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

Chapter 248: Relics of a Forgotten Age

Pete strode into the staging area.

The space was a churning ocean of noise. Victors were high-fiving their

companions, faces flushed with a manic, electric heat. The defeated sat with

their heads bowed, silently packing their wooden sets to begin the long walk of

shame. And then there were those still in the brackets, hunched over boards in a

frantic, desperate attempt to re-examine their tactics before the next bell.

Pete performed a sweeping scan of the room. His gaze eventually snagged on a

familiar face.

"Karl?"

The middle-aged human was huddled in a corner, gnawing on a piece of hard rye

bread with a slow, mechanical rhythm. Hearing his name, Karl lifted his head.

Seeing Pete, he let out a jagged, bitter laugh.

"Pete... you're still in?"

Pete gave a single, firm nod. "And you?"

Karl shook his head, brushing breadcrumbs from his tunic. "Terminated in the

first bracket."

"By whom?"

"A figure in a black cloak," Karl muttered, his voice flat. "He didn't play like

a novice newly introduced to Chess. Every move felt like a structural collapse.

He suffocated my lines until I couldn't even find the Od to move a Pawn."

Karl leaned back against the stone wall, a hollow look in his eyes. "I thought I

was prepared. I thought my decades of experience counted for something."

Pete sat beside him. They shared a heavy, ringing silence for a few minutes.

"You know, Pete," Karl said suddenly, staring at the ceiling. "Ever since the

first notice for this Dual-Kings Championship was posted, I've done nothing but

study. I cut my shifts at the Merchant Guild by half. I spent every waking hour

in the park, grinding matches against these 'New Era' youths."

"I lost more than I won. But I told myself it was fine. I was learning. I was

evolving." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Last night, I couldn't sleep. My mind was

just a chessboard of shifting variables. I told myself I had to win."

"I had to prove that I, Karl Morris, am not just a piece of discarded trash from

a dead world."

"And the result? Terminated. I didn't even make the quarter-finals."

Pete remained silent, watching his old rival. This was a man who had taken the

seventh-place ribbon in the old Capital. He saw the resentment, the loss, and

the naked, unadulterated confusion in Karl's eyes.

"Pete," Karl whispered, turning his head. "Do you think there's actually a place

for us? For the relics of the Old Era? Or is this 'New World' just a stage where

we're meant to be the scenery?"

Pete paused, his mind wandering back to the "Anti-Pass-Anger League" and his own

bruised ribs. Then he spoke, his voice low and steady.

"I do not know the answer to your query, Karl. But I know this: If you stop

walking, the answer remains a statistical zero. You must keep moving to find the

truth."

Karl blinked. A flicker of genuine clarity touched his face. "Spoken like a man

who survived a street-brawl. Go on then, Pete. Go and finish it for the rest of

us fossils."

Pete stood, thumping Karl's shoulder once. "I intend to."

Just then, the Lich Grand Referee's voice vibrated through the hall.

"SECOND ELIMINATION ROUNDS COMMENCE NOW! SURVIVING CONTESTANTS, REPORT TO THE

ARENA SLOTS!"

Pete's second opponent was a Dwarven blacksmith. The man had arms like tree

trunks and a beard that smelled of coal and ozone. When the Dwarf sat, the stone

stool let out an audible groan.

"Listen, pops, I don't go easy on the elderly," the Dwarf rumbled, his hand

already twitching toward his pieces.

Pete didn't respond. He simply stared at the center of the board.

Fifteen minutes later.

The Dwarf stared at the board, his face turning a shade of angry violet. "How...

how in the Blazes...?"

His Chariots, Knights, and Cannons were pinned in a lethal deadlock. His General

sat exposed and alone, staring into the face of Pete's advancing infantry.

"An acceptable game," Pete said, rising and turning his back before the Dwarf

could even find his voice.

The grandstands were starting to take notice.

"Hey, look at Table 217. That old man just dismantled a Tier 3 blacksmith in

fifteen minutes." "Wait, isn't that the guy from the 'Pass-Anger' joke at the

gates?" "Yeah! Look at him—he's actually focused now." "Probably just a fluke."

The skepticism was thick, but it began to thin as the third round commenced.

Pete's next opponent was a male Elf—a primary instructor from the Evernight

Academy. The Elf carried himself with the typical high-born arrogance, not even

deigning to look at Pete as he sat.

"Let's conclude this swiftly. I have a lecture to attend," the Elf stated

coldly.

Pete said nothing.

The match began. The Elf's play was elegant, filled with fluid, shifting

variations that mirrored high-tier Mana-weaving. But Pete's response was cold

and clinical. He didn't chase flashy trades; he simply compressed the Elf's

lines, millimeter by millimeter.

It was a tactical strangulation.

Ten minutes in, the Elf's hand hung mid-air, unable to find a safe square. He

looked up, shock breaking through his refined mask.

"Who... what are you?"

Pete swept the pieces back into their starting positions, his voice a dry rasp.

"Just a man who knows his way across a board."

The roar from the grandstands shifted in tone.

"Gods! He beat an Academy instructor! And he did it faster than the last one!"

"Someone check the archives! Who is this old-timer?!"

A group of students began digging through their history scrolls. Within minutes,

the data spread through the crowd.

"Found it! His name is Pete Griffin! Bronze Medalist of the final Grand

Tournament of the Old Capital!" "A Master of the Gambit? No wonder he's farming

the brackets!" "But wait... isn't he also the village idiot who couldn't hear

the word 'Passenger'?" "Who cares?! Look at those maneuvers! He's a tactical

monster!"

The atmosphere of the plaza transformed. Mockery was replaced by a burgeoning,

fanatical curiosity.

Round four. Round five. Round six.

Pete didn't just win; he dominated. The match durations continued to shrink.

Twenty minutes. Fifteen. Ten. Eight. His opponents transitioned from shock to

indignation, and finally to a grudging, fearful reverence.

"LOOK! Master Pete is starting again!" "Seventh round! He hasn't dropped a

single match!" "He's playing like a machine! Is this the power of the Old

Guard?!"

The cheers became a rhythmic chant. Pete felt the vibrations in the soles of his

boots. He hadn't heard that sound in twenty years.

As the eighth round concluded, Pete stood to depart for the break area. A

wealthy human merchant in the front row stood up, waving his hat frantically.

"MASTER PETE! GIVE THEM HELL!" "Show these kids what real tactical Od looks

like!"

A wave of applause erupted, starting from a few individuals and swelling until

it consumed an entire sector. Pete stood there, his eyes stinging. He took a

deep breath, looked toward the grandstands, and raised a single, clenched fist

in the air.

The roar that followed was deafening.

In the V.I.P. section of the Seven Generals.

Pride's soulfire pulsed with rhythmic interest. "An intriguing variable."

Wrath nodded, his armor clanking. "The old man has spirit. I respect the grit."

Envy let out a dismissive click. "He is simply optimizing his moves against

inferior AI. It is basic logic."

Lust chuckled, her hand on her hip. "Don't be such a bore, Envy. He's a Bronze

Master from the Old World. It's poetic, really."

Gluttony watched the board with intense focus. "His movements are lean. Zero

waste. Efficient."

Greed rubbed his chin bones. "He has the 'Veteran Meta.' This could be a very

lucrative story for the Literature Department."

Sloth let out a long yawn. "Too... much... thinking..."

The Semi-Finals were announced.

Pete Griffin had cleared Sector C. He was the undisputed victor of his bracket.

Now, he would face the champions of the other sectors.

His opponent for the Semi-Final was a hulking Orc warrior named Gru. Gru had

flattened the competition in Sector B with a style of play that was as brutal

and direct as a war-ax.

The two met at the central Grand Table—a massive block of polished obsidian

surrounded by a literal wall of spectators.

The Lich Referee raised a hand. "Semi-Final Match One: Master Pete of Sector C

versus Gru of Sector B. COMMENCE!"

Gru seized a Cannon and slammed it down with a heavy THUD. "Elder, I respect

your legacy," Gru grinned, revealing his tusks. "But on this board, I show zero

mercy."

Pete moved a Knight with a soft, steady touch. "As it should be."

The kinetic energy of the match was staggering. Gru played with a ferocious

pressure, trying to overwhelm Pete's defense through raw aggression. In any

other match, it would have worked.

But Pete was a wall of cold stone. He neutralized every lunge, parried every

trade, and—while Gru was focused on the assault—Pete began to weave a web behind

his lines.

Ten minutes later.

Gru froze. He realized his momentum had vanished. His pieces were trapped in a

pocket of the board, unable to pivot. Meanwhile, Pete's units had silently

infiltrated his rear guard.

"Logic error detected," Pete whispered.

"Checkmate."

Gru stared at the board, his jaw slack. He had been dismantled so thoroughly he

didn't even see the final blow coming.

The plaza erupted into a sound so loud it seemed to ripple the clouds.

"PETE! PETE! MASTER PETE!"

Pete stood and gave a shallow, respectful bow to the grandstands.

On the other side of the arena, the other Semi-Finals concluded.

The victor of Sector A was the mysterious Black-robed figure—Nameless. No one

knew his origin, only that his tactics were surreal and unsettling.

The victor of the Sector D "Resurrection Bracket" was a beautiful human girl

with silver-white hair. She played with a cold, predatory intensity that had

earned her the nickname "The Board Valkyrie."

The Lich Referee announced the final standings.

"SEMI-FINALS CONCLUDED!"

"The three finalists are: Master Pete Griffin of Sector C, Nameless of Sector A,

and Alya of Sector D!"

"Based on tactical efficiency and point-scoring, the victor of Sector A will

receive a bye. Master Pete and Alya shall duel tomorrow morning. The victor of

that match shall engage Nameless for the title of CHESS KING!"

Pete stepped off the dais, his legs shaking with a mix of fatigue and raw,

white-hot adrenaline.

He had done it. He had reached the summit.

Only two games remained between him and the crown.

☆☆☆

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