novelraw Chapter 247: The First Match
Chapter 247: The First Match
As the resonant tolling of the heavy iron bell echoed across the plaza, the
tournament officially commenced. Pete's first opponent was a young man who
looked as though he were vibrating with nervous energy.
At the gesture of the Lich referee, the youth took his seat opposite the stone
table and extended a hand. His palms were slick with cold sweat.
"Greetings... I am Alan. A Fourth-Year Senior High-Caster student from the
Evernight Academy."
The boy's voice wavered. As Pete grasped his hand, he could feel the frantic
tremors in the youth's fingertips.
"Pete Griffin."
Alan clearly didn't recognize the name or the man—the "Relic of the Old Era." He
merely offered a polite, jerky nod and began arranging his pieces. Pete noted
the golden embroidery on the boy's cuffs. It was the crest of an Honors Student.
In the Evernight Academy, that mark was reserved for the gifted—the little
geniuses who excelled in magical theory and Od-manipulation.
"Please... let us have a fair match," Alan said, taking a deep breath to steady
his racing heart.
The Lich referee raised a hand of bleached bone. "Sector C, Table 217
versus 218. Commencing now."
The moment the command fell, Alan's hand flashed. He seized his Cannon, slamming
it onto the central line of the board.
The Central Cannon opening.
It was the standard "Park Style" play—aggressive, sharp, and brimming with the
reckless spirit of youth. Pete looked at the board but didn't move immediately.
He observed.
He noted the way Alan's hand hovered, the flickering uncertainty in his eyes,
and the shallow, rapid rhythm of his breathing. It was a habit Pete had honed
decades ago.
The board is a mirror of the soul. A man's tactical patterns revealed the
architecture of his mind. Alan's hands were steady enough, but his eyes darted
toward the grandstands, searching for the faces of his classmates. He was
playing for more than just the game; he was playing for validation.
Pete picked up a black Knight, jumping it into a defensive posture.
The Screen Horse Defense.
Alan paused, his brow furrowing. He clearly hadn't expected such a conservative,
weathered response to his opening gambit. After a few seconds of hesitation, he
pushed forward again, sending a lone Cannon across the "River" to initiate a
high-pressure assault.
The game ground forward.
In the stands, a group of students in Academy uniforms brandished a banner that
read: GO ALAN! They shouted with choral intensity.
"Alan! You've got this!" "Take the first round! Total dominance!" "For the glory
of the Academy!"
Hearing the cheers, Alan's movements accelerated. But velocity without control
leads to chaos. Pete's play remained as stable as the Iron Fortress walls. He
didn't rush to counter-attack; instead, he slowly eroded Alan's space, piece by
piece, consolidating his lines until they were an impenetrable thicket of wood
and logic.
Alan soon realized his pieces were being strangled. When he tried to push an
offensive, Pete was already a step ahead, pinning his main strike force. When he
tried to retreat into a shell, Pete's pieces seemed to manifest out of the
shadows from impossible angles, forming new, lethal vectors.
Beads of sweat gathered on Alan's forehead. His fingers began to tremble. He
looked up at the old man across from him. Pete's expression was a mask of
absolute stillness. He looked as though he were playing a casual practice match
on a lazy afternoon.
"This is... wrong," Alan whispered to himself. "My layout... my calculations...
where is the error?"
He stared at the board, his brain racing to find a solution, but the more he
thought, the more his tactical logic fractured.
In the stands, the cheers turned to murmurs of concern.
"Alan's losing ground." "Who is that old man? He's terrifying... he's reading
Alan like an open scroll." "It's over. He's going to be eliminated in the first
bracket."
Alan gritted his teeth. He couldn't lose. He would not lose. He hadn't come here
for the gold coins. He had come to prove that he was more than a bookworm who
memorized magical formulas and recycled theories. He wanted to prove that his
youth wasn't just a series of boring laboratory experiments and endless essays.
Alan reached out, his hand hovering over a piece, but he couldn't bring himself
to set it down. He realized with a sickening weight in his gut that every square
on the board was a trap. There was no path left that didn't lead to his
destruction.
Just then, Pete spoke.
"Young man... have you ever studied the Astrolabe Gambit?"
Alan blinked, looking up in confusion. "The... Astrolabe?"
"An aristocratic game from the Old Era," Pete said, his voice as calm as a
summer stream. "Rules as complex as the stars, with a thousand variables. But
the core philosophy was singular: Control of the Axis."
Alan didn't understand why the old man was offering a history lesson mid-match.
Pete pointed to the center of the board. "Chess is no different. Look. Every
move you've made has been toward the fringes. You chased individual trades and
temporary gains of material."
"Meanwhile, my forces have occupied the center. I have formed a tide that cannot
be turned."
Alan looked down. It was true. His pieces were scattered and disorganized across
the board, while Pete's units moved like a disciplined legion, holding the high
ground and ready to strike.
"Why... why are you telling me this?" Alan rasped.
Pete didn't answer directly. "In the Astrolabe, there is a maneuver called the
Celestial Lock. Three pieces form a ring, trapping the opponent's core essence.
Chess has an echo of that."
He gestured to three specific intersections on the board. "Look here. Here. And
here. If you had occupied those three points, you would have formed a
counter-encirclement. You would have breathed life back into your entire
formation in a single turn."
Alan's eyes widened. He saw it. Hidden beneath the fog of his own panic was a
path to victory—a move so elegant he had completely overlooked it.
But a second later, Alan's head bowed in defeat. "But... it is too late. I have
neither the pieces nor the turns left to reach those points."
Pete nodded. "Correct. It is too late for this board."
"But will you remember it for the next one?" Pete continued. "Every move you
make must consider the synergy of the whole. Do not stare at the coin in front
of you while the mountain collapses behind your back. Look at the horizon."
Alan listened, mesmerized. He had never thought of tactics as a philosophy. To
him, Chess was just about taking pieces and winning. Now, he realized it was a
deep, soul-searching art form.
As the boy sat in reflection, Pete picked up a black Rook. He slid it across the
board with a definitive clack.
"Checkmate."
Alan looked down. His King was locked in a lethal embrace by Pete's Rook and
Knight. There was no escape.
He had lost.
He sat there, staring at the defeated King, his mind a silent void.
A collective sigh rippled through the grandstands. "He's out..." "Alan did his
best..." "That old guy is in another league entirely."
Hearing the pity of the crowd, Alan's eyes turned red. He kept his head low, a
single tear splashing onto the wooden board.
Dammit. What was I even doing? How did I miss it? Why did I lose at the very
beginning? My proof... my youth... is this where it ends?
Pete stood up, brushing the dust from his worn tunic. He looked at the weeping
youth and, for a fleeting moment, saw himself twenty years ago. Hiding in a
corner after a major loss, feeling like the world had ended.
Pete reached out and placed a firm, calloused hand on Alan's shoulder.
"Young man," he said softly, but with the weight of iron. "Will you stay here in
the dirt, or will you start the pursuit?"
Alan looked up, his vision blurred by tears.
Pete offered a small smile. "Look forward. Throwing your entire self into a
single purpose, even if you fail... that is what youth is truly for. Not a bad
way to spend it at all."
With that, Pete turned and walked away.
He left Alan alone with the board and the fallen King. Pete didn't look back as
he headed toward the staging area for the next round, his limping gait steady
and full of purpose.
☆☆☆
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