Axolotl Translations

Perhaps it was their close proximity on the couch. Or maybe Ruan Zhao’s sense of smell had become acutely heightened lately. He detected the faintest trace of something—light, almost imperceptible, tinged with a hint of moisture.

That unmistakable dampness that lingered after someone had just stepped out of the shower. And interwoven with it, the subtle sweetness of orange-scented body wash.

Apparently, for some reason, Lu Xingyao had decided to shower before coming home. Ruan Zhao could surmise the reason. He had likely picked up something unpleasant during the mission—possibly even gotten blood on himself while dispatching vampires.

That wasn’t unheard of, especially considering Lu Xingyao’s peculiar habit of using vampire blood to draw symbols on the floor after a kill. A way of marking territory, perhaps. Arrogant. Reckless.

And yet… Ruan Zhao didn’t feel much about it now.

Maybe it was the tranquility of the night, or perhaps he had simply grown accustomed to the idea that he was different from other vampires—the kind who instigated trouble, abducted people, and treated humans as mere walking blood bags.

He no longer saw himself reflected in them. So even knowing that another of his kind had met their end at Lu Xingyao’s hands… he felt nothing. No kinship. No grief.

His thoughts drifted instead. He began to wonder—why sweet orange? That scent didn’t quite align with Lu Xingyao’s usual aura. He would have anticipated something colder, sharper, something more… minimal.

Still, the fragrance was simple, not overpowering. Ruan Zhao’s sensitive nose appreciated that. At least this time, he wasn’t sneezing uncontrollably the moment Lu Xingyao came near.

With that gentle fruit scent lingering in the air, Ruan Zhao’s guard slowly lowered. His mind wandered. His gaze, unfocused, drifted towards the screen, his eyes fixed but unseeing. From an outside perspective, he appeared to be watching attentively. In reality, he was simply… zoning out.

As for the movie’s plot… well, Ruan Zhao’s eyes were technically fixed on the screen, but his brain? Utterly offline. It wasn’t until the man beside him let out a curious little hum, his tone lifting slightly in question, that Ruan Zhao finally snapped back to reality.

……

The movie had taken a sharp turn. The male lead—who had been showering the heroine with sweet words for months without so much as a drop of blood—had finally reached his breaking point.

On a night so dark that visibility was zero, he crept into her bedroom like a predator, silent and fluid. He moved with the grace of a panther, seamlessly merging with the shadows, until he stood right beside her bed.

Desire clashed violently with reason within him. His body trembled almost imperceptibly, unable to contain the inner turmoil. And ultimately, desire prevailed. His fangs extended from between his lips, sharp as blades, hovering just above the delicate skin of her neck—as if in the next instant, they would pierce through and release the warm sweetness beneath…

The imagery struck a little too close to home. Ruan Zhao’s entire body tensed. His eyes snapped open before he could stop himself. In the quiet of the room, the only sound he could discern was the vampire’s shallow breathing—no. Two sets of breathing. The second was his own. Because… he had basically done the exact same thing last night.

Okay, maybe not precisely—he hadn’t aimed for the neck like some dramatic seducer. Still, the parallel was awkwardly obvious. Sure, no one else knew. Just him and the system. Lu Xingyao had been completely out cold the entire time, hadn’t stirred even slightly while Ruan Zhao climbed into bed and—well—fed. But even with that knowledge, he still felt… strange. Kind of guilty. Kind of exposed. Like he was mere seconds away from being discovered.

Ruan Zhao quietly regulated his breathing, attempting to appear natural. Then, as casually as possible, he lifted his gaze and stole a quick glance at Lu Xingyao. Just to be sure.

Only a few dim wall lights illuminated the living room. The warm, amber glow cast soft shadows across Lu Xingyao’s face, accentuating his already sharp features.

His brow was subtly defined, his nose straight and elegant, and his jawline—well, it looked as though it had been deliberately sculpted. Every angle was precisely placed, leaving no room for fault. His lips were a pale, soft pink, thinner than average, yet they possessed a certain allure—as if they would be delicate to kiss. As if the slightest pressure could bruise the skin, break it open, and allow color to bloom.

Ruan Zhao found himself wondering, with utter seriousness: would the blood there taste better than from his fingertips?

He knew Lu Xingyao was handsome. That much had always been apparent. But only now did he truly grasp the extent of his good looks, how dangerously attractive he was.

Desire, subtle but unmistakable, stirred in his chest. Ruan Zhao pressed his palm to his stomach. He was hungry again.

Lu Xingyao, cool and composed as always, seemed completely oblivious. His expression remained unreadable, almost indifferent—utterly unaware that the boy he had taken in, the one sitting so close, was entertaining some very questionable thoughts. Completely unaware that he had essentially invited a wolf to share his den.

It wasn’t until much later that Lu Xingyao finally noticed Ruan Zhao’s gaze. He lowered his lashes, casting a faint shadow over his eyes.

The movie continued to play. The male lead had sunk his teeth into the girl’s neck. The screen faded to black. But the sound—wet, rhythmic, greedy—persisted. The sound of drinking blood, relentless and all-consuming.

The monster on-screen latched onto its prey like a beast starved for too long—utterly devoid of restraint, of empathy. It didn’t care if its prey could survive the attack, didn’t care if it would die.

It was a jarring shift from the movie’s earlier tone, where everything had felt like a soft-focus romance. This was the first time the film didn’t shy away from portraying the male lead for what he truly was: a monster. A powerful, terrifying, utterly inhuman creature. No matter how deeply he loved the girl, no matter how much she meant to him—he still couldn’t resist his instincts.

……

Ruan Zhao shifted in his seat, a sudden wave of discomfort washing over him. He couldn’t help but ask the system: [Is there a chance he might one day become like that? Lose control completely? Drain Lu Xingyao dry and leave behind nothing but a withered husk?]

The system paused for a beat. [Absolutely not!] it shot back, emphatic. [You were literally starving yesterday, and the worst you did was gently bite his fingertip. You didn’t even think about going for his neck like the guy in the movie.]

To really emphasize the point, it added: [And besides, someone like Lu Xingyao—a high-level psychic? His blood’s packed with so much energy it’s basically a concentrated meal. Just a few sips and you’re full. There’s no way you could drain him dry. You’d explode first.]

The system’s confident tone helped Ruan Zhao relax slightly. He finally released the tension in his back, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.

The room fell silent once more. Aside from the sound of the movie playing—a steady, frantic rhythm of swallowing—neither of them spoke.

It was the kind of gruesome, eerie scene that would make any normal human feel nauseous. Ruan Zhao wasn’t immune either. His stomach gave a twist. He fumbled around between the couch cushions, trying to locate the remote.

He raised the remote and turned off the TV. The room instantly plunged into complete silence—the kind where you could probably hear a pin drop, if one were to fall.

Lu Xingyao seemed to lag behind reality for half a second. His gaze remained fixed on the now pitch-black screen, his eyes still locked in place. Only after a while did he slowly shift his line of sight to meet Ruan Zhao’s.

Ruan Zhao had a reasonable suspicion: he had been zoning out. Just as he had a few minutes prior—staring intently at something, yet mentally a million miles away. The kind of daze where even eight hundred wild horses couldn’t drag your attention back. Honestly, he probably had no idea what had just transpired in the movie. Might not even know if the main character was supposed to be a vampire or a human.

Ruan Zhao looked up, his gaze drifting across Lu Xingyao’s face. From his sharp brow line to the slope of his nose, down to the curve of his throat and the subtle prominence of his Adam’s apple just above the crisp collar of his shirt.

Finally, his gaze settled—again—on that single earring in his left ear. That little glinting stud always seemed to catch his attention, almost mocking him. He couldn’t help but think: Lu Xingyao really didn’t seem like the type to enjoy romantic vampire movies. He looked more like the “all action, no feelings” kind. So if he missed that whole scene where the vampire pounced on the girl in the middle of the night… that would make sense, right?

The more Ruan Zhao tried to rationalize it, the more his nerves settled. Maybe Lu Xingyao really was that oblivious—dense enough not to notice anything weird going on. Dumb enough, even, to keep letting a vampire live in his house, totally unaware he was basically signing up to be a walking blood bank.

If that was the case, Ruan Zhao figured, he could just sneak into his room at night for a midnight snack. Eat his fill, curl up in the corner under the system’s watchful eye, and sleep like a baby. Then wake up and go back for dessert.

This way, he wouldn’t have to suffer through hunger anymore. And Lu Xingyao could offload his “excess blood problem” without needing to donate it elsewhere.

A win-win, really.

Hmm…

He and Lu Xingyao… both had a bright future ahead of them. Ruan Zhao poked his own cheek with his index finger. It felt a little thicker than usual. Oh well. He didn’t mind.

The quartz clock on the wall showed the hour hand ticking past 4. Most people were sound asleep at this hour—only a handful of night owls, fueled by youthful energy, would still be awake pulling an all-nighter.

Especially someone like Lu Xingyao, who had already powered through a full day and night—and was now, at nearly 4 a.m., still watching a movie with someone.

This kind of person was just asking to drop dead from exhaustion. And for the sake of food quality and long-term sustainability, even though Ruan Zhao still felt wide awake, he made a point to let out a fake yawn, stretching lazily and putting on a convincingly sleepy expression.

He was just about to say goodnight—maybe even tell Lu Xingyao to get some sleep too—when Lu Xingyao suddenly blinked, as if something had finally clicked in his mind. His half-lidded eyes opened a fraction wider.

With a trace of confusion, he asked: “Why’d you turn it off? The movie’s not over.”

His voice was low, just a bit hoarse—like cracked ice swirling in a glass, all smooth edges and cool clarity. Even the tail end of his sentence lifted with that usual, casual tilt. In other words: he sounded wide awake. Utterly, infuriatingly clear-headed.

Ruan Zhao’s yawn got stuck halfway, and a single, dutiful tear escaped from the corner of his eye. Are you serious? It’s been over a minute since I shut off the TV and now you realize?

When Ruan Zhao didn’t respond—just stared at him in disbelief—Lu Xingyao paused, then continued with total calm: “The movie’s not finished. I want to see how it ends.”

Ruan Zhao stared at him for a second, then asked: “…What time did you wake up today?”

Lu Xingyao looked slightly puzzled, but answered seriously: “Six.”

Ruan Zhao: “It’s four in the morning. You’ve been awake for twenty-two hours straight. Are you trying to switch from a superpowered human to a full-time cultivator or something?”

Lu Xingyao raised an eyebrow. “Is it really that dramatic? It’s only been twenty-something hours. There was this one mission—once—I stayed awake for—”

Ruan Zhao held up a hand to stop him. “Nope. Don’t wanna know. You’re not on a mission right now, and your opinion doesn’t count. You can watch that movie anytime. It’s not going anywhere—it doesn’t have legs. If you don’t sleep now, you’re gonna have to wake up in two hours anyway. Unless you plan to follow my schedule and sleep till the afternoon?”

Lu Xingyao: “…Why not?”

Ruan Zhao didn’t hesitate. “Of course not. I don’t have a job to show up to. No debts. No one counting on me to support them. Of course I get to sleep in. But you? You’re different.” He gave Lu Xingyao a firm pat on the shoulder, his tone suddenly serious. “You’re carrying the burden of two people, okay? You have to be the responsible one. Early to bed, early to rise. Work hard, earn money, and provide for—”

The boy’s speech halted mid-sentence. Then, smoothly adjusting course, he continued: “I mean, provide for us. A better life. That’s just the basics, right?”

Lu Xingyao seemed genuinely convinced. “You’re right. But I do have two clarifications.”

Ruan Zhao tilted his head. “Go on.”

“One—I don’t have any loans to pay off.”

“And two—even if I quit my job, I could still easily afford to support the both of us.”

There was a pause.

That slight emphasis on “two of us” lingered in the air.

And for once, Ruan Zhao didn’t have a comeback.

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