Hao Nhien woke to the sound of water.
Not the water from memory.
Not the old faucet in his rented room in Columbus.
And not the chaos inside that dark passage, where light, freezing wind, voices, and pain had been crushed together into a shapeless torrent.
This was real water.
Very close.
Small waves lapped gently against wooden planks, slow and even, as though someone outside were tapping their fingers against the side of the boat.
Hao Nhien opened his eyes.
For the first few moments, he had no idea where he was.
Above him was a low wooden roof made from old timber. Dawn light slipped through a narrow window and fell in a thin line across the damp wall. Dust motes floated inside that strip of light, drifting slowly as though they had never known haste.
The space around him was cramped.
A wooden bed.
A small table pressed against the wall.
Several old books.
A low chest.
And the faint mixed scent of damp wood and medicine.
No snow.
No rented room.
No endless white mist.
No black-robed man.
Hao Nhien lay still for a long time, eyes open.
Then memory came flooding back.
Anh Nhien floating inside milky-white light.
The luminous thread of her soul severed by those cold fingers.
Most of her soul compressed into a white pearl and falling into someone else's hand.
The Cosmic Ark plunging into darkness.
The Ark Spirit dissolving into light.
And after that, a fall so long that his consciousness had seemed on the verge of being torn apart again and again.
Hao Nhien jolted upright.
Pain immediately ripped through his entire body.
He froze.
One hand braced against the bed, the other clutching his chest as his breath caught in his throat.
This was no longer the vague pain of consciousness.
This was real.
His left shoulder throbbed sharply.
His ribs ached.
His knee burned.
His back felt as though it had been dragged across gravel.
Both arms were covered in cuts. In some places, the blood had dried into crusted scabs. In others, the wounds were still slightly damp beneath torn cloth.
He lowered his gaze.
These hands were not the hands he remembered.
Younger.
Thinner.
The fingers were long, but lacked the weight and firmness of a man past thirty.
The shoulders were narrower.
The chest lighter.
The body still carried the vitality of youth, though it was so badly injured that simply sitting upright sent darkness swimming across his vision.
Hao Nhien stared at those hands for a long time.
Then slowly clenched them.
His fingernails dug into his palm.
Pain flared.
A trace of blood welled up.
Pain.
Red.
Real.
He closed his eyes.
Only days ago—or perhaps only a few breaths ago—he had still been sitting in his rented room.
Then came the Cosmic Ark.
The Ark Spirit.
Cultivators.
The Blood Bat.
The Time Disc.
Anh Nhien being taken away.
Then the black passage.
It was still too early to draw any conclusions.
He did not know whether this was another body, another layer of existence, or simply the way the Cosmic Ark had preserved him while crossing the distance between worlds.
But one thing he knew clearly.
He was alive.
And she was not here.
The thought had barely formed before his chest tightened so painfully he almost could not breathe.
Hao Nhien lowered his head and placed a hand against the wooden surface beneath the bed.
"Anh Nhien."
Her name fell softly into the cramped cabin, hoarse and faint.
No answer came.
He closed his eyes and tried to extend his consciousness into the vessel, searching for the faint point of light he had once held before falling into darkness.
But beneath the old wood, there was only a deep stillness.
No milky-white glow.
No familiar warmth.
No sensation resembling the hand she had once rested on his shoulder after exhausting days.
Only emptiness.
Hao Nhien pressed both hands against the wood.
No.
He tried again.
This time, he slowed his breathing the way he had during those nights of meditation in his old world.
He did not search with his eyes.
Nor with frantic thought.
He simply quieted himself.
Allowed his awareness to settle against the grain of the wood.
Against the faint vibration of the hull.
Against the sound of water outside.
Still nothing.
That point of light was gone.
Or he could no longer sense it.
A coldness rose from somewhere deep inside him.
Colder than the snow in Columbus.
Hao Nhien lowered his head for a long time.
There were no tears.
This unfamiliar body hurt too much.
Was too exhausted.
Too dry.
Perhaps it had not yet learned how to cry for another soul.
But inside him, something fractured again.
Quietly.
Without screaming.
Simply another deep crack opening beneath one that had already been there.
"I'll find you."
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His voice was very soft.
He did not know who he was speaking to.
Anh Nhien.
The emptiness inside the boat.
Or whatever remained of himself.
"No matter where you are."
He raised his head, his voice roughening.
"I'll find you."
Nothing answered.
Only the water.
Hao Nhien closed his eyes for another moment, then called out.
"Old Ark?"
The cabin remained silent.
He called again.
"Old Ark."
No aged voice appeared inside his consciousness.
No white-haired old man.
No wooden staff.
No warm "Master" that had, not long ago, made him both uneasy and faintly amused.
Hao Nhien sensed only a vast, silent depth.
Like an ancient house with all its doors shut after its owner had fallen into deep sleep.
The Ark Spirit was no longer awake.
Hao Nhien remembered what the old man had said.
After this crossing, he would sleep deeply.
Hao Nhien slowly exhaled.
"I understand."
Silence answered him again.
This time, he did not call anymore.
If Anh Nhien was not here, if the Ark Spirit remained asleep, if he had awakened inside an unfamiliar body in an unfamiliar world, then the first thing he needed was to understand what had happened.
He braced both hands against the bed and forced himself upright.
Pain spread through his body until his vision dimmed for a moment.
But pain was good.
Pain reminded him that this body was still alive.
And being alive meant he could still act.
Still search.
Still answer for what had been taken from him.
He drew in a breath.
Then stopped.
The air here was different.
Not only because of the scent of wood, river water, and damp earth left by the morning mist.
There was something else in it.
Thin.
Faint.
Almost weightless.
Yet when it entered through his nose, it left a coolness deeper than ordinary air.
It was not oxygen.
Not fragrance.
Not moisture.
An unfamiliar word surfaced in his mind.
Spiritual qi.
The instant those words appeared, pain stabbed through his head.
A stream of foreign memories rushed in.
Not his.
Fragmented.
Young.
Carrying emotions that had never fully matured, belonging to a seventeen-year-old boy.
The rumble of carriage wheels over a mountain road.
A mother's hand pushing him toward the riverbank.
His father's low, urgent voice.
Firelight behind them.
Weapons clashing.
A girl crying as she pulled him through the brush.
The ground tilting.
Cold stone striking his forehead.
The river very close.
Then darkness.
Hao Nhien clutched his head.
The first thing that surfaced was the name belonging to this body.
Quan Hao Nhien.
The same name as his own.
Seventeen years old.
The only son of a physician in Dong Thanh.
The Hao Nhien of this world had been physically weak since childhood.
Poor at cultivation.
At seventeen, he was still stuck at the first layer of Qi Condensation.
His father did not blame him.
Neither did his mother.
They only wanted him to live peacefully.
To read.
To learn a little medicine.
And perhaps one day inherit their small clinic in Dong Thanh.
Then disaster struck.
The entire family fled Dong Thanh in the middle of the night.
Not moved.
Fled.
The boy had not known why.
His memories contained only confusion.
Whispered conversations among adults.
The increasingly grave expressions of his parents.
And Tieu Lan packing belongings with trembling hands.
Last night, they had been attacked.
His parents and several servants had driven the carriage in another direction to draw the attackers away.
His mother had pushed him and Tieu Lan off the carriage and ordered them to run toward the river.
Quan Hao Nhien had been too weak.
After running for some distance, he tripped, tumbled down a slope, and struck his head against a rock.
The memory ended there.
Hao Nhien opened his eyes.
The cabin was quiet.
Yet within that quiet, he could almost hear the final ragged breathing of the boy before darkness swallowed him.
The same name.
Exactly the same name.
He did not know whether it was coincidence, or another link in what the Ark Spirit had called cause and consequence.
Hao Nhien lowered his head.
"I'm sorry."
The words were barely audible.
He did not know whether the boy could still hear them.
"I don't know why it had to be you. I don't know how any of this works. But if I've awakened inside this body, I won't treat the rest of your life as something I simply picked up off the roadside."
He placed a hand over his chest.
The heart beneath the torn clothes was beating.
A seventeen-year-old heart.
Faster than his old one.
Weaker.
But vividly alive.
"If your parents are still alive, I'll find them.
"If Tieu Lan is still by my side, I'll protect her.
"Whatever you didn't have the chance to finish, I'll carry as far as I'm able."
He paused.
Then added,
"But I still have my own road to walk."
After those words, some of the heaviness inside his chest seemed to settle.
Not disappear.
Only settle.
Like mud at the bottom of a river finally ceasing to churn.
Hao Nhien slowly stood.
The moment he rose, dizziness washed through him.
He had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling.
This body truly was weak, and had just suffered blunt trauma and blood loss.
If the boat had not somehow preserved a thread of life within it, he might have awakened inside a body already waiting to die.
He took slow steps toward the cabin door.
It creaked as he pushed it open.
Dawn flooded in.
Hao Nhien narrowed his eyes.
Before him flowed a small river.
The water was clear, reflecting pale pink clouds from the early morning sky.
Reeds grew along both banks, mingled with drooping willows whose leaves brushed the surface and drifted gently with the current.
Farther away stood a small riverside town.
Moss-covered rooftops.
Low earthen walls.
Cooking smoke rising from several homes before dissolving into the thin mist.
A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance.
Someone was pulling in a fishing net.
Children ran across a strip of sand, their laughter small but bright.
The sky was very high.
So high that Hao Nhien had the strange feeling it could not possibly be the same sky that had once stretched above Columbus.
Behind the town, gray-green mountains extended into the distance.
Mist still curled along their slopes, making the farthest peaks look like torn fragments of cloud caught between earth and sky.
The scene was so peaceful it almost seemed unreal.
Fading Clouds.
The name surfaced from the boy's memories.
The Fading Clouds Continent.
A vast land where spiritual qi had been growing thinner over time.
Ancient sects had fallen into decline.
Regions that had once flourished were gradually becoming ruins.
Ordinary people could not sense the full extent of that decay.
They still planted rice.
Fished.
Wove cloth.
Cooked meals.
Married.
Had children.
Grew old.
But cultivators knew.
This world was declining.
Very slowly.
But without stopping.
Hao Nhien looked at the river before the boat.
Earth had also been called a dying world by that man.
And now he had opened his eyes on a continent literally named Fading Clouds.
A faint laugh escaped him.
There was no amusement in it.
"You certainly know how to choose a place."
Beside the hull sat a wooden water barrel, a dipper, and a small basin.
Hao Nhien walked over and looked down at his reflection.
A seventeen-year-old face looked back.
His skin was still pale from blood loss.
A wound had crusted over on his forehead.
His features were thin, not childish, but lacking vitality.
Yet the eyes reflected in the water did not belong to a seventeen-year-old.
They were deeper.
Heavier.
As though they had just returned from a place no living person should have survived.
Hao Nhien stared at his reflection for a long time.
"Quan Hao Nhien."
He spoke the name aloud.
He did not know whether he was addressing the dead boy—
or himself.
Sharing the same name only made the boundary harder to define.
Had this body possessed another name, separating the two of them might have been easier.
But now, every time someone said Hao Nhien, he could not tell what part of the name belonged to the boy who had died and what part belonged to the man who had awakened.
He scooped up water and washed his face.
The river water was cold enough to make the wound on his forehead sting sharply.
He gritted his teeth and washed the dried blood from his cheek, neck, and arms.
Red streaks spread through the basin, curling gently before fading away.
Just then, hurried footsteps sounded from the riverbank.
Then came a clear voice, strained almost to breaking.
"Young Master!"
Hao Nhien turned.
A girl was running toward the boat.
She looked about seventeen.
Slender, but not frail.
Her pale-blue clothes were stained with mud around the hem.
Her hair had been tied hastily behind her neck, several strands falling loose along her cheeks.
A small cloth bag hung from one shoulder, and she still held half a packet of medicine wrapped in leaves.
She had clearly run a long distance.
Her breathing was rapid.
Sweat dotted her forehead.
But the instant she saw Hao Nhien standing beside the boat, her eyes lit up.
It was not beauty that struck him.
It was the joy.
Too genuine.
So genuine that for a moment, Hao Nhien did not know what to say.
The girl rushed onto the boat and nearly tripped over the edge.
He instinctively reached out to steady her.
But his own body was weak, and the two of them staggered before managing to stand.
"Young Master, you're awake!"
She looked him over from head to toe.
Her eyes quickly reddened.
"I knew it… I knew you would wake up. Uncle and Aunt are such good people, and Young Master is good too. Heaven wouldn't let you die."
Uncle and Aunt.
Those words made Hao Nhien pause.
In the boy's memories, Tieu Lan had always addressed his parents that way.
She was not the biological daughter of the Quan family.
But Quan Bach and his wife had taken her in when she was very young.
Calling her a servant was not quite right.
Calling her an adopted daughter was not entirely right either.
She cared for Hao Nhien.
Learned medicine from Quan Bach.
Learned household management from his wife.
And had grown up beside him like family, though they shared no blood.
Last night, she had been the one supporting this body down to the riverbank.
The one who had dragged him onto the boat.
The one who remained beside him when the Quan Hao Nhien of Fading Clouds slipped into darkness.
Hao Nhien looked at the girl before him.
A complicated feeling rose inside him.
Gratitude.
Guilt.
Pity.
And a dull ache, because he knew the person she was so relieved to call Young Master was probably no longer exactly the person she believed him to be.
"Tieu Lan."
He called her name.
His voice was rougher than he expected.
She immediately nodded.
"I'm here. Young Master, where does it hurt? Are you still dizzy? Do you feel nauseous? I went to find the physician, but he went into the hills to gather herbs. I managed to get some medicine to stop the bleeding first. If he comes back this afternoon, I'll bring him here immediately."
She said everything in one breath while setting down the packet of herbs and reaching to examine the wound on his forehead.
The motion was practiced.
Natural.
Hao Nhien instinctively leaned away.
Little Lan's hand stopped in midair.
She blinked.
"Young Master?"
Hao Nhien immediately realized he had made her suspicious.
He lowered his gaze and slowed his voice.
"I'm fine. It's just… my head is still confused. There are many things I can't remember clearly."
Tieu Lan tensed at once.
"Can't remember? Then… do you still remember me?"
Hao Nhien looked at her.
The question hurt more than he had expected.
He possessed Quan Hao Nhien's memories.
He knew who Tieu Lan was.
He remembered her climbing a tree to pick fruit and falling, while the boy below panicked so badly that he cried even louder than she did.
He remembered the medicine she brewed being unbearably bitter, and how every time he fell ill, she stubbornly forced him to finish every drop.
He remembered her being scolded by Madam Quan for secretly giving pastries from the kitchen to a beggar child outside the gate.
He remembered.
Just not in the way she hoped.
"I remember."
He answered softly.
"You are Tieu Lan."
Tieu Lan let out a breath of relief.
Her eyes reddened again.
"Thank goodness. You scared me to death."
She lowered her head and opened the medicine packet while speaking quickly.
"Last night you fell down the slope and hit your head on a rock. There was so much blood. I kept calling you, but you wouldn't wake up."
"After that, I also…"
Tieu Lan stopped.
She looked down at her own hands for a moment.
Confusion briefly passed across her face, as though she were trying to remember something but could not grasp it.
"I'm not really sure. I think I fell too. Or…"
She shook her head lightly.
"Never mind. It's not important."
Her expression tightened as the memory continued.
"There was still fighting behind us. I was afraid those people would find us, so I helped you down to the river."
She hesitated.
Even now, remembering it seemed to frighten her.
"After that, I don't know why, but the boat started drifting on its own.
"I don't know how to row, and I didn't dare jump into the river. I just held you inside the cabin and thought that if they caught up…"
Her voice grew smaller.
"At least the current might carry us a little farther away."
Hao Nhien looked at her.
Seventeen years old.
Last night, she had lost contact with the people who raised her.
Been hunted.
Dragged a severely injured person onto a boat.
And had no idea where the river would carry them.
Yet this morning, she had still run off to find a physician.
Still thought about medicine to stop the bleeding.
Still tried to look happy simply because he had awakened.
The promise Hao Nhien had made to this body suddenly became something concrete.
Protect Tieu Lan.
Not a sentence spoken merely to ease his conscience.
the first thing he had to do in this world.
But if he wanted to protect her, he first had to make sure this place was truly safe.
The vehicle they had abandoned on the mountain was still there. And the two of them appearing beside the Thanh Van River could not have happened without leaving some trace behind. If anyone followed those traces down from the mountain, the little boat might not remain peaceful for much longer.
Hao Nhien looked toward the riverbank as it slowly disappeared into the gathering darkness.
Before he was strong enough to protect anyone, he at least needed to know where the danger might come from.