Axolotl Translations

Gu Mengran never did get that bite of mackerel.

He and Liang Zhao dropped their chopsticks and bolted for the bridge, sprinting from the third floor to the very top in under five minutes. They shoved open the heavy door to the control room.

Dim yellow lights spilled across the floor. The bridge was eerily quiet. The captain, first mate, and several crew members were huddled around the radar console, eyes locked on the screen in total silence. Gu Mengran, panting and breathless from the mad dash, felt a surge of anxiety.

But now that he was actually there, he hesitated—afraid it was just a false alarm, afraid to hope and be let down again. As if sensing his hesitation, Liang Zhao quietly took his hand, his thumb gently brushing over Gu Mengran’s knuckles in silent reassurance.

The noise of their arrival didn’t go unnoticed. Ding Pengyi turned and, upon seeing them, nearly stomped in frustration. “Don’t just stand there—get over here already!”

Liang Zhao gave a quick reply and tugged Gu Mengran forward. The crew members who had been crowding around kindly stepped aside, revealing the radar display in full. Standing by the control console, Gu Mengran took a deep breath and cautiously looked up at the screen.

The Giant was equipped with a radar system far more advanced than those used on riverboats—both in price and in capability. It could detect everything from large ships and reefs to drifting debris, even foam stirred up by waves. Its detection range was immense. Even accounting for the Earth’s curvature and rough seas, it could still scan up to 40 nautical miles across the surface. Nighttime operations extended the scanning range even further, with each ring on the radar now representing five nautical miles instead of the usual 1.5.

Eight evenly spaced rings rippled out like waves, covering a full 40 nautical miles—and there, on the very edge of the outermost ring, were two faint red blips that hadn’t been there before.

Forty nautical miles—about 74 kilometers. Still far away. The blips were barely discernible, but you could just make out the rough outline and size of each vessel. One matched the logbook description: a multi-decked ship resembling a container carrier. The other was low, flat, and barely above the water’s surface—clearly a riverboat. As the Giant continued its course, the distance between them slowly shrank. But the two red dots remained fixed in place, unmoving. Running into ships at sea wasn’t all that rare—they’d come across a few just this past month.

If it had been a cruise ship or a lone cargo vessel, Gu Mengran wouldn’t have dared hope. But both ships matched the descriptions. And there were exactly two of them.

The Yongyue, the Fengyi, the Decheng—one cruise ship and two cargo vessels.

But why were there only two ships?

Gu Mengran was never good at hiding his emotions. His panic showed plainly on his face. His whole body was tense, lips pressed into a tight line, brows furrowing tighter and tighter. Beneath them, his eyes shimmered with unease.

“Xiao—”

Ding Pengyi caught the look on Gu Mengran’s face and was just about to offer some comforting words—but the first mate beat him to it, patting Gu Mengran on the shoulder with an oddly solemn air. “Don’t stress too much. There are plenty of ships in the East China Sea. Maybe it’s just some random cruise ship and a riverboat sailing together. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s your grandfather’s group.”

“What the hell kind of comfort is that, Old Wan?” Ding Pengyi shot him a glare.

Brother Wan protested, “What? I’m just being honest—”

“Get lost,” Ding Pengyi snapped, shoving him aside and rolling his eyes hard. “You’ve never said a helpful thing in your life.” Then he squeezed in beside Gu Mengran, his tone softening instantly. “Don’t listen to your Uncle Wan, he’s talking nonsense. Cruise ships are rare, and one showing up next to a riverboat? Odds are, it’s your grandfather’s fleet.”

He knew full well there were supposed to be three ships. Seeing the growing tension on Gu Mengran’s face, he added quickly, “It’s cold, and they’re far away. The radar signal might be distorted a little. Don’t panic. Old Captain’s a tough one—he’ll be fine.”

“I… I know, Uncle Ding.” Gu Mengran clutched Liang Zhao’s hand tightly, his eyes filled with quiet desperation as he looked at Ding Pengyi. “But either way, we’ve got to go check, right? So… can we head out now?”

“Absolutely!” Ding Pengyi nodded without hesitation. “We’re going right now! Helmsman, Chief Engineer—let’s move!” He grabbed the intercom and rushed off. Within minutes, the bridge—silent and still just moments ago—sprang back to life.

Crew members moved into position. The helmsman turned the wheel. Below deck, the engineering team monitored the instruments. Everyone got to work like a giant machine firing on all cylinders—pushing the steel beast of a ship forward, faster and faster.

Gu Mengran stood frozen at the control console, as if in a trance. He wasn’t in the right state to help with anything, but he also refused to leave the bridge. So Liang Zhao led him to a quiet corner and settled him in a spot that wouldn’t get in the way. Gently pressing him into a chair, Liang Zhao crouched in front of him and gave his knee a light pat. “We didn’t even get a bite of that mackerel you were craving. Our bowls are still sitting back in the dining room. Want me to grab them so you can eat something?”

“No appetite,” Gu Mengran shook his head, his eyes dropping to meet Liang Zhao’s. After a pause, he added softly, “Don’t worry about me. You’ve been running around all afternoon. Go eat something. Rest a bit.”

“I’m not hungry either.” Liang Zhao simply sat down cross-legged on the floor, resting his elbows on Gu Mengran’s knees, tilting his head to look up at him.

Forty nautical miles wasn’t impossibly far. Under ideal conditions, the Giant could make it in around three hours. But it was night. The sea was rough. At their current speed of 7 knots, it’d take a cautious estimate of six.

The long wait was wearing them down. Liang Zhao glanced at Gu Mengran, who looked completely lost—like his soul had been hollowed out—and gently tightened his grip on the young man’s hand. Breaking the heavy silence, he said, “The ship’s moving slow. It’s going to take a while. Why don’t you go back to the cabin and rest? I’ll stay here and keep watch. When we’re close, I’ll wake you up.”

Gu Mengran didn’t respond. He just shook his head again and again.

Watching him like this made Liang Zhao’s heart ache, but there was nothing else he could do. All he could offer were a few pale words of comfort. “Try to stay hopeful, okay? This is the most promising lead we’ve had so far, isn’t it? I’ve got a feeling—it’s the Windwing.”

“But… but one of the ships is missing,” Gu Mengran mumbled, head downcast. His eyes and the tip of his nose were flushed red, and his already pale complexion looked even more bloodless.

Liang Zhao felt a pang of pain in his chest. He gently brushed his thumb across Gu Mengran’s reddened eyes, his voice soft and calming. “There could be a lot of reasons for one ship being gone. Like Uncle Ding said earlier—”

“There aren’t a lot of reasons.” Gu Mengran cut him off, sniffling, his voice muffled and hoarse as he laid out the possibilities: “There are only three explanations. First—maybe the radar didn’t pick up the third ship. But that’s basically impossible. The Giant is a supertanker equipped with top-of-the-line systems. There’s no reason it would only detect two out of three ships.”

“Second possibility: like the first mate said, it’s not my grandfather’s fleet. That’s… that’s possible. But I hope it is. I want it to be them. It’s been months—months of searching—and now there’s finally a trace…”

When he got to the third possibility, Gu Mengran visibly tensed, shoulders trembling. His voice turned choked and panicked: “Something happened. Maybe… maybe they lost a ship.”

“Mengran.” Liang Zhao couldn’t sit still anymore. He got up and wrapped an arm around Gu Mengran, half-embracing him. They were still on the bridge, and being this close in front of others wasn’t ideal—but Liang Zhao didn’t care. He lowered his head and placed a restrained kiss on the crown of Gu Mengran’s head, murmuring, “Yes, that’s a possibility. But I promise you—it’s not the Windwing.”

“Didn’t you say it yourself? The Windwing isn’t just any riverboat. She’s better at handling rough seas than even the Yongyue. And don’t forget—your grandfather’s the one piloting her. He’s got decades of sailing experience.”

“The Yongyue made it through unharmed. The Windwing will too. As for the missing ship… I think it’s the Decheng. You know how old Brother Luo’s ship is—been around for years. And honestly, I don’t think it was capsized. I think they chose to abandon it.”

“Abandon?” Gu Mengran echoed the word, his lips moving slowly as he processed it. His eyes still looked blank, but his body visibly relaxed. The rigid tension in him finally began to ease.

Liang Zhao seized the moment and nodded, continuing his reasoning: “Yeah. After we split up—and after losing the Heng Rong Sheng 2—they wouldn’t have had enough fuel to get through the whole trip. Before reaching the sea, it wouldn’t have been so bad. They could’ve just drifted downstream and made it to the East China Sea.”

“But once they were in the sea? Fighting the waves and using up fuel to stay warm? If all three ships stayed together, they’d burn through their reserves way too fast. It wouldn’t be long before they ran out completely.”

Liang Zhao continued, “The best solution at that point would’ve been to pool all the fuel into one ship and have the biggest—the Yongyue—tow the other two along. Three ships sailing individually would use three times the fuel. But with one towing two, the consumption drops to about one and a half times.”

He paused deliberately, stopping just short of the conclusion. Gu Mengran waited and waited. When nothing came, he jabbed Liang Zhao with his elbow, annoyed. “Hurry up—then why abandon one?”

Liang Zhao finally relented, letting out a quiet sigh. “Because the fuel kept running low. Even towing two became unsustainable. The Decheng was always meant as a backup ship. Without enough fuel, it became a burden. Abandoning her was inevitable.”

Gu Mengran listened carefully, and after a long silence, he finally nodded with a thoughtful expression. “That makes sense. If I were Grandpa, I’d probably have done the same thing.”

And just like that, Liang Zhao had lifted the weight from his chest. The cloud over Gu Mengran’s head cleared, and the tight tension in his body began to ease. Even his breathing felt smoother.

And, well… he was hungry too. His stomach let out a grumble of protest. Liang Zhao didn’t laugh—he just reached out and gave his chin a scratch, then loosened his hold. “I’ll go downstairs and grab our bowls.”

“No, wait.” Gu Mengran grabbed his hand and stood up with him. “We’re not getting there anytime soon. Let’s just go down and eat properly. It’s not great to eat in the control room anyway.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

By now, their food had long gone cold. Fortunately, Gu Mengran was on good terms with the kitchen staff. He asked one of the chefs to help reheat it. The shrimp came back steaming, just as delicious as before—firm, sweet, impossible to stop eating. Sadly, the mackerel had lost all its crispy texture. It was tough and chewy now, leaving them both vaguely dissatisfied.

Once they were full, they returned to the bridge. Gu Mengran had pulled himself together, and with the captain’s permission, he and Liang Zhao joined the navigation team for the Giant. Night sailing was dull and uneventful. At first, the crew passed the time with chatter, their banter serving as a kind of makeshift coffee to stay alert. But as the night wore on, the chatter quieted… then stopped altogether. The bridge was left in silence, save for the steady hum of machinery.

They were all exhausted. Up before dawn, now pushing through the night. And Gu Mengran—he was absolutely spent.

It felt like an entire century had passed, but when Gu Mengran checked the time, it had only been four hours. With just twelve nautical miles to go, he stared out at the dark, endless sea ahead. It looked like a black hole, vast and unknowable. All he could do was hope—hope to see a sliver of light, a glimpse of the ship named Windwing.

“Zzzzt… zzzzt-zzzt…”

A faint burst of static crackled through the silence, coming from the high-frequency comms station behind him. Gu Mengran spun around. One of the crew on duty was gripping the receiver, his face lit with excitement. “Captain! Captain! We’ve got a signal on the open channel!”

Ding Pengyi, who had been dozing off in the corner, jolted awake. He leapt to his feet and rushed over to the comms station, rubbing his face as he barked, “What are you standing there for? Call them back—quick!”

“R-right!” The crewman pressed the button and immediately straightened his tone: “All vessels, please be advised, all vessels—this is the Giant. We are currently located at 24°N,—”

Ding Pengyi shot him a glare and snatched the mic. “What the hell are you doing? I said call, not give a weather report!” In a world gone to chaos, there was no point sticking to outdated protocol. Ding Pengyi pressed the button again and shouted directly, “Yongyue! Windwing! Can you hear me? Windwing! Meng Gaoyang—your grandson’s with me!”

“Hello? Windwing, Yongyue—come in!”

But as it turned out, yelling didn’t help much. The signal stayed open, but all they got was static. Trying to save face, Ding Pengyi mumbled under his breath, “Still twelve miles out. For VHF, that’s a bit of a stretch. Poor signal’s to be expected…”

He had barely finished speaking when a crackling male voice broke through the static: “@*… zzzzt &… there… this is @%&…”

The sound of a human voice—after so long—sent a jolt through everyone on the bridge. But the transmission was broken, only a word or two making it through. They all looked at each other, unsure how to respond. That’s when having a seasoned captain finally paid off.

“When the signal’s this bad,” Ding Pengyi said calmly, “don’t waste time. Keep your words short and clear. Repeat them until you get a match.” He showed them exactly what he meant. Pressing the call button, he spoke clearly and firmly: “Windwing, Windwing, Windwing—if you can hear us, answer yes or no. Yes or no. Yes or no…”

His method worked. A moment later, a garbled but unmistakable reply came back: “##@& yes… yes @#* yes.”

“Yes!” That one word was all they needed.

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