ARK SPIRIT

In the days that followed, life on the river became quieter than Hao Nhien had expected.

No pursuit.

No men in black.

No Great White Ape.

No supreme-grade spirit stone nearly tearing his meridians apart.

There was only the sound of water flowing beneath the boat, wind brushing past the wooden hull, Tieu Lan murmuring as she recorded changes in the medicinal herbs, and long afternoons when the setting sun burned red across both banks of the Thanh Van River.

During the day, Hao Nhien kept his cultivation routine steady.

In the mornings, he practiced his three strikes and three steps on the deck.

The space was not as wide as the sandy bank beside the waterfall, but that very narrowness forced him to control his strength more precisely.

A punch could not swing too wide.

A step could not stray too far.

Every movement had to be compact.

Real.

Just enough.

In the afternoons, he practiced with the Tieu Dao Sword.

Not many techniques.

Still only one straight thrust.

But each day, he tried to focus on something different.

Sometimes his breathing.

Sometimes his wrist.

Sometimes his footwork.

Sometimes the instant he called upon the Spirit Sword.

After the final pure trace of Sword Intent left behind by Tieu Dao merged with the Spirit Sword, it had clearly become more stable than before. Hao Nhien still could not call upon it freely with a single thought.

But each time he summoned it, the sense of delay lessened a little.

It was no longer so fragile that even a slight fluctuation in his mind would cause it to disperse.

Whenever it was called upon within the meridians of his right arm, the Spirit Sword resembled a pale-blue streak of light surrounded by an extremely thin layer of silver.

It had not become explosively stronger.

But it was sharper.

Calmer.

More alive.

Hao Nhien understood that this was not a transmission of cultivation.

Nor was it an increase in realm.

Only a little experience.

A little Sword Intent.

A little of Tieu Dao’s final lingering obsession, leaving his Spirit Sword less crude than before.

The rest, he would still have to train for himself.

Tieu Lan, meanwhile, became busier by the day.

Ever since a small crack had opened in the seal of the Cosmic Ark, the wood qi leaking onto the boat had truly begun nourishing the medicinal properties of her herbs. She started dividing the herbs into small groups.

For the same type of Clearheart Grass, she placed one pot near the cabin entrance, one beside the hull, and one beneath the morning sunlight.

After three days, she recorded the color of the leaves, the fragrance, the softness of the stems, and the rate at which the roots grew.

She was no longer merely “taking care of herbs.”

She was beginning to learn how to understand them.

Sometimes Hao Nhien would sit and watch her write, secretly finding it amusing.

One day, he asked,

“Don’t you ever get bored?”

Tieu Lan looked up.

“Bored of what?”

“Looking at leaves, roots, medicinal scents, and colors every day.”

Tieu Lan thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because every day they’re a little different.”

She lowered her gaze to the pot of Clearheart Grass in front of her.

“This leaf was still a little pale yesterday. Today it’s greener.”

“This root hadn’t taken hold before. Today it has grown another tiny strand.”

“If you don’t look closely, you won’t notice.”

“But once you do notice, it makes you really happy.”

After saying that, she looked slightly embarrassed.

“Do I sound strange?”

Hao Nhien looked at her.

A seventeen-year-old girl, sitting on an old boat in the middle of a river, happy because a new root had grown.

Strange?

No.

Perhaps that was exactly what he had forgotten long ago.

In his old world, people often only felt happy when they gained something bigger.

More money.

A higher position.

A farther goal.

A clearer victory.

Hadn’t he once turned to meditation precisely because he wanted to escape that constant haste?

Thinking of that, Hao Nhien suddenly remembered his old home.

When he was young, he had seen fields stretching into the distance.

He had walked along dirt roads after the rain.

He had heard his mother calling everyone in for dinner.

He had heard his father talking beneath the eaves.

Later, that world had changed too quickly.

Fields became housing blocks.

Riverbanks became concrete roads.

Woodsmoke became cold light behind closed windows.

People lived closer together. And yet somehow seemed farther apart.

He missed his parents.

He missed his younger brother.

But when he remembered that time in that world had stopped, and that at least they would not have to suffer the pain of losing him, something in his heart became a little lighter.

Tieu Lan sat beside him. Seeing him sigh, she asked softly,

“Young Master, what are you thinking about?”

Hao Nhien watched the river for a moment before answering,

“I was wondering… what life would be like if there were no fighting, no cultivation, no strong bullying the weak, and people simply lived like ordinary people.”

Tieu Lan blinked.

Hao Nhien smiled faintly.

“Work only as much as you can each day.”

“Come home in the evening to a hot meal.”

“Have someone sit with you while you eat and talk about small things.”

“Sleep when night comes.”

“Wake up again the next morning.”

“No need to constantly wonder who you’ll have to face tomorrow, or how much stronger you need to become just to stay alive.”

Tieu Lan listened carefully. After a while, she said softly,

“I think that sounds very good.”

Hao Nhien turned toward her.

Tieu Lan looked at the distant rooftops along the riverbank, her voice very gentle.

“If you didn’t always have to keep running forward…”

“If you didn’t have to fear losing.”

“If you didn’t have to fear someone stronger taking away what belongs to you…”

“Then maybe people could truly notice whether today’s meal tastes good, whether this evening’s breeze is cool, whether the person beside them is smiling.”

She lowered her head. Her hands rested on her knees. She seemed a little embarrassed by how much she had said.

“I don’t know if that counts as some grand kind of life.”

“But I think… if every day you can peacefully share a meal with the person you want to be beside…”

“Then that’s already very good.”

Hao Nhien looked at her for a long time.

She was clearly still so young.

And yet sometimes she said things that left him unsure how to answer.

He smiled softly.

“You’re right.”

“Maybe someday, if I truly have the chance to stop…”

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“I’d like to live like that too.”

Tieu Lan immediately raised her head.

“Really?”

“Mm.”

Hao Nhien looked behind them. Thanh Van Town could no longer be seen.

“If that day comes, we’ll return here.”

“We’ll anchor beside the Thanh Van River.”

“In the morning, we’ll water the medicinal herbs.”

“At noon, we’ll eat.”

“In the afternoon, we’ll sit and watch cooking smoke rise from the village.”

“No training until exhaustion.”

“No fighting.”

“No running.”

“Just living normally for a few days.”

Tieu Lan’s eyes lit up.

“Then I’ll remember that.”

Hao Nhien laughed.

“Why remember it?”

“So I can remind Young Master later.”

She spoke with complete seriousness.

“If one day Young Master forgets, I’ll remind you.”

“You promised that someday you would come back to Thanh Van Town with me and live a few completely ordinary days.”

Hao Nhien paused. He had only said it casually.

But seeing how serious she was, he suddenly could not bring himself to treat it like a joke.

“All right.”

He nodded.

“I’ll remember.”

Tieu Lan smiled.

It was a very light smile. Yet in her eyes, it seemed to hold an entire golden afternoon by the river.

After a while, she suddenly asked in a low voice,

“Then when that day comes… can I still cook for Young Master?”

Hao Nhien glanced at her.

“If you don’t cook, are you planning to let me starve?”

Tieu Lan immediately beamed.

“Then I’ll cook for you for the rest of my life.”

Hao Nhien choked slightly. He had meant to tease her.

But seeing her lower her head afterward, the tips of her ears faintly red, he could only cough.

“A lifetime is too far away.”

“For now, worry about tonight’s dinner.”

Tieu Lan looked up at him. Amusement still lingered in her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Then tonight I’ll make something Young Master likes.”

Hao Nhien said nothing more. He turned toward the river ahead.

The Cosmic Ark continued drifting slowly downstream.

Behind them, Thanh Van Town had already disappeared behind mountains, forests, and evening smoke.

Perhaps only much later would he understand that there were places people could leave very easily.

But truly returning to them could be unimaginably difficult.

And there were promises that, when spoken, were no heavier than an evening breeze.

But once someone placed them in their heart, they could become a dream that carried that person through many years to come.

One month passed on the river.

Tieu Lan still had not officially broken through to the first layer of Qi Condensation. But she had already reached the threshold.

Before, whenever Tieu Lan practiced breathing cultivation, spiritual qi was extremely difficult for her to gather.

Her meridians were weak.

Her spiritual root was not good either.

Every time she guided qi into her body, it was like water flowing over dry sand, dispersing before it could ever become a stream.

But after more than half a month since the crack in the Cosmic Ark’s seal had opened, her condition began to change slightly.

The wood qi did not make her instantly stronger. It only made her body gentler. Her breathing steadier. Her meridians less dry and rigid.

Hao Nhien also began teaching her the gentlest method of breathing cultivation.

Sometimes, when she sat beside the medicinal herbs, an extremely faint layer of qi would form around her, nearly impossible to see. The leaves beside her would stir slightly as well, as though responding to her breathing.

Hao Nhien did not rush her.

He knew that for Tieu Lan, this first step mattered far more than speed.

As for him, he was also waiting for a door of his own.

Ever since entering the fourth layer of Qi Condensation, the qi in Hao Nhien’s body had become noticeably smoother.

The cycle from his lower abdomen to his chest, through Tiantu and Yingxiang, then back again, had become much steadier.

But the fifth layer was not the same as the fourth.

The fourth was “flow.”

The fifth was “gather.”

Not gathering spiritual qi into one point to make it erupt. But making the qi within the meridians thicker.

More durable.

Strong enough to support his fists, his sword, and the use of the Spirit Sword more steadily.

Over the course of that month, Hao Nhien discovered that every time he called upon the Spirit Sword, his soul power and the spiritual qi in his right arm worked together more naturally.

At first, the Spirit Sword had felt like a foreign object placed inside his meridians.

But gradually it began to feel more like a part of him.

Each time the Spirit Sword was called upon, the meridians from his right shoulder down to his wrist would tremble faintly.

Each time he thrust with the Tieu Dao Sword, the qi through Shanzhong, Tiantu, his shoulder, and his arm would connect into a single line.

That line grew clearer by the day.

Hao Nhien vaguely understood that his fifth layer might have something to do with allowing qi to gather into a more stable path through both arms, so that fist, sword, and Spirit Sword would no longer remain completely separate.

But he did not rush.

The supreme-grade spirit stone had already taught him that lesson deeply enough.

If the door had not opened, do not strike it.

If the water had not risen, do not push.

So for an entire month, he simply accumulated.

On the twenty-ninth night after leaving Thanh Van Town, the boat anchored along a broad stretch of river. Tall reeds rose above a person’s head on both banks.

The moon was especially bright that night.

Moonlight spread across the river, turning the water into an endless ribbon of silver.

A light breeze passed. The reed fields on both sides rustled like countless people whispering very softly.

Hao Nhien did not practice the sword.

Tieu Lan did not tend the herbs either.

The two sat on the deck.

Before them was a small pot of tea and several steamed buns left from the morning.

Tieu Lan held her teacup and watched the moonlight on the water. Suddenly, she asked,

“Young Master, what do you think Thanh Van City will be like?”

“Much larger than the town.”

“I know that.”

“More people.”

“I know that too.”

“More trouble.”

Tieu Lan turned to look at him.

“Does Young Master only think about trouble?”

Hao Nhien paused.

Then laughed.

“Maybe.”

Tieu Lan looked back at the river, her voice quieter.

“I think there will probably be more books there.”

“More medicinal herbs.”

“Maybe someone will know why I still haven’t broken through.”

“Maybe there will be places selling better pots for growing herbs.”

“And maybe there’ll be a small stall where we can sell our medicinal liquid.”

Hao Nhien fell silent.

It was true. Different people could look at the same place and see completely different things.

He saw the Han family.

Danger.

Power.

Pursuit.

Sects.

Choices.

Tieu Lan saw books.

Medicinal herbs.

Planting pots.

A small stall.

It was not because she was naive and unaware of danger. It was because even in a dangerous place, she could still see the parts where life could continue. That suddenly reminded Hao Nhien of something Senior Tieu Dao had said.

Attachments were not necessarily chains.

Sometimes they were directions.

He had always thought:

He had to grow stronger to protect.

He had to find Quan Hao Nhien’s parents.

He had to save Anh Nhien.

He had to understand the Firmament.

He had to face the conspiracy behind Earth.

All of it was a burden.

But if he saw nothing except burdens, then this road would only become heavier with every step.

What if he looked at it differently?

Tieu Lan was not a burden.

She was the person who reminded him that the road still contained hot tea, medicinal herbs, meals, planting pots, and perhaps even a small stall in the city.

Quan Hao Nhien’s parents were not merely a responsibility inherited with this body. They were a thread of cause and effect that still needed an answer.

Anh Nhien was not merely pain dragging him forward. She was a promise that kept him from turning himself into cold stone.

Even the Cosmic Ark was not merely a dangerous secret. It was the boat carrying them onward.

Hao Nhien suddenly felt something inside him grow lighter.

Not because anything had been solved.

Not because the danger had disappeared.

But the things weighing on him no longer felt like separate stones.

They had begun to feel like threads.

Each thread connected him to a direction.

He was still being pulled.

But because of those threads, he knew he was not drifting without purpose.

Tieu Lan saw that he had been silent for too long and asked softly,

“Young Master, did I say something wrong?”

Hao Nhien turned to look at her.

Under the moonlight, Tieu Lan’s face looked softer than during the day.

She held the teacup in both hands, her eyes slightly worried that she had just said something foolish.

Hao Nhien shook his head.

“No.”

“Then why is Young Master looking at me like that?”

“I was thinking that you’re more impressive than I expected.”

Tieu Lan blinked.

“Me?”

“Mm.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

“You did.”

Hao Nhien looked toward the river.

“You reminded me that going somewhere far away isn’t only about walking into danger.”

“It can also mean finding new books, new medicinal herbs, better planting pots…”

“And a place to keep living.”

Tieu Lan paused.

Then lowered her head and smiled faintly.

“I just think simply.”

“There’s nothing wrong with simple.”

Hao Nhien said.

“A lot of the time, simplicity is what keeps people from getting lost.”

Tieu Lan held her teacup and looked at him for a moment.

“Then later, if Young Master thinks too much, I’ll remind you to think a little more simply.”

“All right.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

“Then I’ll remember.”

Hao Nhien laughed.

“You remember everything.”

“I remember everything Young Master says.”

She said it so naturally. So naturally that once again, Hao Nhien did not know what to say.

The river wind blew past.

The reeds rustled.

Inside the cabin, the medicinal herbs stirred gently.

That night, Hao Nhien did not immediately return to his room.

He remained seated for a long time.

Simply watching the river.

Watching the moonlight.

Listening to Tieu Lan clearing away the teacups behind him.

His heart had never been completely light.

But tonight it was no longer drawn tight like a bowstring.

Only at midnight did Hao Nhien return to the rear cabin.

Tieu Lan had already fallen asleep in the front.

On the small table, she had left a fresh bottle of Clearheart Liquid, a cup of warm water, and a small note: Young Master, don’t train too late. If it hurts, stop.

Hao Nhien looked at the note. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“She really is a steward now.”

He sat cross-legged on the wooden bed, intending to circulate his qi once before sleeping.

But as his breathing settled, he suddenly felt an unusual coolness at the point between his brows.

Within the meridians of his right arm, the pale-blue Spirit Sword responded to his intent.

He did not need to force the call as much as before.

No trembling.

No dispersing.

It rested there quietly, like a small sword already waiting inside its sheath.

Hao Nhien observed it.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Three breaths.

The Spirit Sword remained stable.

The faint silver trace left by Tieu Dao’s final Sword Intent no longer flickered in and out as before. It had merged into the sword’s form as a pale line of light.

It did not make the Spirit Sword overwhelmingly stronger.

It only made the shape clearer. The intent steadier.

Hao Nhien sensed the path of qi from Shanzhong to Tiantu, through his right shoulder, then down his arm.

That path had once been vague.

Tonight, it was as clear as a river with banks.

He still did not push.

Did not pull.

He only breathed.

Wood qi from the crack in the Cosmic Ark’s seal seeped faintly into the cabin.

Hao Nhien opened the Clearheart Liquid Tieu Lan had left behind and applied a very thin layer to his wrist, right shoulder, and the center of his chest. The cooling medicinal power sank into his skin. Met the wood qi in the cabin. Then slowly flowed into his meridians like water entering softened earth. The qi path through his right arm trembled.

No pain.

No blockage.

Only fullness.

So full that a few days earlier, Hao Nhien would probably have tried to force it immediately, using power to break through.

But tonight he did not.

He remembered what Tieu Lan had said about medicinal herbs.

You did not pull at the leaves to make a plant grow faster.

You only watered it.

Placed it where it belonged.

And let it grow.

Then what about his meridians?

His Spirit Sword?

His fifth layer?

Hao Nhien let go of the thought that he “had to break through.”

He simply allowed the qi to fill on its own. To find its own place. To follow the path that had been refined over the past month.

Time passed slowly. He did not know how long it had been before the meridians from his right shoulder down to his wrist suddenly trembled very faintly.

Then his left shoulder.

Then Shanzhong.

Then Tiantu.

The four points responded at once, like the four corners of a small frame.

The qi no longer simply passed through. It began to gather into a path.

A path through the body.

A path through intent.

The pale-blue Spirit Sword trembled gently. There was no real sound. But within Hao Nhien’s consciousness, he heard something very faint.

Clink.

Like a sword tip lightly touching its sheath.

At that exact moment, the qi within his meridians suddenly thickened. Like a stream after many days of light rain, finally filling its banks and naturally spilling over the lowest point.

Hao Nhien inhaled.

The breath was longer than usual.

Shanzhong expanded.

Tiantu flowed freely.

Qi passed from his chest through his shoulders and down both arms, then returned to his lower abdomen, forming a new cycle steadier than before.

The fifth layer of Qi Condensation.

The door opened very softly.

So softly that if Hao Nhien had not always observed every change within his body, he might not even have noticed the exact moment it happened.

He remained seated.

He did not open his eyes immediately.

After stepping through the door, the important thing was not excitement. It was stability.

He guided the new current of qi through cycle after cycle.

The Spirit Sword within the meridians of his right arm was quieter than before.

Each time qi passed through, the sword form brightened faintly.

Hao Nhien could feel that from now on, calling upon the Spirit Sword would become far more stable.

More importantly, the meridians in both arms could now withstand a denser flow of qi.

Fist.

Sword.

Spirit Sword.

Three things that had once been separate now began to reveal a faint connection.

Near dawn, Hao Nhien finally opened his eyes. The oil lamp in the cabin had gone out long ago.

Outside the window, the sky was still dark. But a faint line of light had appeared in the east.

He looked at his right hand.

Closed it.

Opened it.

There was no heaven-shaking power.

But it felt fuller.

Firmer.

More real.

Hao Nhien smiled very slightly.

“Fifth layer.”

He slowly closed his right hand again.

Then tried calling upon the Spirit Sword.

The moment his intent moved, the pale-blue sword within the meridians of his right arm responded faster than before. It still had not reached the point where he could use it freely with a single thought. But he no longer felt as though he had to drag a fragile thread out of darkness.

The Spirit Sword rested there.

Quiet.

Sharper.

More stable.

Like a small sword that already knew where it belonged.

Hao Nhien opened his eyes.

The world inside the cabin suddenly seemed clearer.

Not because his eyesight had improved. But because his awareness of his surroundings had become more refined.

The sound of water striking the hull.

The faint brushing of medicinal leaves against one another.

The steady rhythm of Tieu Lan’s breathing in the front cabin.

The wind slipping through the crack in the wooden door.

Everything seemed a little closer.

He gently closed his eyes again.

His spiritual sense spread outward.

Very thin.

Very immature.

It could not be called the true divine sense of a high-level cultivator.

Much less sweep across a wide area. But compared to before, he could now perceive a very small region around the boat in a different way.

Not merely hearing.

Not merely seeing.

But knowing.

He knew the current beneath the boat had slowed.

He knew a small fish had just passed near the riverbed.

He knew the medicinal herbs in the front cabin were releasing faint traces of wood qi.

And then Hao Nhien suddenly opened his eyes.

Behind them.

Not far away.

Beyond the reeds on the right bank.

There were breaths.

Not one.

Several.

Very faint.

Deliberately suppressed.

Before this breakthrough, perhaps he would have missed them.

The water.

The reeds.

The night wind.

All of it would have been enough to hide those breaths.

But now, with his spiritual sense expanded even slightly, they were like a few small stones beneath clear water.

Their shapes were indistinct.

But they were there.

Hao Nhien did not move.

He only sat in silence.

And waited.