AI Subtitle Translation Assistant
Faster, more accurate, lower cost — translate a full film in minutes
We don't just translate line by line—we treat your whole film as one piece.
We analyze your full script first and build a style guide, so tone and voice stay consistent from start to finish—like one professional translator.
Character names, places, and key terms are extracted and fixed before translation. Same name, same translation, everywhere in the film.
Each segment is translated with access to previous and upcoming context, reducing reference errors and choppy, machine-like phrasing.
Professional AI Technology × Ultimate User Experience × Unbeatable Value
Using OpenAI's latest GPT-4 model to understand context, ensuring translations are not just accurate, but authentic and natural. Professional terminology? We handle it with precision.
Our powerful cloud GPU cluster completes translation for a 1-hour video in just 3 minutes. Batch processing? Supported! Handle 100 files simultaneously with ease.
From Chinese to English, Japanese to Spanish, we support all major global languages. One-click translation brings your content to 7 billion viewers instantly.
AI automatically recognizes speech rhythm to precisely align the subtitle timeline. No more worries about out-of-sync subtitles after translation. Perfect synchronization, it's that simple.
SRT, VTT, ASS, SSA... we support every subtitle format you can think of. YouTube, Netflix, Bilibili—choose any platform, export with one click.
Bank-level AES-256 encryption, ISO 27001 certified. Your content is absolutely secure and automatically destroyed after processing, leaving no trace.
No complex settings needed. From upload to download in 3 minutes, a seamless process.
Drag and drop subtitle or video files, with batch support. Whether it's SRT, VTT, or MP4, AVI videos, we'll automatically recognize and extract the subtitles.
Choose from over 100 languages. AI will automatically recommend the best translation model and expert configuration. Need more professional terminology? We offer expert modes for fields like medicine, law, and technology.
Click 'Start Translation,' and it will be ready in the time it takes to make a cup of coffee. Download multilingual subtitle files for immediate use in your video projects. Supports bilingual and multi-language exports—use it however you like.
No subscriptions. Once you buy it, it's yours. Credits are valid forever, buy only what you need.
One-time payment, credits never expire
One-time payment, credits never expire (Better value—more credits per dollar than the Basic plan)
One-time payment, credits never expire (Best value for creator teams)
Anjali blinked. “This is business, not sociology.”
“Come down, Papa! It’s dangerous!” Aanya called out.
The conflict came to a head during Diwali. While Aanya’s colleagues in Delhi shared sleek, pastel-themed e-invites, her mohalla (neighborhood) in Varanasi exploded into life. Her mother, Kavita, spent three days cleaning the house with cow dung water—an ancient practice for purification. Her father, Rajiv, a history teacher, climbed a rickety ladder to hang a string of LED lights shaped like marigolds.
In the heart of Varanasi, where the Ganges flows not just as a river but as a mother, a goddess, and a timeless witness, lived a young woman named Aanya. She was a textile designer by education and a dreamer by nature. Her home was a centuries-old haveli (mansion) overlooking the ghats —the stone steps leading to the holy river. Every morning, she was woken not by an alarm, but by the aarti bells from the Kashi Vishwanath Temple and the clanging of brass lotas (water pots) as her neighbor, Old Man Mishra, performed his morning rituals.
She launched a digital platform called Buna (meaning “weave”). It connected handloom weavers directly to global buyers, cutting out the exploitative middlemen. But she did it her way: each sari came with a QR code. When scanned, it played a recording of the weaver telling the story of the fabric—his village, his grandmother’s recipe for biryani , the monsoon that almost ruined the loom.
“Beta,” Shanti would say, crushing cardamom pods with a heavy stone mortar, “your computer designs have no soul. A kaali (black) and white geometric shape? That is not India. India is the red of sindoor , the orange of marigolds, the green of mango leaves on a doorframe.”
Sign up and get 20,000 free credits—translate 4-5 videos, completely free
Anjali blinked. “This is business, not sociology.”
“Come down, Papa! It’s dangerous!” Aanya called out.
The conflict came to a head during Diwali. While Aanya’s colleagues in Delhi shared sleek, pastel-themed e-invites, her mohalla (neighborhood) in Varanasi exploded into life. Her mother, Kavita, spent three days cleaning the house with cow dung water—an ancient practice for purification. Her father, Rajiv, a history teacher, climbed a rickety ladder to hang a string of LED lights shaped like marigolds.
In the heart of Varanasi, where the Ganges flows not just as a river but as a mother, a goddess, and a timeless witness, lived a young woman named Aanya. She was a textile designer by education and a dreamer by nature. Her home was a centuries-old haveli (mansion) overlooking the ghats —the stone steps leading to the holy river. Every morning, she was woken not by an alarm, but by the aarti bells from the Kashi Vishwanath Temple and the clanging of brass lotas (water pots) as her neighbor, Old Man Mishra, performed his morning rituals.
She launched a digital platform called Buna (meaning “weave”). It connected handloom weavers directly to global buyers, cutting out the exploitative middlemen. But she did it her way: each sari came with a QR code. When scanned, it played a recording of the weaver telling the story of the fabric—his village, his grandmother’s recipe for biryani , the monsoon that almost ruined the loom.
“Beta,” Shanti would say, crushing cardamom pods with a heavy stone mortar, “your computer designs have no soul. A kaali (black) and white geometric shape? That is not India. India is the red of sindoor , the orange of marigolds, the green of mango leaves on a doorframe.”