many priceless treasures over the years? Why would he have written to him every single month?

The letters—written in bold, elegant strokes—would fill pages upon pages. The ink so rich it bled through the thin parchment.

Each letter was the same. He would meticulously recount his experiences over the past month: the things he had seen, the things he had done. He would write in that refined, almost poetic way, weaving careful words of longing. And at the very end, he would always ask for a reply. With a quiet reluctance—a lingering hesitation.

But, all those letters had burned. Gone.

Ruan Zhao let out a breath. Then, a thought struck him. If he counted the days correctly—in ten days, Chu Xinglan’s next letter would arrive in Lingyuan City. And when that happened, he would learn about the disaster that had befallen the Ruan family.

Chu Xinglan would come for him. In ten days, the Chu family would send people to search for him. He just had to hold on until then.

But Lingyuan City—he couldn’t stay here. Those two cultivators would almost certainly spread the news that he was still alive. And a Furnace with top-tier aptitude, now without the protection of his family? To the outside world, he was nothing but a rare and precious prize. Like a slab of succulent meat—too tempting not to tear into.

By the time evening fell, Ruan Zhao had slipped into a nearby town—weaving his way through the forest paths. He bought some meat buns and pastries, and as he ate, he listened to the idle chatter around him.

The Ruan family. Everyone was talking about them.

“I heard they all burned to death in that fire.”

“Even from far away, you could smell the stench of burning flesh.”

“The scene must have been… horrific.”

Nonsense. That fire had raged for three whole days and nights. If they managed to find even a few charred bones, they’d be lucky.

“Who do you think the Ruans offended?” someone else murmured. “A whole clan wiped out overnight.”

“Even the newborns were slaughtered.”

Newborns? Ruan Zhao took a bite of his meat bun—the rich, savory juices filling his mouth. His stomach—clenched from hunger—finally felt some relief.

What newborns? Most of the Ruan family had escaped through the teleportation array—safely reaching the mortal realm. The youngest child was already four and a half. She could run after the family’s spirit bird for miles without missing a step. Newborns? Ridiculous.

“Serves them right!” A man in blue robes slammed his wine jar onto the table, the liquid sloshing over the sides. “Everyone knows what kind of filth the Ruans were up to!”

“That secret realm that appeared last month, they hogged it all for themselves!”

“Secret realms have always been open to all cultivators.”

“But the Ruans? They blocked everyone else out.”

“Arrogant. Greedy. They brought this upon themselves.”

“It was only a matter of time before someone settled the score.”

Ruan Zhao devoured four meat buns in one go. His weak body finally regained some strength.

He actually agreed with the man in blue.

The elders of the Ruan family? Not good people. In fact, aside from the young children who were too young to understand the world, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single decent person in the entire clan.

Perhaps it was because they had been flattered for too long—but arrogance and conceit had become part of their very bones. They looked down on those weaker than them. They despised ordinary mortals who couldn’t cultivate.

And of course, they scorned him.

A mere Furnace. A man whose only worth—lay in his beauty.

If not for Chu Xinglan, those young masters and ladies of the Ruan family wouldn’t have hesitated to bully him outright. Even with Chu Xinglan’s presence, their disdain was still clear as day.

The sneers. The mocking remarks. The rolled eyes full of contempt. The secret theft of his food. Petty little things. Too cowardly to do worse.

But Ruan Zhao still didn’t understand.

They were so foolish. If not for his engagement to Chu Xinglan, if not for the alliance it created—would the Ruan family—a third-rate sect that didn’t even rank in Lingyuan City—have ever risen to a position of power? Would they have ever become a clan others respected?

Without Chu Xinglan, they were nothing.

Where did they even get the nerve to oppose him? Stealing the treasures and spiritual medicines Chu Xinglan gifted him? Parading around with stolen artifacts as if they had any right?

Ruan Zhao was not an easy target. So of course, he went straight to his fiancé.

With a pitiful, aggrieved expression, he told every last detail. And watched the Ruan family suffer the consequences.

It only took a few days before those arrogant young masters and ladies came knocking at his door. With gifts in hand. And the treasures they had secretly stolen. Forced to apologize.

Even if it was unwillingly, even if it pained them to bow their heads. they had no choice but to seek his forgiveness.

Foxes borrowing the tiger’s might—an old trick, but always effective. Ruan Zhao had used it countless times—and each time, it worked exactly as expected.

Without it, he would have never managed to hoard an entire chest of rare spiritual treasures, despite living in a den of wolves. But now, when he thought of what had become of that chest,his heart ached all over again.

Suppressing his emotions, he carefully packed away the rest of his food. Then, he rose to his feet and made his way toward the city gates.

No travel pass. No proof of identity. There was no way he could leave during the day, not with the guards watching so closely.

His only chance was at night, when their watchfulness waned.

He took his place at the back of the line—eyes sharp, carefully scanning his surroundings. But the guards were not as careless as he had hoped. If anything, their vigilance had only increased.

In their hands, they held a portrait, inspecting every traveler one by one. They paid particular attention to veiled women—checking them with almost obsessive scrutiny.

And one of them… was holding a mirror.

Ancient. Simple. Its back painted with fresh crimson sigils, drawn in cinnabar.

The Linglong Mirror. A treasure said to pierce through all disguises. No illusion could escape its gaze.

Ruan Zhao’s chest tightened. A quiet, cold tension curling around his spine.

Silently—he slipped away from the line. Merged into the night.

Faster than expected. Those two cultivators had spread the news too quickly. Or perhaps, some other family had already investigated the ruins and discovered the truth. That he had not died in the fire.

Either way—for Ruan Zhao—it was a dangerous situation.

Ruan Zhao followed the forest path, disappearing once more into the deep mountains. For two whole days—he didn’t dare to show himself.

The buns and meat pies were gone in no time.

Hunting wasn’t the issue. He had managed to catch some game, but starting a fire? That was too risky. And eating raw meat? Just the thought made his stomach twist.

So in the end, he could only fill his belly with wild fruit. They grew on towering trees—and the sweetest ones were always at the very top—where the sunlight could reach them.

Ruan Zhao stared at the plump, red fruit above him—saliva pooling in his mouth.

There was just one problem. He couldn’t climb trees.

But cultivators had light bodies. A little momentum—a well-timed leap—and reaching the top wasn’t impossible.

He reached out and plucked a fruit.

His eyes lit up. But just as he was about to celebrate, a sharp crack echoed in the air. The branch beneath him snapped clean in half.

Luckily, he caught hold of a nearby tree trunk just in time.

By the time he climbed down, his arms and legs were shaking. His delicate palms, now covered in scrapes and cuts. Each wound stinging like fire.

Ignoring the pain, he sank his teeth into the fruit. Juice burst into his mouth. Sweet. Rich. Overwhelming.

But for some reason, his eyes burned. A lump formed in his throat. And before he knew it, his vision blurred.

Ruan Zhao looked down at himself. And laughed bitterly. His pale yellow dress, streaked with dirt and stains. His once fair face, now a mess of smudges and dust. His hair, tangled. And crowned with a single, dry leaf.

He sighed. Summoning the last of his spiritual energy—he formed a cleansing technique—washing away the grime. Then, tearing a strip of clean fabric from his dress, he wrapped it around his wounded palm.

“It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt at all…” Ruan Zhao whispered, trying to convince himself. But his trembling eyelashes and the cold sweat beading on his forehead betrayed him. He was in pain.

It had been so long since he’d been this miserable. Yet, he cherished every bite of the fruit. When he was done, he carefully buried the pit in the soil. Maybe one day, it would grow into a tree, a tree full of sweet fruit. Hopefully, a short one, one that wouldn’t be so hard to climb, where falling wouldn’t hurt as much.

Suddenly, a flock of birds burst into the air from the distant forest. Ruan Zhao’s heart clenched. In an instant, he dropped down and concealed himself within the dense underbrush.

Not long after, three cultivators passed through the area.

“How the hell are we supposed to find one person in a forest this big?” one complained.

“Quit whining. After this, we still have another area to search.”

“All this trouble for some little girl? They’ve mobilized half of Lingyuan City’s cultivators for this!”

“Didn’t the Chen family heir say she stole their ancestral treasure? They won’t stop until she’s caught.”

“You actually believe that?” another asked. “Before we left, did you see his face? He repeated over and over—capture her alive. No injuries allowed. You saw the portrait, right? She’s a rare beauty…”

“So let me guess,” the third cultivator said, “the almighty young master of the Chen family tried to court her. She rejected him. So now, desperate and unwilling to let her go, he spins some pathetic excuse to rally an entire city of cultivators—just to drag her back for some ‘forced love’ nonsense?”

The talking cultivator clearly had a vivid imagination, spinning a dramatic love-hate tragedy in the blink of an eye. Ruan Zhao, who had heard the entire conversation, felt nauseous.

The underbrush wasn’t exactly the safest hiding place. So, once the three men were out of sight, he silently slipped away. He was familiar with these mountains. Years of herb-gathering trips had etched the paths into his memory. He knew where to find fresh fruit when he was thirsty, where to hide if he needed cover.

His fingers brushed aside the overgrown grass and tangled vines near the mountain stream, revealing a hidden path.

Inside, a small cave. Ruan Zhao lowered himself and slipped inside. Then, he carefully pushed the grass and vines back into place. From the outside, no one would suspect a thing. Unless someone deliberately tore it open, even a passing cultivator wouldn’t notice the cave’s entrance.

Ruan Zhao sat down, counting on his fingers. Seven days. That’s how long he had left. His gaze drifted downward, falling to his injured palm. The thin cloth wrapped around it had already soaked through with blood, a deep, dark red. Even the smallest movement burned. A thought crept into his mind: Would he really last seven more days?

Curled up on the cold cave floor, at some point, he fell asleep. Until a sharp bark ripped through the silence. Ruan Zhao’s eyes snapped open. His heartbeat hammered in his chest. A dog. No, more than one. The barking was getting closer.

Not just cultivators, they had hired spirit hounds from the Beast-Taming Sect. It didn’t matter how far he ran, they would always find him. A wave of helplessness crashed over him. But he had no time to sit and despair. Clenching his teeth, he bolted out of the cave, into the night.

Moonlight bathed the overgrown mountain paths in silver. Ruan Zhao ran, stumbling, tripping. But every time he fell, he forced himself up again. A warm wetness trickled down his leg. He was bleeding. But there was no time to care.

Suddenly, a massive spirit hound lunged from the side, larger than him, teeth bared, breath reeking of blood. Then, it stopped, frozen. The jade pendant on Ruan Zhao’s chest had saved him again.

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