Re:Zero - Starting Life in Another World as a Skeleton

Chapter 246: The Opening Gambit

Pete Griffin stood at the threshold of the Iron Fortress Central Plaza,

clutching the wooden tag for Sector C, Number 217. The edges of the pine scrap

were already damp, darkened by the nervous sweat of his palms.

The plaza was a sprawling ocean of souls, a stark contrast to the tournaments he

had inhabited in his youth.

Twenty years ago, the Grand Chess Championship of the old Imperial Capital had

been held within the gilded confines of the Royal Banquet Hall. Every player had

their own private booth, draped in velvet curtains and illuminated by crystal

chandeliers. Silent, white-gloved valets would serve exquisite tea and pastries.

The audience was restricted to the nobility—men and women in silk gowns who

sipped aged wine and offered only the most refined, polite applause for a

brilliant maneuver.

It was a game of the elite. Quiet. Decent. Noble.

And now?

Pete looked out over the plaza and felt as though he had stumbled into a

riotous, parallel dimension.

The Central Plaza had been violently reorganized into a massive, open-air arena.

Dust and white lime powder marked the boundaries for Sectors A, B, C, and D.

Within each sector, hundreds of stone gaming tables were crammed together in

tight, clinical rows. There were no booths. No velvet. No privacy. Every player

sat exposed to the glare of the autumn sun and the scrutiny of the masses.

Surrounding the arena, tiered wooden grandstands had been erected, soaring

toward the rooftops. They were packed to capacity with a demographic that would

have made an old-world King faint. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, and the Undead

sat shoulder-to-shoulder, their collective roar reaching a deafening crescendo.

"Old Tom! Who's your coin on?!"

"The bald Dwarf in Sector C! I heard he dismantled thirty people in the park

without losing a single Pawn!"

"Nonsense! The Elf in Sector B has the 'Master's Aura'! Look at that

posture—he's clearly an elite!"

"Aura doesn't put bread on the table! My gold is on the Orc in Sector A! He

plays like a charging krak!"

Elven girls in the sharp uniforms of The Sunflower Merchant Guild weaved through

the stands, pushing carts laden with commodities.

"Grilled fish bones! Get your fresh grilled fish bones here!" "Honey-glazed

nuts! Three coppers a bag!" "Iced fruit juice! Quench your thirst!"

The spectators haggled and shouted over snacks while debating tactical openings.

The entire plaza was less of a tournament and more of a frenzied marketplace.

Pete took a deep breath, trying to steady his Od.

The form has changed, he told himself. But the logic of the board remains

absolute.

He kept his head down, navigating the throng to find his designated seat in

Sector C.

Just then, a wave of even more fervent cheering erupted from the center of the

stands.

"The Seven Generals! Look!" "By the Gods! All seven of them are here!" "That's

Lord Pride! The Sovereign's shadow!" "And Lord Wrath! He looks ready to kill

someone!" "Lady Lust is... stunning..."

Pete looked up, his gaze drawn to the central grandstand.

Seven figures, each radiating an aura of overwhelming power, sat in a row. Their

personal adjuncts and Myriad-Captains stood like obsidian statues behind them.

They hadn't taken a special "V.I.P." box; they sat in the midst of the common

audience, though the sheer pressure of their presence had caused the surrounding

citizens to subconsciously leave a wide, respectful radius of empty seats around

them.

Skele-Pride sat with his arms crossed over his chest-plate, his blue soulfire

scanning the arena with clinical detachment.

Skele-Wrath sat right next to him, looking remarkably agitated. "Must you sit so

close to me?" Pride vibrated, his tone icy.

"I sit where I please!" Wrath snapped back.

"You are pinning my cloak beneath your greave."

"Then your cloak is too long for its own good!"

"Are you questioning the design of the Imperial Punishment Legion uniform?"

"I am questioning everything about you!"

The two skeletons locked gazes, their soulfire flickering with a violent

intensity that made the air hum.

Skele-Envy, seated on the other side, let out a dry, raspy sneer. "Two idiots."

Pride and Wrath turned their skulls in unison. "What did you say?"

"I said you are both simpletons," Envy stated flatly. "Arguing over a scrap of

fabric in public. It is a logic error."

"You want to test my blade, Envy?!" Wrath surged to his feet.

"Try me," Envy replied, rising slowly.

Before a brawl could ignite, Skele-Gluttony and Skele-Greed lunged forward to

play peacemakers. "Calm yourselves! This is a public sector!" "The citizens are

watching! Maintain the Imperial image!"

On the far end, Skele-Lust sat with one leg elegantly crossed over the other,

wearing her usual mischievous, "slapping-face" expression as she watched the

farce. Skele-Avarice stood behind her, whispering, "General, should we

intervene?"

"No," Lust chuckled. "Let them be. It adds to the entertainment value."

In the very corner, Skele-Sloth was slumped in his seat, his entire frame

horizontal in a display of "Thunder-God" lethargy. "So loud... can we just... be

quiet..."

The audience, far from being terrified by the Generals' bickering, seemed

emboldened by it.

"I'm going to go get an autograph!" "Don't be a fool! Look at those

Myriad-Captains!"

It was true; every General was flanked by an elite, fully armed undead officer

who stood as immovable as a mountain. Their passive intimidation was a physical

wall.

Suddenly, a blue blur bounced out from the crowd below. It was Bochi. He wove

through the legs of the guards and reached the foot of the Generals' section.

Bochi waved his tiny tentacles frantically. "Uncles! Aunts! I'm here for the

prize!"

The Seven Generals looked down at the slime. Pride's soulfire pulsed once.

"Compete well. Do not bring shame to the Master."

Wrath nodded. "Bring home that crown, little jelly!"

Envy tilted his head. "Try not to lose your Gomoku match in five turns. It would

be a statistical embarrassment."

Bochi puffed himself up into a perfect sphere. "I'm going to win!"

Lust smiled. "Good luck, little Bochi."

Greed and Gluttony added their voices. "We're counting on you!" "Champion gets a

feast on my tab!"

Sloth lifted a single finger in a half-hearted wave.

Bolstered by the Generals' approval, Bochi glowed with a faint, happy blue light

and bounced off toward Sector A.

Pete Griffin watched the scene from afar. He realized then that the stakes of

this tournament were astronomically higher than he had calculated. The Seven

Generals of the Empire had come to observe.

What does this signify?

It meant this wasn't just a game. It was a formal endorsement of a new culture.

A new era.

And he, Pete Griffin—a relic of a dead world—was standing upon the stage of this

new world.

His hands began to tremble again. Not with the tremors of withdrawal, but with

the vibration of raw, electric excitement. He gripped his wooden tag and pushed

forward.

Finally, he found Sector C. Most of the players had already arrived, huddled in

small groups, warming up, or eyeing their opponents with predatory focus. Pete

reached Table 217. It was a simple stone block with a fresh Chess set waiting on

its surface.

He sat down and placed his tag on the table. His opponent, a young human in his

early twenties with a sharp tunic and a confident air, looked up.

"Old-timer, you're in the tournament too?" the youth asked politely.

Pete nodded. "I am."

The young man smiled. "Then I wish you luck. You'll likely need it."

Pete offered no reply. He stared at the board, his vision blurring for a moment.

Twenty years. He was back in the arena. Not a tavern corner. Not a park bench. A

real battlefield. Under the gaze of tens of thousands. Under the witness of the

Seven Sins.

Pete reached out, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden board. He closed

his eyes.

He saw himself twenty years ago, at the height of his power, receiving the

Bronze Medal from the hand of a King. That was his peak. And then he had lost

everything. His status. His honor. His life.

He had thought his time on the stage was over.

But now, the curtain was rising again.

Pete snapped his eyes open. Within them burned a cold, hard flame—the fire of an

obsession that refused to die.

"I can still play," he whispered to himself. "I can still play."

Just then, a voice like a booming thunderclap echoed across the plaza. It was a

Lich, utilizing Mana-amplification to reach every ear.

"CONTESTANTS! SPECTATORS!"

"The First Evernight Dual-Kings Championship: Chess Category... COMMENCES NOW!"

"This is a single-elimination tournament! The victor of each sector will advance

to the Semi-Finals! The ultimate victor shall claim the title of Imperial Chess

King and the purse of ten gold coins!"

"PLAYERS! ASSUME YOUR POSITIONS!"

"BEGIN!"

The plaza fell silent for a heartbeat.

And then, it exploded into a roar that shook the very foundation of the Iron

Fortress.

☆☆☆

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