The longer Hao Nhien sat in silence, the more fragments of the young Quan Hao Nhien's memories slowly surfaced.
They were incomplete and fragmented. Some were vivid; others were little more than blurred impressions, like pages of a book soaked through until the words had run together.
But taken as a whole, they were enough for him to understand several important things.
This body had once been taught the Quan family's cultivation art by his father.
There was no secret manual hidden inside a chest, nor a scripture that could simply be opened and studied at will. In the young man's memories, the inheritance existed in mornings spent behind the family clinic in Dong Thanh.
Quan Bach would stand in the courtyard, slowly explaining each oral formula, each breathing method, each fist form.
The young Quan Hao Nhien would stand opposite him and follow along.
But he rarely lasted long before his breathing fell into disorder, his chest began to ache, and the color drained from his face.
The art was called the Body-Soul Fist Art.
At least, that was the name Quan Bach had always used when teaching it.
According to him, the Quan family had once been far from insignificant on the Fading Clouds Continent. In those days, the Body-Soul Fist Art had been one of the foundations that allowed the clan to stand firm.
But over time, the family had suffered repeated upheavals and split into many branches. Its inheritance gradually became fragmented, and fewer people remained who could understand its true essence.
By Quan Bach's generation, what remained was already incomplete.
Quan Bach himself had cultivated for many years, yet had only reached the fifth layer of Qi Condensation. In Dong Thanh, that was enough for him to run a clinic and protect his family from ordinary trouble.
But against a truly powerful cultivator or a major faction, it amounted to very little.
By Quan Hao Nhien's generation, things were even worse.
Seventeen years old.
Still lingering at the first layer of Qi Condensation.
It was not for lack of effort.
He had stood beneath the morning sun and repeated fist forms until his hands trembled. He had practiced the breathing method exactly as his father taught him.
But his body had always been too weak.
His meridians were sluggish. The moment he managed to guide even a trace of qi, his breathing would fall apart. Whenever he forced himself harder, his chest tightened, his head throbbed, and his hands and feet turned cold.
Over time, cultivation became something he feared rather than anticipated.
The more afraid he became, the harder it was to settle his mind. The less settled his mind was, the harder it became to gather qi.
And each failure only strengthened his belief that he was simply unsuited to cultivation.
The circle closed around him.
Three days passed.
Hao Nhien's injuries had recovered somewhat. The wounds on his skin were no longer bleeding, the dizziness had eased, and only a few bruises remained, along with a heaviness in his chest whenever he moved too forcefully.
During those three days, he did nothing reckless.
He focused on recovering while slowly fitting the memories of this body together with what little he already understood about cultivation worlds.
Hao Nhien knew it would be dangerous to rely too heavily on the xianxia novels he had once read.
Stories were stories.
This world was real.
What he remembered from fiction could serve as a frame of reference, nothing more. It could never be treated as law.
Still, there was one principle that was unlikely to be wrong.
In a world where individual strength could decide life and death, the weak could not entrust their safety to the goodwill of others.
And right now, he had almost nothing.
A weak body.
A few fragmented memories of a family cultivation art.
Tieu Lan.
And the old boat temporarily sheltering the two of them.
There was still no news of the Quan family's parents.
Every day, Tieu Lan went into Thanh Van Town to ask around, but no one had seen a carriage arrive from the east, and no one had heard of fighting on the mountain road.
Hao Nhien knew she was disappointed.
Even though every time she returned, she tried to act as though nothing was wrong.
Fortunately, Tieu Lan adapted more quickly than he had expected.
Within only three days, she had already become familiar with several people in town. She knew which household sold rice more cheaply, which herb seller asked fewer questions, which stretch of riverbank had the cleanest water, and which path toward the foot of Thanh Van Mountain saw the least traffic.
During the day, she bought supplies, asked for information, and searched for medicinal herbs.
At night, she lit the stove, prepared medicine, and cooked their meals, doing her best to make the old boat feel like somewhere they could temporarily call home.
But the sadness had never left her.
Sometimes, while washing rice, her hands would suddenly stop for a long while.
Sometimes, the sound of distant hooves from the dirt road across the river would make her look up at once, only for her to quietly lower her head again when she realized it was not the person she was waiting for.
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She never spoke about it.
Perhaps she simply did not want her sorrow to make the boat feel any heavier than it already did.
On the afternoon of the third day, when the sun had begun to sink behind the Thanh Van Mountains, Tieu Lan returned.
A small gathering basket was strapped to her back. Mud stained the hem of her clothes, her sleeves had been rolled up, and a thin layer of sweat still glistened across her forehead.
The moment she climbed aboard, she walked straight toward Hao Nhien, who was standing on the deck watching the river.
"Young Master, I found all the herbs."
Her voice sounded a little brighter than it had over the past few days.
"You can soak in the medicine tonight. Your injuries should heal much faster."
She set the basket down.
Inside were several bundles of herbs tied separately with grass cord.
Dark-green leaves.
Thin red vines.
Brown roots still covered in damp earth.
Tieu Lan took them out one bundle at a time and sorted them with quick, practiced movements.
She clearly did not merely recognize their names.
She actually knew which ones stopped bleeding, which reduced bruising, which needed to be crushed for their juices, and which had to be boiled longer.
Hao Nhien watched for a moment, then let out a faint sigh.
"You really are much better at this than I am."
Tieu Lan looked up.
"What are you talking about, Young Master?"
"I barely remember any of Father's medicine. I couldn't make much progress with the cultivation art either. Yet you remember all of this."
He glanced at the bundles spread across the table and added, half serious and half joking,
"It's a little embarrassing."
Tieu Lan immediately shook her head.
"Don't say that. You just never liked medicine. Uncle always said everyone has different strengths. I remember herbs, but Young Master will definitely have more important things to do one day."
She said it with complete seriousness.
Not like reassurance.
Like something she genuinely believed.
Hao Nhien was quiet for a moment.
"You trust me that much?"
Tieu Lan's hands stopped.
Then she nodded.
"I do."
Only two words.
No reason.
No explanation.
And because there was no explanation, something inside Hao Nhien sank slightly.
In his old world, someone had once said the same thing to him.
I believe in you.
A dull ache surfaced in his chest.
Hao Nhien looked away from Tieu Lan and toward the river, hiding the emotion in his eyes.
She did not notice.
She had already lowered her head and begun grinding the herbs.
"The prescription is complete. I'll crush these, squeeze out the medicinal liquid, and you can pour it into warm water later. Soak in it for about two hours. The medicinal energy should seep into your flesh and help the wounds heal faster."
"Do you need help?"
"No."
Tieu Lan answered immediately.
"I'm used to this."
She worked the pestle with steady, practiced movements.
When she concentrated, she looked completely different from the flustered girl who worried over him.
At that moment, she resembled a young apothecary who knew exactly what she was doing, and knew that what she held in her hands could lessen another person's pain.
Hao Nhien watched for a while before leaving her to work.
Not long afterward, Tieu Lan brought over a bowl filled with thick green-brown medicinal liquid.
"Young Master, it's ready."
Hao Nhien accepted it.
"Thank you."
Tieu Lan paused slightly.
Perhaps she still was not used to hearing him thank her so seriously.
But she only pressed her lips into a small smile before turning away to prepare the bath.
Hao Nhien entered the small bathing compartment.
Naturally, he still refused to let Tieu Lan help him.
After several days, she seemed to have accepted that the Young Master who had awakened possessed certain things he was stubborn about, one of them being his insistence on doing whatever he was still capable of doing himself.
Hao Nhien slowly lowered himself into the warm water and poured in the medicinal liquid.
The water immediately turned a pale greenish brown.
Steam rose around him, carrying the scent of herbs.
At first, there was only warmth.
Then the wounds across his skin began to sting, as though countless tiny needles were touching their edges.
After several breaths, the stinging turned numb.
Then gradually softened.
A very faint force seemed to seep from the medicinal water into his flesh.
Wherever it passed, the pain eased slightly.
Hao Nhien closed his eyes.
The herbs of this world were clearly different from anything he had known before.
They did more than simply warm the body.
Beneath the heat, sting, and numbness, something seemed to be genuinely interacting with the vitality within his flesh and blood.
Very faint.
Very slow.
But real.
He did not rush to analyze it.
He simply observed.
Heat.
Stinging.
Numbness.
Warmth.
Each sensation arose, changed, and faded in turn.
That kind of observation was not unfamiliar to him.
Three years earlier, he had sat in meditation and watched the cold in his toes, the pain in his back, the faint vibration in his forehead, and thoughts appearing and disappearing without end.
The difference was that now, beneath the sensations of the body, something else seemed to be responding to the medicinal energy.
Spiritual qi.
So faint that it was almost impossible to grasp.
But it was there.
About two hours later, Hao Nhien stepped out.
His body felt noticeably lighter.
The injuries on his skin had not healed completely, but the dry burning sensation was gone. His left shoulder moved more easily, and the heaviness in his chest had lessened.
For a body that had recently suffered trauma and blood loss, the effect exceeded his expectations.
Tieu Lan was already waiting beside the table.
The moment she saw him, she stood.
"Young Master, you look much better."
"Mm. The medicine worked very well."
Tieu Lan visibly relaxed.
She quickly pushed a small bowl of braised meat toward him.
"Try this. I bought it today from Uncle That after he came back from hunting. The meat is still very fresh."
Hao Nhien sat down and picked up a piece.
The meat was tender, seasoned just enough, with a faint herbal fragrance he did not recognize.
It was nothing elaborate.
But after several days of thin porridge and bitter medicine, the warmth it brought to his stomach felt almost strange.
He nodded.
"This is really good."
Tieu Lan immediately smiled.
"Really?"
"Really. Tieu Lan's cooking is number one."
A faint blush rose to her cheeks.
"Young Master is teasing me again."
"I'm not."
Hao Nhien glanced at her bowl and noticed how little meat she had taken for herself.
He picked up two pieces and placed them in her bowl.
"You should eat too. Otherwise, it really will be so good that I finish everything myself."
Tieu Lan stared at him for a moment.
Then lowered her head.
"Yes."
Soft laughter drifted across the old boat.
It was not enough to erase their worry for Quan Bach and his wife.
Not enough for Hao Nhien to forget Anh Nhien, Earth, or everything still waiting for him somewhere impossibly far away.
But for that brief moment, while the Thanh Van River continued flowing tirelessly around them, a warm meal and Tieu Lan's smile made the old boat feel a little less cold.
Hao Nhien suddenly understood that sometimes people did not keep living because of great vows.
Sometimes all it took was a warm bowl of rice, medicine arriving when it was needed, and someone who still tried to smile so that you would not sink beneath the weight of everything.
Night fell.
After Tieu Lan finished clearing the dishes and went to rest in the small compartment at the front of the boat, silence returned.
Hao Nhien sat on the wooden bed inside his cabin.
The oil lamp on the table burned low, its pale golden light shifting across the old wooden walls.
Outside, the river continued to lap against the hull, sometimes near, sometimes distant, like another rhythm of breathing within the night.
He did not lie down.
After several days of thinking, Hao Nhien had come to understand one thing clearly.
In this world, the road ahead could not be separated from cultivation.
Without cultivation, he could not protect Tieu Lan.
He could not find Quan Bach and his wife.
And he certainly had no way to reach Anh Nhien.
But understanding that was one thing.
Having the means to act on it was another.
Right now, he had no sect.
No master.
No pills.
Not even a complete secret art capable of immediately changing his situation.
The only thing truly in his possession was a fragmented memory of the family cultivation method Quan Bach had once passed down orally to the young Quan Hao Nhien.
The Body-Soul Fist Art.
Hao Nhien sat beneath the dim oil lamp and allowed those memories to settle.
For a boy who had been weak since childhood, whose own body dragged him backward every time he tried to advance, it would have been difficult not to lose heart.
And the Quan Hao Nhien of Fading Clouds had only been seventeen.
He had never truly seen the vast world beyond Dong Thanh.
But now, Hao Nhien was the one who had to continue living in this body.
He could be weak.
He could be slow.
He could lack countless things.
But he could not allow himself to remain trapped inside the same circle.
Hao Nhien placed both hands on his knees.
His back was straight, but not rigid.
His shoulders relaxed.
His eyes half closed.
The posture felt strangely familiar.
It was the same posture in which he had spent thousands of hours meditating in his old world.
And it was also the posture Quan Bach had once made the young man hold before guiding qi.
Two entirely different paths.
Yet their starting point was uncannily similar.
Hao Nhien inhaled.
The night air above the river was cool and clear.
Beneath the surface of this weak body, something very small, very faint—
seemed to be waiting for him to reach it.