Chapter 67: A Soul State Called "Trumpet"

Someone once vividly described a person’s knowledge as a circle encompassing all that they know, while beyond that circle lies an infinitely vast realm of the unknown. The more one learns, the larger their circle grows, but so too does the expanse of the unknown they encounter, making them feel ever more ignorant.

I find this metaphor profoundly true. It is especially evident whenever we acquire new knowledge—not with satisfaction, but with astonishment, prompting us to murmur to ourselves, “So such things actually exist!”

And now, I find myself saying to myself in amazement: “So such things actually exist!”

For the first time, I have learned that in this world there exists something called a “small account.”

A “small account,” also known as a “sub-account,” is not a tangible entity but rather a peculiar state of the soul. To understand this strange spiritual state, one must first grasp the very principle behind “space travelers” who traverse temporal and spatial dimensions.

For these space travelers, moving across planes of existence occurs solely in a state of consciousness—that is, a state of the soul. They cannot physically carry their bodies from one plane to another and arrive directly on the continent of Falvi. Before manifesting on the continent, they must first create a body to serve as a vessel for their soul—a process they call “character creation.” They then walk the land in the form of that body.

Though this sounds complex, to these magnificent beings who freely traverse time and space, it is but a trivial task. They are not limited to creating a single character but can create two. When a space traveler chooses to descend onto Falvi in a lower-level body, we say their soul is in a “small account” state; when they choose a higher-level body, their soul is in a “main account” state.

In other words, the concepts of “small account” and “main account” are not fixed. When a small account surpasses the level of the main account, it automatically upgrades to a main account, though some still habitually refer to it as a small account. Thus, there are odd cases where a person’s small account is actually more powerful than their main account.

Even more incredible is that a soul faces no constraints regarding the type of character it creates. One can be a soldier of the Continental Alliance in their main account while simultaneously a mage of the Apocalypse Empire in their small account. The only limitations are trivial loyalties or curiosities. We tend to think that one’s gender determines their soul, and vice versa, but these space travelers can freely create a male character as a main account and a female character as a small account without any restriction.

All of this is utterly bewildering. I am neither a soul wanderer, a traverser of planes, a master of the secrets of time and space, nor a shapeshifter who can switch genders at will. To grasp all this is truly daunting. My only immature insight is that when the Long Triangle asked me whether I was a main or small account, I hesitated but eventually told him I was a main account—and firmly declared that, as far as I knew, I had no small account.

And the dwarf woman before us is the small account of the scholarly bard known as “Descending B Minor Nocturne.” What puzzles me even more is this: when I learned that he could have chosen tall races like humans, elves, half-orcs, or minotaurs, why did he create only a scholar or a dwarf?

The only conclusion I can draw is that this fellow, who has an extraordinary appreciation for music, seems to have an equally obsessive preference for his own height.

“What are you doing here?” Long Triangle asked the level-one dwarf priest, “Warehouse Crazy”—or rather, let us call her by the name displayed above her head—curiously.

“I’m recruiting new members,” Warehouse Crazy smiled at us. Her voice was solid and sincere, pure dwarf female tone. Although it still bore some resemblance to that of Descending Nocturne, without knowing they were the same person, I certainly would not have recognized it. Long Triangle explained to me that this was thanks to a magical device called a “voice-changing plugin”—though I could not tell where exactly on the body it was worn.

“Where are your new recruits?” I asked.

Warehouse Crazy first patted her chest and then spread her arms in a boastful gesture. “It’s me!”

Before I fully realized what she meant, Long Triangle clenched his teeth and angrily said, “You damn shapeshifter, trying this trick again.”

It dawned on me after a moment that Descending B Minor Nocturne intended to rejoin our new guild under the identity of Warehouse Crazy. Though they shared one soul, to our guild they appeared as two distinct individuals. With this, he effortlessly completed the recruitment task.

This was truly an ingenious yet somewhat unscrupulous idea!

However, this approach was not without its problems. Warehouse Crazy still faced a significant challenge—that was why she sought us out.

“You have to escort me to the Holy City of Fresheit!” the scholarly bard, now in the form of the dwarf priest, pleaded.

It turned out that to establish a guild, one must find the guild application office in the Holy City of Fresheit. The office charges a fee, verifies guild assets, and approves the stone of belief. Then it posts a notice at the entrance announcing the guild’s formation and solicits signatures from potential members. If over twenty signatures are collected within a day, the guild is officially founded. If not, the application fails and part of the fee is forfeited.

Though Fresheit was not very far and the journey not perilous for us, one needed to be at least level thirty to travel safely. For Warehouse Crazy, a level-one dwarf, the three-level wildcats and six-level wolves along the way were deadly threats, not to mention the twenty-plus-level grizzly bears and venomous scorpions. Only someone like the legendary Ox Million once had the skill to roam hundreds of miles nakedly at level one, nearly crossing the entire continent of Falvi.

Therefore, if Warehouse Crazy hoped to successfully sign her name on the notice board, we had to escort her to Fresheit.

Long Triangle agreed to this request readily, and in exchange, the dwarf priest promised to guide Long Triangle’s small account safely to Fresheit. Although I knew I lacked the physiological conditions to create a small account, I decided to accompany them on this journey. After all, with Long Triangle’s poor performance, our guild had already earned a notorious reputation in Reed City before even forming. I had lost all hope of recruiting new members here and thought it better to try our luck elsewhere.

As I expected, for two experienced adventurers nearing level fifty, this journey was easy—at most a small countryside excursion. Along the way, we encountered no significant obstacles or troubles. Though there were many beasts, bandits, and minions of the Apocalypse Empire harassing us, under Long Triangle’s and my protection, Warehouse Crazy faced no real danger. Instead, through a series of battles that could almost be called “bullying the weak,” she gained a large amount of soul energy, leveling up four or five times. At this pace, by the time we reached Fresheit, she would likely have become a well-experienced adventurer of over a dozen levels.

I recalled that when we left Reed City, the sun had just reached the zenith, the very noon hour. Now, as we sat side by side on Oakleaf Peak on the western side of the Oney Mountains, enjoying a sumptuous meal, the sky had completed a cycle from light to dark and back to dawn’s brightness. The newborn sun rose crimson behind us, casting our shadows forward.

True to its name, Oakleaf Peak was a mountain covered with numerous large oak trees. The peak itself was not very tall; I would call it a somewhat elevated hill rather than a mountain.

The terrain was not particularly treacherous. The narrow mountain path was hidden in the shadows of the oaks, easy to lose sight of if one was careless. But for travelers, this was no cause for concern—in this sparse woodland, as long as one’s direction remained unchanged, the lost path would eventually be found again.

Just as we finished our meal, restored our strength, and packed up to begin the final leg of our journey, Long Triangle suddenly stopped and quietly pointed ahead, lowering his voice to warn us:

“Look!”

Following his finger, two figures flickered in and out between the trees, moving one after the other, gradually distancing themselves. The trees obscured their names and appearances, so I could not make out the details clearly, yet my heart tightened involuntarily.

Though their names were indistinct, even at this distance a fleeting glance revealed their colors unmistakably: one name shimmering red, the other green. Most worrisome was that the red name remained about ten paces behind the green, trailing steadily.

Any rational person would draw only one conclusion: an adventurer of the Continental Alliance was being stalked by our mortal enemy, an invader from the Withered Lands, without realizing it. At any moment, this oblivious traveler might suffer a lethal blow from behind.

Fortunately, we noticed this danger in time. Watching the evil red name slowly closing in, a surge of justice and honor coursed through my veins, igniting within me an unstoppable fire. My bones and muscles filled with the strength of battle, spurred by a single decision.

I would save that nameless compatriot!

Almost without thought, this resolve crystallized clearly in my mind. I could not remain indifferent to an impending murder—especially one to be committed by a brutal invader, the very source of chaos and disaster across this continent.

Of course, we outnumbered them, giving us a clear advantage in combat. This was another key reason I did not hesitate to act on this righteous impulse.

In my companions’ eyes, I saw the same fiery enthusiasm for battle. If I worried for the victim’s safety, these two seemed eager to savor the thrill of killing. Perhaps it was coincidence, but most people I knew were rather brutal, passionate about the act of taking life.

And frankly, they were cowards when facing the strong—if Warehouse Crazy, the dwarf priest barely level ten, faced this alone, she would likely flee at the first sign of danger, counting her luck if she escaped detection, let alone attempt to save another.

It was understandable. Not everyone possessed both a sense of justice to help the helpless and the courage to confront formidable foes. Even if I were alone here…

Well… I probably would have chosen to run away too.

Hey, don’t look at me with such disdain. Knowing when to avoid danger and preserve oneself is a great wisdom, not mere cowardice.

In any case, with absolute advantage, there was no need to display foresight or prudence now. The three of us exchanged knowing nods and quickened our pace, pursuing the pair ahead.

In truth, the two ahead were not slow. It would have been difficult to catch them quickly, but they stubbornly followed the winding mountain path, taking many detours, while we cut straight through the woods toward them. Soon, we quietly closed in behind them. Afraid of alerting the Withered Lands’ enemy too soon, we kept a respectful distance. He seemed focused entirely on his prey ahead, unaware that he had become the hunted.

Thus, among us formed a scene rich in philosophical meaning, which space travelers call: “The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind.”

At last, I made out their names.

Leading was a human swordsman, a familiar figure named “Fo Xiao.” We had met briefly during the merging wars. Though not an exceptional fighter in technique, he possessed keen observation and decisiveness vital in large-scale battles. Without his timely on-site command, we might not have held out so long.

Trailing him was a male dark elf assassin. Dark elves often excel as shadowy killers due to their agility and natural stealth. This one, named “Red Wolf,” moved with the silence and swiftness of a wildcat. Though he followed closely behind Fo Xiao, the latter never glanced back, unaware of his presence.

The forest beside us gradually gave way, the narrow winding mountain path straightening and widening. The dirt trail transformed into a paved road of bluestone slabs. Ahead, shadows no longer concealed the warm sunlight streaming through, and a bright glow gathered at the forest’s edge. The Holy City of Fresheit emerged, its tall, pristine silhouette like a castle among the clouds, bathed in divine radiance.

At this moment, Red Wolf likely realized that once beyond the forest, his movements could no longer be concealed, and that he risked missing his final chance for a stealthy strike. Unable to restrain himself, he suddenly quickened his pace, closing in on the human swordsman.

Unaware, the careless assassin did not know that the moment he chose to strike was when our attack erupted with unstoppable force!