Suppose the conjecture known as the "final anthropic principle" were true: once consciousness was born, it became immortal. Among countless parallel universes, every living being would inevitably have one consciousness that lived forever, witnessing the heat death of the universe.
Everyone was the absolute protagonist of their own universe, able only to keep witnessing the deaths of others.
Then, in theory, if transmigration truly existed, everyone actually had a chance of becoming a transmigrator. Factoring in the countless possibilities across countless parallel universes, everyone was, in fact, one hundred percent certain to be a transmigrator-only it might be a version of themselves in some parallel universe who transmigrated.
So, whoever it happened to, transmigration was perfectly reasonable.
He had not communicated with any living being, in any form, for more than a hundred billion years.
Name, gender, race-all such things had lost their meaning to him. He was like an eternally silent observer.
He had lived through the rise and fall of human civilization, witnessed the sun burn itself out and become a white dwarf, and watched black holes evaporate into the most magnificent fireworks in the universe.
At last, the universe entered a state of heat death.
In the darkness, vast quantities of memories suddenly burst from his consciousness. He was saving himself.
If he remained in this universe, his thoughts would inevitably fall into eternal silence one day. Nothing would ever happen in this universe again, and his thoughts would be filled with endless emptiness until they finally became a meaningless existence.
So he had to leave this universe and travel to an unknown world. The price was merely discarding vast quantities of redundant memories, using them as fuel to open a doorway to that unknown world.
Countless memories were torn apart by his thoughts, forming a terrifying storm of consciousness. Eighty billion years of memories contained an enormous volume of data. That data was finally detonated, and his consciousness twisted in the explosion before vanishing from this universe altogether.
Yet the storm of memories he released upset the balance of the universe, setting it on a new cycle once again.
On the known maps, Bolan World resembled a painted scroll with no end in either direction. Most of the scroll was filled with seawater, with only countless scattered islands dotted throughout its oceans.
The Seven Seas lay in the central region of the known maps, where seven enormous islands divided the waters into seven oceans-hence the name.
On the Pras Sea, one of the Seven Seas, a sailing ship built of blackwood was being towed by a larger sailing ship with iron chains. A group of ragged but ugly, vicious-looking men knelt on the blackwood ship's deck. Dozens of soldiers guarded them with blades in hand, not daring to let down their guard for an instant.
This blackwood sailing ship was the infamous Black Knife, which had terrorized the Seven Seas for twenty years. Its owner was Hawkins, leader of the Blackblade Pirates, known as the "Son of Pirates."
At present, only ordinary pirates remained aboard the Black Knife. The captain, first mate, second mate, and boatswain had all been taken aboard the Vidalya Glory and imprisoned.
Recently, however, the Blackblade Pirates had attacked and plundered three coastal settlements on Vitalia Island in succession, thoroughly enraging Jabus, the island's ruler.
Jabus dispatched the Vidalya Glory, his newest warship, built in secret, to hunt down the Black Knife. The two ships battled across the Pras Sea for over half a month. In the end, the Black Knife was defeated after exhausting its food and water, and its entire crew was captured by Vidalia's marines.
In the lowest level of the Vidalya Glory, a pair of eyes opened in the darkness.
"A prison? What a clichéd opening."
"What a weak body. If I overclock my thoughts for too long, I'll probably burn out my brain. Looks like I'll have to come up with something if I want to leave."
"Hawkins, leader and captain of the Blackblade Pirates. Twenty-five years old. Inherited his father's trade. The Seven Seas, the Mist Sea, the Endless Black Sea. A strange world, a strange worldview. Interesting."
Inside the cell, Hawkins was no longer the original Hawkins. The instant "his" consciousness crossed dimensions and descended, the consciousness of this pirate, whose crimes filled the heavens, was annihilated. Someone else took over his body with ease.
Of course, since "he" could not remember his own name, he simply borrowed this one wholesale, temporarily calling himself Hawkins as well.
Hawkins stood up. The two marines guarding his cell immediately turned around and stared at him warily.
"Relax. I've just been sitting too long. My legs went numb."
Hawkins smiled, then sat back down. Addressing one of the marines, whose face was pockmarked, he said, "Marine, it's a long journey home. Why don't we chat?"
"We have nothing to talk about. You killed my father!" The marine glared at Hawkins with hatred, his tone resolute.
Hawkins shrugged and said helplessly, "That truly is sad news. Was your father a marine too? How much compensation did you receive for his death in battle?"
According to the original owner's memories, sons in this world inherited their fathers' trades. Whatever occupation a father had, his son generally followed it, generation after generation.
Hawkins nodded and smiled. "That was his destined fate. Nothing to do with me, of course."
"You really are scum. Trash. I can't wait to see the day you're hanged," the marine said furiously.
Hawkins extended a hand and wagged his index finger, disagreeing. "Although Hawkins did plenty of bad things, blaming him alone isn't really fair to him.
"In fact, after his father, Huo Blackblade, died in battle, Hawkins considered giving up piracy.
"He specifically investigated the things he could do-work as a guard, a marine, a blacksmith, and so on. He discovered that a lifetime's earnings in those professions amounted to less than what he earned from a month of plundering. Yet his earnings from a month of plundering amounted to less than what island rulers and nobles earned in a week. So, in the end, he chose to remain a pirate.
"You can't blame him entirely for that. If anyone deserves the blame, it's the nobles who control the resources. They were the ones who made Hawkins determined to keep playing the role of a pirate."
"You're just twisting words!" the other marine said coldly.
Hawkins looked at him and smiled as he laid out his reasoning. "A boy who hates evil as though it were his mortal enemy. If I heard correctly earlier, your name is Tom, right? Your monthly salary should be twenty silver coins. Inflation isn't particularly high in this world, but that salary is probably only enough to cover your everyday expenses. If you want savings, you have to keep going to sea to fight. Every battle carries enormous risks, and if you die in action, your family receives only one gold coin in compensation.
"One gold coin equals a hundred silver coins, and a hundred silver coins is merely five months of your wages. Do you think that's a fair bargain?"
"It's not one gold coin anymore. It's only ninety silver coins," the pockmarked marine whose father had died said in a low voice.
Hawkins sighed. "Ninety silver coins for a life. What a cheap commodity. And another thing... you think I've killed a lot of people? The nobles are the ones who truly kill without drawing blood. Take the Golden-Scaled Fish caviar they love eating. Golden-Scaled Fish can only be caught near Blackwood Island, and Blackwood Island is very close to the Black Sea. Dozens of fishermen die every year catching Golden-Scaled Fish, and they don't even get compensation. Think about how many people have perished at sea over hundreds of years just to satisfy the nobles' appetites. Compared with that, do you still think I've killed so many?"
Both marines fell silent. The residents of Vitalia Island had lived under noble rule for generations. Under the immense inertia of that ingrained thinking, they had never felt there was anything unreasonable about it.
But now, hearing Hawkins's analysis, they too sensed the tremendous injustice.
"Why don't we make a deal? I'll give you ten gold coins each, and you help me get out of here. That's the price of ten of your lives. Don't rush to refuse. Think it over carefully before answering." At last, Hawkins revealed the dagger hidden at the end of the unrolled map-his true intent-and smiled at the two men.
The pockmarked marine looked at his companion, and the two exchanged glances.
Without Hawkins's earlier speech, they would certainly have refused with righteous indignation. But after hearing it, they were now tempted.
Marines on Vitalia Island received only twenty silver coins in wages if they did not go to sea to fight.
If they went to sea to fight that month, they received an additional reward of ten silver coins for each engagement, while the families of those killed in battle received one gold coin in compensation.
Although their pitiful arithmetic skills could not calculate how many years of work it would take to earn ten gold coins, they knew it was a great deal of money-a sum large enough to buy a life.
The question was, could Hawkins be trusted?