Axolotl Translations

Thanks to the cultivation manuals provided by the system, Ruan Zhao’s cultivation advanced swiftly, trailing only slightly behind Chu Xinglan.

Before even reaching the age of twenty, he had already successfully formed his Nascent Soul. He scarcely encountered bottlenecks, nor was he troubled by inner demons or mental obstacles. Among cultivators his age, he stood tall at the summit, much like Chu Xinglan, gazing down upon the world.

Of course, if he wished to maintain this lightning-fast pace and avoid being left far behind by Chu Xinglan, there were… small prices to pay. Such as spending three or four days with aching limbs, too sore to even rise from bed.

But compared to the soaring ascent of his cultivation, this was merely a sweet burden—one he didn’t entirely mind bearing now and then.

Time in the cultivation world passed as swiftly as fleeting white horses across a gap. For cultivators who often secluded themselves for decades at a time, and whose lifespans stretched over thousands of years, a few decades slipped by in what felt like the blink of an eye.

Chu Xinglan’s cultivation also rose at an astonishing rate. It took him less than five years to advance from the Nascent Soul stage to the Body Integration stage, and nearly fifteen years to ascend from Body Integration to Void Refinement. After that followed the Great Ascension stage, and then the Tribulation stage. He became the first Tribulation cultivator in the history of the cultivation world to reach that level before even turning a hundred. And once he overcame the lightning tribulation, he could ascend to godhood.

The entire cultivation world eagerly awaited the day Chu Xinglan would successfully ascend, lifting the centuries-old gloom that had shrouded their world since no one had managed such a feat for millennia. But in the fifteen years that followed, this once-glorious prodigy—a young man who had drawn countless eyes and dominated the world of cultivation since his teenage years—suddenly vanished without a trace. Even his own sect, Guiyuan Sect, had no idea where he had gone.

New talents continued to emerge within the cultivation world. Every so often, a young genius or two would shine for a while. Though none could compare to Chu Xinglan’s brilliance, nor match the monstrous speed of his cultivation, people were forgetful. Like mushrooms after rain, one promising youth after another sprang up, capturing the public’s attention.

Very quickly, Chu Xinglan faded into the background. When someone did occasionally bring him up, it was usually with a soft sigh and a trace of regret.

“That cultivator Chu… while he could rightfully be called a once-in-a-lifetime genius on the path of cultivation, in the end, he lacked a bit of fortune. He didn’t possess the kind of destiny that could defy the heavens.” A rogue cultivator in a blue robe shook his head and sighed.

“So many years without a word… he probably failed to pass the lightning tribulation and died, lost in some nameless corner of the world.” As if recalling those years, decades ago, when this young genius had overshadowed everyone, the rogue cultivator’s expression turned distant and dazed. Back then, with his brilliance shining so fiercely, those other so-called geniuses had been utterly crushed under his heel.

Like dull pearls scattered in the mud, none of them could even begin to compete with the radiance of the bright moon overhead. Not a single person could be mentioned in the same breath as him. Even now—with the recent spiritual energy resurgence and several fresh prodigies rising up in madness over the past decade—none of them, not even combined, could match so much as a finger of Chu Xinglan’s strength.

The rogue cultivator sighed deeply and took a swig of his murky liquor. “He was the one with the greatest hope of ascending in our entire cultivation world. Now that he’s gone… who knows if we’ll ever see a peerless talent like that again. It’s hard to say. Maybe in the next few hundred, even a few thousand years, no one else will ever come that close to ascension again.”

Beside him, a young man in red slapped his sword, its hilt adorned with shimmering tassels, onto the long table with a sharp clang, and scoffed. “Tch, no matter how strong he was, he still couldn’t survive his tribulation. Dead’s dead.” The speaker was Feng Li—a seventeen-year-old cultivator with half-phoenix blood, hailing from the prestigious Feng family of the upper realms. Despite his youth, he had already reached the peak of the Golden Core stage.

Raised in luxury and pampered since birth, with the title of genius hanging over his head, this was the age where arrogance came naturally. Folding his arms, his sharp, beautiful phoenix eyes narrowed lazily. “I honestly think he wasn’t as legendary as everyone made him out to be. A Tribulation-stage cultivator who couldn’t even make it through a little lightning tribulation? Please. Once I’m his age, I bet he wouldn’t even be able to beat me.”

The rogue cultivator’s temper flared at the boy’s arrogant words. He couldn’t believe someone so young could be this brazen, this ignorant of the heavens and earth. Did this frog in the well really think himself qualified to challenge Chu Xinglan’s name? Just as he was about to snap back, his friend tugged gently at his sleeve. Glancing over, the friend gave him a look, signaling for him to notice the emblem embroidered on the youth’s cuff.

Golden and crimson threads intertwined, embroidered with the image of a soaring phoenix—the exclusive insignia of the direct line of the Feng family. This had to be Feng Li—the very one who had caused such a stir in the Heavenly Void Illusion Realm, drawn the high-grade spirit weapon Returning Ruins Sword, claimed the Mirror Spirit as his own, and now topped the Heavenly Prodigy rankings. Someone you definitely couldn’t afford to offend.

The blue-robed cultivator discreetly curled his lip and swallowed the words that had almost escaped. He pretended he hadn’t heard a thing, nibbling on peanuts while quietly sipping his wine.

The large tavern fell into pin-drop silence. Feng Li waited for a while, but not a single person chimed in to agree with him. Rolling his eyes in frustration, he grabbed his sword, huffed, and stormed off. Hmph—what a bunch of ignorant rogue cultivators. No vision at all!

In Feng Li’s mind, Chu Xinglan had been dead for over a decade now. Those so-called tales about him—reaching the Tribulation stage before the age of a hundred, single-handedly turning the Demon Domain upside down, leaving the Three Realms without a worthy opponent for years—were nothing but exaggerated stories made up to grab attention.

If he’d really been as powerful as the rumors claimed, if his strength had truly matched his fame, how could he have been so easily struck down by a mere lightning tribulation? …What a ridiculous way to die.

The more Feng Li thought about it, the angrier he got, and he quickened his pace down the street. Turning a corner, he accidentally bumped into someone. He scowled, immediately brushing aside the fact that he hadn’t been paying attention and shoving all the blame onto the other person.

With fierce arrogance, he barked, “Are those two eyes on your head just decorations? How do you not see someone as big as me standing right here? There’s a whole wide road—and you still manage to bump into me? Were you—”

Deliberate.

The harsh words cut off abruptly. The person Feng Li had collided with was a strikingly beautiful young man. His eyes were a rare, delicate shade of pale glass-blue, framed by long, dense lashes like tiny fans. His nose was straight and fine, his lips small, soft, and rose-petal red—as though the slightest pressure would stain them a deeper, intoxicating shade.

The boy held his hand to his forehead, wincing with watery eyes—clearly hurting from the impact. Seeing Feng Li so brazenly blaming him, without even a hint of guilt, the boy thought he must have been the careless one. Lowering his voice, he quietly apologized.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to,” the boy said softly. His voice was beautiful too—clean and clear, like the gentle flow of a mountain stream.

Feng Li felt his mind buzz, his thoughts turning completely blank. The sharp, harsh words he’d been ready to spit out got stuck somewhere in his throat. His face started to burn, his ears turning bright red, and under the boy’s gaze, even his hands and feet began to feel clumsy and awkward. His eyes darted everywhere as he stammered, “It’s… it’s fine. You don’t need to a-apologize. It… it was my fault too—I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Did… did you get hurt?” Ruan Zhao blinked at him, a little bewildered. The way Feng Li had gone from aggressive and overbearing to soft and awkward was baffling. He couldn’t make sense of how this person had gone from a fierce glare to blushing and stumbling over his words like a flustered child. Was it because of the heat?

But Ruan Zhao didn’t dwell on it for long. He gave a polite little nod and turned to leave.

By the time Feng Li snapped out of his daze, Ruan Zhao had already walked several paces away. Summoning up all his courage, Feng Li called after him, “F-fellow Daoist—wait… wait a moment!”

But Ruan Zhao didn’t hear him. Because just then—he saw Chu Xinglan.

Chu Xinglan was standing at the corner, holding a paper bag filled with snacks from a shop across the street. His lips curled in a soft smile as he waved toward Ruan Zhao.

Ruan Zhao couldn’t help but beam back, his dimples appearing as he ran up to him, taking the bag from his hands. He eagerly opened it, inhaling the rich aroma inside, his eyes lighting up. “Wow—it’s all my favorite stuff!”

Chu Xinglan reached out, gently ruffling Ruan Zhao’s hair, his ink-dark eyes brimming with tenderness. Sensing someone watching them from nearby, Chu Xinglan casually wrapped an arm around Ruan Zhao, pulling him close, possessively pressing his head against his chest. Then, lifting his eyes, Chu Xinglan shot Feng Li a cold, warning glare.

Feng Li froze. That look—it sent a rare wave of pressure crashing down on him. It was the kind of gaze a predator would fix on its prey. Cold, dangerous… and unshakably dominant.

A cold shiver ran down Feng Li’s spine. Without realizing it, he took a half step back.

The moment he became aware that a single glance from the other man had made him retreat, a surge of shame and absurdity welled up in his chest. Almost as if trying to prove something to himself, he straightened his back and stared back, refusing to back down.

But Chu Xinglan easily saw through Feng Li’s hollow bravado. With a casual indifference, he withdrew his gaze. Someone like Feng Li wasn’t worth his attention. He posed no threat whatsoever.

And yet, before turning away, Chu Xinglan pressed a soft kiss onto the crown of Ruan Zhao’s head. The two then walked away, fingers intertwined, soon disappearing at the end of the street.

……

Feng Li watched their every move, his face expressionless. At some point, the hand at his side had curled tightly into a fist, pale knuckles standing out against his skin. Several crescent-shaped marks had formed in his palm.

After a long moment, his gaze dropped, and from inside his robe, he pulled out a small, slightly worn booklet. Its pages were lightly curled at the corners, showing clear signs of frequent handling. When he opened it, it naturally fell to a familiar, well-worn page.

On it was an exquisite illustration of a young man with delicate, almost ethereal features. His pale, glass-like eyes held a soft glimmer of mirth, lips curved into a gentle smile so beautiful it made it hard to look away. Beneath the picture, several neat lines of elegant script introduced the youth.

— Ruan Zhao. Nascent Soul stage. Ranked first on the Tianjiao List. Dao companion of Chu Xinglan, chief disciple of Guiyuan Sect.

This was from the Beauty List compiled by Ruyi Pavilion decades ago. Feng Li had stumbled upon it by chance at a street stall several years ago. On a whim, he’d flipped it open—only to land on this very page. As if bewitched, he’d bought it on the spot.

Over the years, he’d read it again and again, never tiring of it, keeping it carefully tucked close to him. He’d handled it so delicately, afraid even a touch might wear out the fragile paper. He had once thought of finding more copies to add to his collection—but this particular edition had only had a few dozen prints before being recalled and destroyed en masse. The one Feng Li owned was likely the only surviving copy.

Lowering his gaze, his fingers unconsciously tightened around the booklet.

Just as he was about to crumple the delicate page in his grasp, Feng Li suddenly came to his senses. He quickly eased his grip, smoothing the wrinkled paper with great care, and tucked the booklet back inside his robe.

When he was younger and naive, he too had heard of Chu Xinglan’s legendary feats. Like many other wandering cultivators, he had admired him, even feeling regret at news of his early demise. But when he learned that the person in the portrait was Chu Xinglan’s Dao companion—a person who had remained devoted and loving to him for decades without a single quarrel—that admiration slowly twisted into something else.

A mixture of jealousy and resentment. Jealousy that Chu Xinglan had once won the favor of such a beautiful soul, had become his destined Dao partner, and spent countless years together in deep affection. And resentment toward himself—for not being born earlier, for not being the one in that person’s life.

Feng Li had fallen for the beauty in that picture at first sight. And instead of fading over time, his feelings had only grown stronger. What had started as admiration had quietly transformed into fierce, unrelenting love.

It was strange. To fall in love with someone he had never even met. Not only had he scoured the cultivation world for traces of him, but he had also chased rumors all the way to the lower realm, Canglan Continent—carefully piecing together scattered stories from the mouths of those lucky enough to have seen him.

He learned that, as a child, Ruan Zhao had spent years disguised as a girl, loved wearing beautiful dresses, had a fondness for sweets, especially the pastries from Pinshang Zhai, adored peach blossoms, and had personally planted an entire grove of peach trees by his residence… Feng Li was the most knowledgeable stranger to Ruan Zhao in the world.

And yet he had never imagined that one day, he would meet him in person.

Recalling the harsh, impolite words he had blurted out earlier when he bumped into Ruan Zhao, the red-robed youth gloomily covered his face. Regret gnawed at him.

I’ve ruined it. He thought bitterly. I must’ve left such a terrible impression on him. Ruan Zhao probably thought he was rude, domineering, temperamental, petty, and unreasonable…

…Which, to be fair, was all true. But still, Feng Li didn’t want his beloved to see that side of him. Somehow, that was even more heartbreaking than knowing someone else was already by Ruan Zhao’s side.

……

Feng Li’s worries, as it turned out, were unnecessary. Because the moment Ruan Zhao laid eyes on Chu Xinglan, he promptly forgot about that strange red-clad stranger. He didn’t even remember what the other’s face looked like—how could he have been left with any sort of bad impression?

Pulling a crispy roasted chicken leg from his pouch, Ruan Zhao’s eyes sparkled with delight as he bit into it, his lips soon glistening with oil. In the past, he could easily devour three of these in one sitting, but now, after just two bites, his expression changed slightly. Not wanting Chu Xinglan to worry, he forced a smile and finished the whole chicken leg.

His steps faltered for a moment, a familiar wave of drowsiness surging over him like a powerful tide. Ruan Zhao leaned into Chu Xinglan’s embrace, rubbing his cheek against his chest, his voice soft and drowsy. “Chu Xinglan… I’m a little sleepy.”

Chu Xinglan wrapped an arm around his waist, gently stroking his long, silky hair with the other hand. His tone was warm and tender. “Then sleep for a while. I’ll wake you when we get home.” Ruan Zhao paused for a moment, then smiled. “Okay.” And so he drifted into a deep sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, it felt like time itself had blurred—he wasn’t sure what day, or even what year, it was. Blinking in confusion, he lay there quietly for a while before softly asking the system:

[How long was I asleep?]

[Three days and three nights,] the system replied.

Ruan Zhao still managed to joke: [Wow… even longer than last time.]

The system hesitated for a moment before speaking gently: [If you’re feeling sad, you don’t have to pretend to smile, you know.]

Ruan Zhao was silent for a while. [I’m leaving soon, aren’t I?]

[There’s half a month left.]

That’s good. Enough time to properly say goodbye to Chu Xinglan.

……

Ruan Zhao still looked like a teenage boy. His appearance had frozen back in his Foundation Establishment stage, never changing in all these years.

Cultivators’ lifespans grew as their cultivation realms advanced—a Foundation Establishment cultivator could live a couple hundred years, a Nascent Soul stage cultivator over a thousand, and those who reached the Tribulation stage… barring accidents, might even share eternity with the heavens.

But Ruan Zhao’s lifespan showed no sign of increasing. A mere hundred years.

In other words—no matter how far his cultivation advanced, he would never live past a hundred years.

For the first few decades, neither Chu Xinglan nor Ruan Zhao realized this. It wasn’t until fifteen years ago, when Ruan Zhao’s strength and stamina started to decline in noticeable ways. He needed to sleep five or six hours every night, with another nap in the afternoon, just to maintain the bare minimum energy to function during the day. Even the system—which had gone completely silent for nearly sixty years—quietly reappeared for a brief moment.

That was when Ruan Zhao finally realized something was wrong. After much coaxing, threatening, and pestering, the system reluctantly confessed the truth: that he didn’t belong to this world. He could only stay here for a hundred years. And when the time came, he would have to leave.

Ruan Zhao didn’t question it too much. He didn’t press the system for reasons. Maybe because, deep down, he’d sensed his own strangeness long ago.

Chu Xinglan had noticed too. He saw how Ruan Zhao was growing weaker by the day, his condition worsening year after year. In the last fifteen years, Chu Xinglan had dragged Ruan Zhao across every corner of the world in search of rare spiritual herbs, sought the help of every healer and alchemist they could find, combed through both the Upper and Lower Realms, and crossed all five seas and ten continents. He even ventured into the demonic domain, turning it inside out. And still—no cure.

As time passed, Ruan Zhao slept more and more, while his waking hours dwindled. Chu Xinglan was terrified that one day, Ruan Zhao would fall asleep and never wake up again. That deep-rooted fear festered and grew, warping into a heart demon that tormented him night and day. There were times when just seeing Ruan Zhao’s sleeping face made Chu Xinglan break out in a cold sweat, his pupils contracting, his whole body trembling uncontrollably.

However long Ruan Zhao slept, Chu Xinglan would sit silently by his side, unmoving. Like a soulless statue, frozen in place. Only when Ruan Zhao’s faint, shallow breaths steadied again did the slightest hint of life return to Chu Xinglan’s eyes.

Now, the sun leaked through as someone drew open the curtains. Ruan Zhao instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden glare. Chu Xinglan sat down beside him, gently reaching out to touch his forehead, checking his temperature.

“You’re awake?”

Ruan Zhao slowly nodded. Even though his vision was still a little blurry, he could clearly see the forced smile on Chu Xinglan’s face.

For a few long breaths, the room fell silent. Chu Xinglan took a moment to gather himself, then forced a light tone and asked, like always, “Are you hungry? Want to eat something?”

Ruan Zhao touched his stomach. He hadn’t been able to eat for days. By now, even the sensations of hunger and fullness had completely left him. Noticing Ruan Zhao’s hesitation, Chu Xinglan didn’t press the matter. Instead, he gently massaged Ruan Zhao’s numb, aching arms and legs. The massage went on for nearly half an hour. When it finally ended, Ruan Zhao spoke up. “I want to go for a walk.”

Chu Xinglan replied, “You can—but you’ll need to take your medicine first.” He brought over a bowl of thick, pitch-black medicinal broth and a small, dark purple pill. Just the sight of them made Ruan Zhao’s mouth fill with bitterness, and his face instinctively showed his reluctance.

Chu Xinglan coaxed him gently, “If you finish it, I’ll let you have a few extra pieces of candied fruit after. It won’t taste bitter once you eat those.”

Ruan Zhao sighed, giving in. “Alright.” Then, glancing up at Chu Xinglan, he added quietly, “Only for the candied fruit.”

…Or rather—for you. Better to get it over with.

Ruan Zhao picked up the bowl, closed his eyes, and drank it all down in one go. To his surprise, it didn’t taste bitter at all this time. He smacked his lips, a little puzzled—it was like drinking plain, tasteless water. Even the pill wasn’t bitter. He couldn’t help but suspect that Chu Xinglan, worried he might refuse the medicine because of the taste, had secretly altered it to make it milder—trying to surprise him.

That thought made Ruan Zhao smile. His eyes curved into soft, crescent shapes as he beamed, “This medicine wasn’t bitter at all this time. Keep up the good work next round!”

Chu Xinglan lowered his gaze, unusually silent. Without a word, he pulled out a small box of candied fruit. His fingers were trembling uncontrollably. He tried several times to turn the clasp at the side of the lid, but couldn’t manage it—in the end, he gave up and tore it open with brute force.

Ruan Zhao froze. In that moment, he realized something. The fact that he couldn’t taste the bitterness of the medicine… probably wasn’t some surprise Chu Xinglan had carefully planned.

He reached into the box, took a small piece of candied fruit, and placed it in his mouth. He chewed carefully, slowly. But no matter how hard he tried to savor it, there was only a faint, fading sense of texture. The taste itself was gone. His sense of taste had disappeared, too.

“…Is it sweet?” Chu Xinglan asked.

Ruan Zhao forced down his emotions, lifting his head with a bright smile. “Sweet. Really sweet. It’s delicious.” It was an awkward lie—one they both recognized, yet neither of them chose to expose.

“I want another one,” Ruan Zhao said, playing along.

Chu Xinglan closed the lid. “No rush.” His voice wavered slightly, and his breathing was uneven. “You said you wanted to go outside, didn’t you? The lotus flowers in the pond are blooming now. Yellow ones, white ones, pink ones—all kinds of colors. So bright, so beautiful. And those koi fish you put in the water, they haven’t skipped a single meal—they’ve gotten so fat these past few days they’re practically round.”

Ruan Zhao swallowed. “Good—fat fish are the best. The fatter the fish, the more tender the meat, and the better it tastes.” He grinned. “When we have time, we should roast them.”

As soon as those words left his lips, the two of them fell silent. After a moment, Ruan Zhao broke the tension, pretending to sound cheerful. “Come on—let’s go. I’ve been looking forward to seeing those lotus flowers for ages. Wait too long, and they’ll be gone.”

He got out of bed and jogged out into the courtyard. But having spent so much time lying down, his legs were weak and unsteady. After just a few steps, he was breathless. Catching himself on the pillar of the pavilion, he managed to steady his balance.

The lotus flowers were really blooming. The lotus leaves lay thick across the surface of the pond, almost covering it entirely. Delicate pink blossoms cradled their pale yellow centers, their petals speckled with clear, glistening droplets of water. It was beautiful—soothing to the eyes, peaceful to the heart.

Ruan Zhao took a deep breath. A fresh, clean fragrance filled his senses, crisp and refreshing. His mind cleared, his spirits lifted—for the first time in a long while, he felt truly awake.

As he stood there, completely absorbed in the scene, a fat, jet-black koi suddenly slapped its thick tail against the water and leapt high into the air, sending a spray of cool droplets all over him. At the height of its jump, the fish gave him what could only be described as a dead-eyed, smug glare, looking down at Ruan Zhao with an air of mocking superiority.

Ruan Zhao wiped his face, spitting a few times in annoyance. The koi hit the water with a splash and disappeared in an instant, darting away with lightning speed, leaving only a few ripples behind. Frowning, Ruan Zhao turned and complained to Chu Xinglan, “Did you see that? Even a fish dares to bully me now.”

Chu Xinglan reached out, gently wiping the water from Ruan Zhao’s face with his sleeve, his tone protective. “I’ll handle it for you.” He made a small, casual gesture.

In the next moment, the fat, black koi was forced out of the pond, flopping helplessly to the ground at Ruan Zhao’s feet. It twitched weakly, its tail feebly flicking against the dry earth, its gills opening and closing pitifully—completely stripped of the arrogant air it had shown just moments before.

Ruan Zhao crouched down, grabbing the fish in his hand, a gleeful look on his face. “Let’s see how smug you are now.”

The koi struggled, wriggling frantically in a last-ditch effort to escape. Ruan Zhao raised a finger and gave its head a firm flick, his voice low and mock-threatening. “You better behave, or I’ll roast you over a fire—not even leave a single bone behind.”

Amazingly, it was as though the fish understood. It immediately went still, its round eyes blinking up at him as if pleading for mercy. Ruan Zhao lit up, calling Chu Xinglan over excitedly. “Come quick—I swear this fish is smarter than it looks! It actually understood what I said—it’s begging me to let it go.”

Chu Xinglan chuckled. “There’s plenty of spiritual energy here. It’s not surprising for a creature like this to develop a bit of awareness.”

Ruan Zhao pouted. “…Does that mean I can’t have roasted fish anymore?”

Chu Xinglan chuckled softly. “We’ll just eat the ones that aren’t so clever.”

“Alright then, I’ll let this one off the hook today.” Ruan Zhao gently released the unusually intelligent koi back into the water.

Surprisingly, the fish didn’t swim away right away. Instead, it turned its head, lifting it just above the surface and stared at him intently for a while. Then, with a flick of its mouth, it sent a thin, winding stream of water in his direction.

The water landed about a foot away from Ruan Zhao this time—not a single drop touched him. He couldn’t tell whether the fish was smugly provoking him after making a safe escape, or if this was just some strange fish-world way of saying goodbye.

……

That afternoon, Ruan Zhao’s rare moment of clarity was brief. He managed to stay awake for a few hours, chatting with Chu Xinglan, but by evening, his strength gave out. One moment, he was mid-conversation—the next, he’d fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep. His head tilted against Chu Xinglan’s shoulder. It was a light, almost weightless touch, but it made Chu Xinglan’s heart clench violently, an ache rising sharp and fierce in his chest.

In a voice so soft it barely existed, he called out, “Zhaozhao…” But it was too quiet—only a breath of air. He tried again, louder. “Zhaozhao?” Of course, there was no reply. When Ruan Zhao slept, it was like a machine forced into shutdown. No matter what happened around him, nothing could reach him.

“…You’ve fallen asleep again.” Chu Xinglan’s voice was flat, almost expressionless, his face hidden in the shadows. After a while, he gave Ruan Zhao’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “Let’s go to bed. You’ll catch a cold if you sleep here.”

“…”

“You sleep so soundly… I call and call and you don’t even twitch.” He managed a small, crooked smile. “I bet tomorrow you’ll be lazing around again, refusing to get up no matter what.”

“You’re always eating and sleeping, never one for exercise. Every time I ask you to practice your swordsmanship, you find ten excuses to weasel out of it…”

“It’s been years, and you still haven’t learned the second move I taught you…”

“If you keep being this lazy, you’ll probably end up like that fat black koi—gaining a few more pounds in no time.”

“…But even if you get chubby, you’ll still be adorable.”

Chu Xinglan gently pulled Ruan Zhao into his arms, holding him like a dragon guarding its most precious treasure. His arms circled tightly around Ruan Zhao’s waist, as if unwilling to ever let go.

“No matter what you become… I’ll still love you.”

……

The quiet room was filled only with Chu Xinglan’s soft, one-sided murmuring. Even though no one answered, he kept talking. He spoke until his throat turned hoarse.

“When you fall asleep like this… time feels so long. Just a single hour feels like endless years passing me by…”

“I know you’re soft-hearted, Zhaozhao. I know you’d never leave me alone… so, just this once—could you feel sorry for me?”

“Could you wake up a little sooner?”

Outside, dark clouds gathered, and thunder rumbled in the distance. In the space of a few breaths, heavy rain came pouring down, drowning everything in its relentless noise.

……

Ruan Zhao slept for ten whole days before finally waking. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Chu Xinglan, sitting right by his side. Chu Xinglan’s gaze was resting on his face—unfocused, as though he was both looking at him and lost in some distant, unreachable place. He seemed absent, his body here, but his mind long gone.

Ruan Zhao, a little worried, raised his hand and waved it several times in front of Chu Xinglan’s face. Only then did a glimmer of light return to those eyes.

“You… you’re awake?” His voice was so hoarse it sounded like it had been scraped over sand. He looked exhausted, his eyes red and swollen, his hair disheveled, like someone who hadn’t properly rested in days.

Ruan Zhao blinked. “What happened to you?” And then, as realization slowly dawned, he asked, belatedly, “How long… was I asleep?”

Chu Xinglan shifted his gaze away, dodging the question. “Not that long.”

Ruan Zhao: “…”

Since Chu Xinglan clearly wasn’t going to tell him, Ruan Zhao turned to the system. But the system stammered awkwardly. It took quite a while before it finally gave a vague, reluctant answer.

[Roughly… around ten days.]

Ruan Zhao: [……]

[Didn’t you say I had about half a month left in this world? And now ten days are already gone… which means if I randomly fall asleep again, there’s a good chance I won’t wake up. I’ll just vanish—completely disappear from this world.]

The system sounded guilty. [That’s… probably how it is.]

Ruan Zhao: […………]

He had originally thought there would be enough time to properly say goodbye to Chu Xinglan. But in one long, unplanned sleep, two-thirds of that time had disappeared, completely throwing off his plans. Anxiety started to creep up on him. Because he had no idea when the next sleep would come.

Which made every moment, every second, suddenly unbearably precious. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the right words. Facing Chu Xinglan’s sorrowful, broken face, he made several attempts—but every time, he couldn’t summon the courage to say goodbye. Since the day he’d met Chu Xinglan, he had never seen him look so lost, so defeated.

Ruan Zhao reached out and gently touched the corner of Chu Xinglan’s eye, feeling the unmistakable dampness at his fingertips. He let out a small sigh, half helpless, half aching. “Why are you crying? I’m fine, aren’t I? I woke up, didn’t I?”

Chu Xinglan lowered his head, hiding his expression. Ruan Zhao struggled to sit up, slowly lifting himself into a sitting position. He cupped Chu Xinglan’s face in his hands, staring directly into his eyes, not letting him look away. “Don’t be like this…”

He tried to smile, forcing the corners of his lips to lift, but no matter how hard he tried, they kept drooping down. His voice trembled, a soft, barely-there sob woven into his words. “If you keep looking like this, I… I really don’t know what to do anymore.”

Chu Xinglan slowly lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils trembling faintly. He clutched Ruan Zhao’s wrist tightly, a hint of something obsessive flickering in his gaze. His voice was low, rough. “Then don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone. Take me with you.”

The unspoken truth between them was suddenly, mercilessly, laid bare. Ruan Zhao felt like a giant hand was squeezing his heart, so tight he could barely breathe. His face turned ghostly pale, and all he could manage was a soft, broken apology. “…I’m sorry.”

……

Chu Xinglan stared at Ruan Zhao for a long, long moment. When he saw tears filling Ruan Zhao’s eyes, his cold, guarded expression completely shattered, replaced by a panicked helplessness.

Frantic, he reached out to wipe the tears away, his hands trembling. Those hot, wet tears burned against his skin, making his whole body shake. “It’s not your fault, Zhaozhao… Don’t say sorry. Don’t apologize to me.”

“It’s me… it’s my fault. I’m useless. I wasted all this time… and I still couldn’t save you.”

……

Ruan Zhao could feel Chu Xinglan’s tears too. Warm. Wet. A little salty. This kiss wasn’t like their others—it wasn’t sweet. It tasted bitter, like grief and regret.

After crying, Ruan Zhao made up an excuse. He said he was craving one of those roast chicken drumsticks from town and sent Chu Xinglan out to get it. While he was gone, Ruan Zhao took out some paper and a brush, and began writing a long, long letter.

He wrote from the moment they first met all the way up to now—every word he couldn’t say face to face, every thought he’d buried, poured onto the page. By the end, his handwriting grew cramped and shaky, crowding toward the edge of the paper, where a large blot of ink had bled through. And still, there were so many more things he wanted to say.

[Zhaozhao, stop writing—he’s coming back.]

Startled, Ruan Zhao quickly folded the letter, stuffed it into an envelope, and hurriedly slipped it onto the bookshelf, leaving just a tiny corner of it peeking out—hoping it would be noticed.

“He’ll find it… won’t he?”

“If not, I’ll remind him before I… fall asleep again.”

Ruan Zhao murmured to himself, adjusting his posture before the sound of the door opening. By the time Chu Xinglan stepped inside, Ruan Zhao was sitting casually in the chair, acting as if nothing had happened. The moment he saw him, Ruan Zhao lifted his hand, waving like a little beckoning cat. “You’re finally back. I’ve been waiting forever.”

The chicken drumsticks in the bag were still hot. But Ruan Zhao couldn’t taste a thing. He forced down a few bites, each one as bland as chewing on paper, then pushed the rest over to Chu Xinglan. “Here, you finish it.”

Chu Xinglan wasn’t much better—everything tasted like ash to him too. But Ruan Zhao propped his chin on his hand and asked, almost teasing, “Well? What’s it taste like?”

Chu Xinglan froze.

Ruan Zhao frowned in mock annoyance. “Hey, this is my favorite spot since I got here. I’ve eaten these drumsticks so many times—you’ve had them with me before too! How can you not answer such an easy question?”

Chu Xinglan’s heart wasn’t in it. But for Ruan Zhao’s sake, he focused, trying his best. “The meat’s really tender.”

“The skin’s crispy. Really crunchy.”

“…A little greasy.”

Ruan Zhao nodded. “And?”

“…It’s good.”

Ruan Zhao grinned, making a little fist and tapping his palm, as if reaching some grand conclusion. “Alright then—from now on, all my chicken drumstick rations are officially yours!”

“Every ten days—no, every week—you’ve gotta go and have them. Seventy, eighty times should do it, and then I’ll be satisfied…”

A month had three ten-day periods. A year had twelve months. Seventy or eighty times would take over two years.

Two years… enough time to dull sharp, aching memories. Enough time to take the edge off grief, and keep someone from making a reckless, regrettable decision in the depths of sorrow.

And if, after those two years of drumsticks, Chu Xinglan still couldn’t hold on—whatever choice he made then, Ruan Zhao wouldn’t stop him.

……

Ruan Zhao thought it would happen soon. That he’d quietly slip into sleep again—painless, effortless—and leave this world with the system.

But strangely…

Ever since that day he woke up, that drowsy, heavy feeling never came back. His body seemed to return to its peak, no longer gasping for breath after the slightest movement, no longer so easily exhausted.

Seeing him recover so quickly, with days passing and no sudden, unexplained collapses, Chu Xinglan was visibly relieved—and happier than Ruan Zhao had seen him in a long time. It felt like, just this once, fate had finally taken his side. Finally stopped trying to tear Ruan Zhao away from him.

But… that lingering fear never fully left Chu Xinglan’s heart. So much so that, every night while Ruan Zhao slept, he would quietly lean in, testing his breath, listening carefully for the steady beat of his heart. By his cultivation alone, Chu Xinglan could tell instantly whether Ruan Zhao was alive. And yet, he still chose this almost clumsy, human way to reassure himself. To confirm—yes, he’s still here. Still with me.

And of course, Ruan Zhao wasn’t dead asleep. He noticed. Rolling over into Chu Xinglan’s arms, he yawned, bleary-eyed, and asked, “Why are you still up so late?”

Cultivators didn’t need sleep to stay energized. But Ruan Zhao wasn’t like that. If he didn’t sleep at night, he’d be a total wreck the next day—eyes ringed with huge dark circles. Over the years, even Chu Xinglan had been trained into a proper human bedtime routine because of him: sleep as soon as it got dark, wake up when it was light.

“Can’t sleep?” Ruan Zhao asked, voice soft. “Want me to tell you a story?”

Chu Xinglan paused, then muttered, “…No.”

Ruan Zhao tapped his chin, pretending to think. Then his eyes lit up like stars. “Then how about this—I kiss you once, and after that, you have to be good and go to sleep, okay?”

Before Chu Xinglan could even answer, Ruan Zhao leaned in and pressed a quick, noisy kiss to his lips. “Mwah.”

Then, Ruan Zhao slipped his fingers between Chu Xinglan’s—intertwining them, their hands laced together in the most intimate way. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Go to sleep. Stop overthinking everything.”

He used his other hand to gently cover Chu Xinglan’s eyes, whispering at his ear, “Tomorrow, I want to eat your white porridge. And a boiled egg too. If you can make those little fried fish for me again… I can’t even imagine how happy I’ll be. Like the luckiest kid in the world.”

“Okay,” Chu Xinglan said softly. “Anything you want.”

……

Ruan Zhao passed away on a warm summer day. The pond outside was filled with blooming lotuses, and fat, lazy koi fish swam in circles, flicking their big tails, spitting bubbles at the surface, and looking down at people from their watery world. The sky was clear—endless blue, without a single cloud in sight. It was such a beautiful, perfect day.

He lay quietly in bed, unaware, and little by little… his breathing stopped.

Chu Xinglan had finished cooking, just like always, and called him to come eat. He called three times, but there was no answer. Bringing the dishes to the table, his face betrayed nothing.

But his hand suddenly trembled—the bowl of porridge tipping over, spilling across the table. In a rush, he said, “Sorry, Zhaozhao—I’ll go get you another bowl.” His lips kept moving, murmuring over and over, “I’ll go get you another one… just a moment… another one…”

……

After Ruan Zhao’s death, he became a spirit—his soul hovering nearby. A small, round, cat-like creature with wings floated by his side, occasionally bumping its head against his shoulder.

[Task complete. Bug cleared.]

And just like that, Ruan Zhao regained all his memories. He rested his chin on his hand, gazing regretfully at the bowl of porridge spilled across the table. The rice was soft, thick, and creamy—it looked delicious.

“What a waste,” he sighed. “I thought I had enough time to take one more bite.”

“Didn’t expect it to end so soon.”

The system spoke up in its usual mechanical tone: [Host, time’s up. We need to leave.]

Ruan Zhao waved it off lazily: [Let’s wait a little longer. It won’t hurt. Just a little while more.]

The system couldn’t resist Ruan Zhao in the end, and with no choice, nervously bent the rules for him one last time.

Chu Xinglan, in the end, finished everything.

The white porridge.

The boiled egg.

The entire bowl of crispy fried little fish.

Ruan Zhao watched as he mechanically stuffed food into his mouth, like he couldn’t even feel the heat.

After a moment, Ruan Zhao quietly asked: [Do you think… after I’m gone, Chu Xinglan will be very sad?]

The system hesitated, carefully choosing its words. [Not just sad.]

Probably… so heartbroken he won’t want to live.

Ruan Zhao understood the meaning behind what the system left unsaid. He didn’t say anything else. His lashes lowered, veiling the complicated emotions in his eyes.

And then—he stepped forward into the bright, flickering white light.

[Let’s go,] he said softly to the system.

But just then, a choked, broken sob sounded behind him—heavy with grief, every muffled sound dragging a piece of the heart down with it, soaked in unbearable despair. The kind of sound that made it impossible not to ache just hearing it.

Ruan Zhao’s steps faltered for a second.

But… he didn’t turn around.

……

Because temporary parting was for a better reunion in the future.

Chu Xinglan, we’ll meet again.

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