The phone screen read 11:00 p.m.
Anh Nhien's last message was still there.
Have you eaten yet? Don't stay up too late.
Quan Hao Nhien watched the screen slowly dim without replying.
Not because he didn't want to. It was simply that the honest answer
Honey, I haven't eaten. I can't sleep either. I'm sitting here right now, and I don't even know what I'm doing anymore.
was not the kind of thing one should send at midnight to someone alone on the other side of the world.
He placed the phone facedown.
Snow drifted past the fogged window.
From the small rented room on the outskirts of Columbus, the world beyond had faded into a blur of white. Streetlights broke apart beneath the wind and snow, becoming pale streaks of yellow that appeared and vanished behind the freezing glass.
The room itself was modest.
A desk buried beneath books and stacks of notes. A closed laptop. An old suitcase pressed against the wall. A thin rug spread across wooden flooring worn smooth by years of use.
Hao Nhien sat cross-legged on that rug.
His hands rested lightly on his knees, thumb and forefinger touching to form a small circle. His back was not rigid, nor were his shoulders slumped. He kept himself only as straight as necessary for his breath to move naturally.
His eyes were half closed, leaving only the thinnest sliver of light—as though some part of him still wanted to keep one final thread connecting him to the room, the yellow lamp, the wind slipping through the window frame, and the cold slowly seeping through his socks.
He inhaled.
Cold air touched the tip of his nose, dry and sharp as a sliver of glass.
He exhaled.
The warmth from his chest dissolved into the space before him, invisible yet unmistakably present in sensation.
For the past three years, Hao Nhien had grown accustomed to sitting like this.
At first, it had only been a way to quiet his mind, to keep the long days of studying abroad from stretching into something suffocating. Later, he gradually learned to observe his breathing, his body, each sensation as it arose and passed away.
His teachers called it mindfulness of breathing.
Insight meditation.
A way of looking directly at the workings of body and mind.
Hao Nhien would never claim he understood it deeply.
He only knew that whenever he sat down and truly returned to his breath, the things weighing on him seemed to retreat a little farther away.
The unfinished thesis.
Visa pressure.
Rent at the end of the month.
Homesickness.
And that strange feeling whenever Anh Nhien asked, Are you okay?
He always answered, I'm fine.
Yet he was no longer certain whether it was true.
The moment his thoughts touched her name, his breathing slipped slightly out of rhythm.
His wife's face appeared in his mind from half a world away—not sharp like a photograph, but soft and warm, like a lamp glowing somewhere inside his memory.
Hao Nhien exhaled more slowly.
Do not cling to it.
Do not push it away.
Simply know
I miss her.
The cold at the tips of his toes suddenly became vivid again.
First numbness.
Then an ache.
Then the sensation spread thinly across the tops of his feet, as though countless tiny needles were tapping beneath his skin.
Damn, it's cold.
The thought appeared so abruptly that Hao Nhien nearly laughed.
Three years of practice. Quite a few books read. Quite a few teachings heard.
And all it took was a little cold in his toes for the mind to start complaining as usual.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Then he returned his attention to the tip of his nose.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Hao Nhien was not looking for anything special.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself.
Yet somewhere deep inside, he knew he was still waiting for some kind of door to open.
Three years of persistence had not been meaningless. He was calmer than before. He could sometimes see anger before it erupted. He could let go of certain worries before they dragged him through an entire day. But the further he walked, the more the road ahead looked like a dry, barren plain. He could settle his mind more easily now. He could catch certain flashes of anger before they erupted. He could release some worries before they seized him and carried him through the rest of the day.
Yet what his teachers called truly seeing, truly understanding, touching the deeper current beneath existence itself he had never grasped it.
Perhaps because he was still too stubborn.
Stubborn about understanding.
Stubborn about proving things for himself.
Stubborn about walking every question all the way to its end.
Hao Nhien had once been proud of that.
He could learn.
He could endure.
He could persist longer than many others.
But the longer he sat, the more he realized that the same trait could be both strength and barrier.
Persistence kept him from giving up.
Stubbornness quietly demanded results.
Yet the breath did not deepen merely because someone waited for it.
Body and mind did not reveal their truth merely because someone grew impatient.
Let go.
He did not say the words aloud.
He simply allowed the thought to fall lightly into his mind.
Then even that thought dissolved.
Only the wind and his breathing remained.
He did not know how much time passed.
Gradually, his sense of time began to fade.
His body seemed to grow lighter—not weak, but as though the boundary between flesh and room were softening.
His breath continued to move.
Yet it became difficult to tell whether he was breathing, or whether breathing was simply happening on its own somewhere within a vast and quiet space.
Then everything dropped.
It lasted only an instant.
Like an elevator suddenly falling one floor before the body could react.
Hao Nhien's back straightened instinctively.
His breath stopped for half a beat.
His heart struck once, hard.
Then his entire body became weightless.
The cold vanished.
Not because warmth replaced it.
Rather, it felt as though the room, the wooden floor, the rug, the lamp, the snow beyond the window—everything that had created that cold—had been quietly removed from his awareness.
In its place came a current of cool, clean air.
Not cold.
Cool.
Clear as morning mist, carrying the faintest fragrance—something between young grass after rain and an orchid hidden deep within a mountain crevice.
Light appeared beyond his closed eyelids.
Soft.
Distant.
Like sunlight filtered through countless layers of fog.
Hao Nhien did not open his eyes immediately.
He did not even dare to move.
By habit, he tried to locate his body again.
Where were his knees?
His feet?
The rug?
Could he still feel his shirt against his back?
But every familiar sensation had become vague, as though he were observing himself from an immeasurable distance.
There was still an I.
Something aware.
Something questioning.
Something astonished.
But that I no longer seemed neatly contained inside a body sitting in a rented room.
A question surfaced.
What is this?
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
He waited for fear.
Strangely, fear did not come first.
Curiosity did.
Clear, lucid curiosity—the kind a researcher might feel after watching an experiment produce an impossible result.
Hao Nhien slowly opened his eyes.
The room was gone.
Before him stretched an endless expanse of white mist.
There was no ceiling.
No ground.
No walls.
No clear horizon.
Light existed everywhere, yet there was no visible source.
The silence was nearly absolute, but it was not dead.
It felt like an immense lake whose surface had never once been touched by wind.
Hao Nhien lowered his gaze.
He was standing on a boat.
Or more precisely his consciousness was standing on a boat.
It was a small wooden vessel, old yet sturdy, no larger than the rowboats he had seen in parks. But its lines carried an ancient quality he could not explain.
Dark green grain ran along the hull, glimmering faintly beneath the white mist like sleeping veins inside some primordial tree.
An oar rested across the bow.
It was made from the same wood, plain and without ornamentation.
Yet the longer Hao Nhien looked at it, the more it seemed less like something carved by hand and more like a natural extension that had grown together with the vessel itself.
He looked over the side.
No water.
No river.
No abyss.
The boat simply hovered in an endless white expanse, impossibly steady.
Hao Nhien remained silent for several breaths.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
"No way…"
No sound came out.
The moment the words formed, they became nothing more than a ripple of thought.
Did I just die suddenly?
His next thought was even more absurd.
Is this the ferry to the Yellow Springs?
He rejected the idea immediately.
Those were stories his great-grandparents had told during power outages in the countryside when he was a child.
Back then, he had believed them a little.
Growing older, he had filed such things away under folklore, folk religion, and the human imagination.
Yet now, standing on a boat suspended in a mist without sky or earth, Hao Nhien suddenly felt that the boundary between superstition and something we simply don't know how to explain yet might not be as thick as he had once believed.
He bent down and slowly reached toward the oar.
The wood was cool beneath his fingers.
Not icy.
Not damp.
Cool like jade that had rested beneath the shade of a tree for many years.
The instant his fingertips touched it, a stream of wordless information poured directly into his awareness.
Not sound.
Not writing.
Not memory.
It was as though someone had placed a complete concept directly into his mind, so clear that it required no explanation.
Cosmic Ark.
Hao Nhien pulled his hand back.
His heart began to beat faster.
Until now, he could still have convinced himself that this was some strange meditative experience.
But those two words pushed every ordinary explanation farther away.
Cosmic Ark.
The name felt too vast.
Too distant.
Too completely unrelated to a rented room in Columbus—to a world where rent was due on time and visa paperwork had expiration dates.
"Spiritual treasure? Immortal treasure? Or have I read too many novels and finally dreamed myself into one?"
The thought made him frown.
No.
This did not feel like a dream.
In dreams, people often accepted absurdity without question.
Right now, Hao Nhien was terrifyingly lucid.
He knew he had been meditating in his room.
He knew snow was falling outside.
He knew an unfinished thesis file was still sitting on his laptop.
He knew Anh Nhien was probably asleep in Vietnam.
And he knew he was currently standing on a boat that could not possibly exist under any ordinary law of physics he had ever learned.
Before he could think further, a voice suddenly appeared.
It did not travel through air.
It did not strike his eardrums.
It emerged directly inside his awareness—warm, aged, with a faintly teasing quality, like a breeze brushing past his ear.
"Greetings, Master. Welcome aboard the Cosmic Ark. This old man has waited a very, very long time for you, you know."
Hao Nhien frowned.
He did not panic.
If anything, his back straightened slightly, his shoulders tightening as though preparing for a conversation.
His thoughts became clear and deliberate.
"Who are you? If possible, assume a form suitable for communication. If you have no physical body, then continuing through direct mental transmission is fine."
The voice paused.
Then laughed.
"Oh? Why not simply speak? And what exactly is 'mental transmission'?"
Hao Nhien replied seriously through thought.
"Because speech is fundamentally vibration propagated through a medium. Sound waves act on the eardrum, are converted into neural signals, and are then interpreted by the brain. At the moment, I'm not certain I'm in a physical state. If there is no body, no airway, no air, and no eardrum, then calling this 'speaking' in the conventional sense would be inaccurate."
The voice went silent for a moment.
Then a warm amusement seemed to spread throughout the mist, like an old man unexpectedly finding a strange grandchild willing to argue with him.
"Excellent. Master thinks very clearly. This old man is the Ark Spirit. The Ark and I are one, much as your body and soul are one."
Hao Nhien raised an eyebrow.
By instinct, he reached up to rub his chin, though even he was not certain whether the gesture was real or only something his consciousness imagined.
"Soul?" he asked. "I don't subscribe to the soul hypothesis, though many religions use the concept. At this moment, I'm not even certain that what I am now is my soul."
"Then what is the thing thinking and questioning me right now?"
"Consciousness," Hao Nhien answered almost immediately. "A temporary stream. It arises, changes, and ceases. There is no reason to assume it is permanent."
He stopped.
This was clearly not the right situation for a philosophical debate about consciousness.
He quickly returned to the point.
"Anyway, you can understand it your way, and I'll understand it mine. Soul or consciousness—it doesn't matter right now. What matters is this: where am I?"
The answer came quickly, as though the Ark Spirit had been waiting for the question.
"You are within a special region of this universe. It does not entirely belong to ordinary matter. You could think of it as a higher layer of vibration."
Hao Nhien felt his heartbeat accelerate.
Not from fear.
From excitement.
Images immediately flooded his mind—science programs, theories about dimensions and energy, parallel worlds, lectures on consciousness, debates that had never reached any conclusion.
"Wait. Is this a parallel world? Another dimension? If parallel worlds actually exist, can people move between them? Are there conditions? Some kind of… interdimensional tourist visa?"
"Your thoughts are becoming somewhat scattered, Master."
The Ark Spirit's voice carried obvious amusement.
"This is merely another energetic layer that still retains a connection to your original world. As for other parallel worlds, yes, they exist. Quite a few of them. This old man has crossed no fewer than ten thousand worlds."
"Seriously?" Hao Nhien asked immediately. "What are they like? Are any similar to Earth? Do they have humans? Different ecosystems? Can I go there?"
"That will be for Master to decide later. At present, this old man does not have precise answers to every one of your questions."
Hao Nhien fell silent for a breath.
Curiosity had eroded some of the composure he usually took pride in.
He drew in a slow breath and returned his mind to the observing state he had cultivated over years of meditation.
The excitement gradually settled.
A more important question replaced it.
"Wait."
He raised his head toward the endless mist.
"You keep calling me Master. Why?"
The mist before him stirred.
This time, the voice did not remain only inside his consciousness.
White fog slowly gathered in front of him, layer after layer curling inward like a river flowing backward.
Faint silver light threaded through it, forming a blurred silhouette.
Within a few breaths, an old man with snow-white hair and beard appeared on the deck.
He wore a dark blue robe edged in silver.
His frame was tall and lean, though not frail. His white hair was tied neatly behind him, his beard fell to his chest, and countless lines marked his face.
His eyes were peculiar.
Deep enough to seem as though they had witnessed endless years, yet still carrying a trace of mischief that could not quite be hidden.
Like someone who had been alone for far too long and had finally found another person to speak with.
A simple wooden staff rested in his hand.
Hao Nhien studied it for a moment.
It looked suspiciously similar to the oar from earlier.
The old man inclined his head.
His voice sounded deeper and warmer now.
"If everything proceeds as intended, you are the master of the Cosmic Ark. And this old man is its Ark Spirit. I have searched for and waited for you for a thousand years."
Hao Nhien looked him up and down.
This form was far easier to deal with than speaking to empty space.
At least now he had a pair of eyes to look into.
"Good," Hao Nhien said. "Then explain why you were looking for me."
The old man slowly stroked his beard and gazed into the endless mist.
"Because this old man was born to serve..."
"Hold on."
Hao Nhien cut him off immediately.
The Ark Spirit paused.
Hao Nhien continued calmly.
"Old Ark, in my world, the age of slavery ended a long time ago. And slogans about leaders being servants of the people aren't exactly taken literally anymore either. So there's no need to use the word serve. For now, let's consider this a cooperative relationship."
The Ark Spirit stared at him.
His ancient eyes blinked twice.
"But this old man is the Ark."
"The Ark is the Ark. You are you. At least right now."
The Ark Spirit fell silent.
So did Hao Nhien.
A moment later, the old man stroked his beard again, wearing the expression of someone who had just discovered an unusual species in a museum.
"Master is truly interesting. After waiting for so long, I finally found someone who speaks in a manner that is… remarkably difficult to understand."
"Just call me Hao Nhien," Hao Nhien reminded him. "And please get to the point. I need the essential information first, Old Ark."
The Ark Spirit let out a soft sigh.
There was a trace of regret in it.
Perhaps after having no one to speak with for so long, the old man had intended to pour out an entire thousand years of loneliness at once.
But Hao Nhien's gaze was too calm, too clear, almost mechanical.
The old man reluctantly put away his distant expression.
"Very well. I will be brief."
He paused, as though reminding himself not to ramble.
"This old man is the spirit of this Ark. As for the Ark itself, according to what I understand, it was nurtured by forces originating from thousands of universes. It can cross the boundaries between worlds, even between different universes. Since the moment I came into being, I have had only one purpose: to travel, to search, and to receive my master."
Hao Nhien waited.
The Ark Spirit also remained silent.
"And?"
"That is all, Master."
Hao Nhien frowned.
"You can't be serious, Old Ark. A vessel capable of crossing universes waits who knows how many years for me, and its entire instruction manual consists of a few sentences? At the very least, you should be able to explain where you're taking me, why you're taking me there, and why it has to be me instead of someone else."
The Ark Spirit stroked his beard and sank into thought.
Hao Nhien had the distinct impression that the contemplative expression was largely theatrical—or at least being prolonged far beyond necessity.
After a while, the old man finally answered.
"Those things…"
He paused.
"This old man does not know."
Hao Nhien stared at him.
"You don't know?"
"I do not," the Ark Spirit replied with complete honesty. "I only know that my master would eventually appear, and that I would sense him. Afterward, I would wait for a summons from the destination. I do not choose where we go.
"From my own experience of time, I have concluded that some greater law governs the most important parts of this process. I am merely one small piece within that law."
His voice grew quieter.
"In truth, I desire the answer even more than you do. For a thousand years, I have waited simply to learn what, exactly, I was waiting for."
A chill passed through Hao Nhien.
Something inside his thoughts began to brighten, though he was not yet certain what it was.
After a moment's hesitation, he asked:
"So you're something like the condition linking cause and effect?"
The moment the question appeared, Hao Nhien realized it was not entirely a question.
It was more like a thought surfacing at the instant his consciousness brushed against something he could not yet name.
The Ark Spirit looked at him with unmistakable surprise.
"Master is indeed remarkably perceptive."
"Hao Nhien."
"Of course, Master Hao Nhien."
"…"
The Ark Spirit coughed lightly.
Then continued.
"This old man may indeed be the Condition that guides your Past toward your Future. Yet I can sense that your Past and Future—or your Cause and Effect—are something exceptionally unusual. So unusual that the laws of the universe themselves had to nurture my existence.
"But as you know, one may sense that a law exists without knowing in advance the precise result produced by its workings."
Hao Nhien spoke almost unconsciously.
"So my past is a seed. You are the wind that carries me to the place where that seed might sprout, grow leaves, and eventually become a towering tree… is that what you mean?"
"I hope so," the Ark Spirit replied, his tone becoming more solemn. "But I do not think it is so simple. Whether that seed chooses to follow the wind may still depend on other conditions—other yuan, other threads of circumstance."
"A seed may become a tree.
"Or it may be buried forever.
"The wind may carry it to fertile soil.
"Or into a storm.
"The Past has already been established. The Future has not yet arrived.
"The only thing certain is the Present, Master."
Both of them fell silent.
The mist stirred faintly, as though waiting with them.
After some time, Hao Nhien broke the silence.
"Then I also have the option to refuse becoming the master of the Cosmic Ark, don't I, Old Ark?"
The Ark Spirit looked at him.
Hao Nhien continued slowly but clearly.
"I still have many things to finish in my current world. People I need to see. Kindness I need to repay. Things that are not yet over. Those are also causes and consequences I cannot simply abandon."
The Ark Spirit studied Hao Nhien for a long time.
It seemed as though the old man were reassessing the young man before him with everything he possessed.
Somehow, he could sense something unusually deep within Hao Nhien.
But whether that depth came from the strange world Hao Nhien had lived in, or from Hao Nhien himself, he did not know.
At last, the Ark Spirit answered.
"I cannot answer with certainty. Whether you go or remain will ultimately still be influenced by forces already established in the Past.
"But judging from the fact that the laws of the universe brought me to you…"
He hesitated.
"My personal assessment is that refusing may be very difficult."
"Very difficult?"
"Very."
"But not impossible?"
The Ark Spirit stroked his beard, his eyes glimmering faintly.
"This old man would not dare speak in absolutes. Not in front of someone who had just demanded equal rights for a boat"
Hao Nhien almost laughed.
But his expression quickly became serious again.
"I'm very curious," he said. "But I'm still going to refuse. I'm returning to my current world.
"I enjoy adventure, but I don't make a habit of beginning journeys when I know neither the destination, the reason, nor the consequences. I—"
Before he could finish, the Ark Spirit suddenly looked up.
The mischief in the old man's eyes vanished instantly.
"Master. Someone is coming."
Hao Nhien stopped.
"Someone?"
"Quite a few people."
The Ark Spirit stared into the distant mist, his voice lowering.
"This is very strange. Outsiders should not be able to enter this space at this time."
Hao Nhien's expression grew serious as well.
"Are they dangerous?"
"I do not know yet. I will temporarily seal the Cosmic Ark and conceal its presence. We can observe first and decide afterward. What do you think?"
"Do it," Hao Nhien answered immediately. "I want to see who they are."
In the next moment, the entire vessel seemed to sink one layer deeper into the white mist.
The hull.
The oar.
The old man.
Even Hao Nhien's own sense of existence became thinner and quieter, like a leaf settling to the bottom of a lake and slowly disappearing beneath years of silt.
Far away, points of white light began to appear.
At first, they were only tiny specks.
Then they stretched into streaks, tearing through the mist at a speed that sent a chill through Hao Nhien.
He had never seen anything move like that.
Not an airplane.
Not a missile.
Nothing an ordinary human being could ever expect to witness with his own eyes.
The streaks of light stopped in the void far from the hidden Ark.
Then they transformed into six figures.
They stood in midair.
Without support.
Without wings.
Their robes resembled nothing Hao Nhien had ever seen. There was something ancient about them, as though they had stepped out of an old martial-arts painting, yet their clothing also possessed a cold, practical elegance belonging to a civilization entirely unlike Earth.
Every one of them radiated an indescribable sense of power.
Not muscular strength.
Not weapons.
Something denser.
Heavier.
A vitality compressed to such an extreme that even the space around them seemed to bow beneath its weight.