novelraw Chapter 249: I Cannot Lose
Chapter 249: I Cannot Lose
As night descended upon the Iron Fortress, the lanterns of the Bone-Dry Tavern
burned brighter than a flare of Mana.
When Pete Griffin pushed through the double doors, the room was already a sea of
faces. Karl, the Dwarven blacksmith, the Orc hunter, and every tactical relic
who had been eliminated from the brackets were present. As Pete entered, the
entire room stood in a synchronized, heavy clatter of chairs.
"PETE!"
Karl scrambled over first, slamming a heavy hand onto Pete's shoulder with
enough force to rattle his teeth. "You old fossil! You're actually doing it!
You're putting us back on the map!"
Pete blinked, a moment of dazed surprise passing before he let out a defiant
roar of excitement. "Barkeeper! Pints for the room! Tonight's damage is on the
account of Master Pete Griffin!"
Pete moved toward the counter, his coin already in hand, but Karl seized his
wrist.
"No ale," Karl said, his expression turning deadly serious.
"Tomorrow is the Final. You need your tactical focus at its peak. Your Od must
be clear." Karl reached over the bar, grabbed a glass of spring water, and
shoved it into Pete's hand. "Tonight... you drink the clear."
Pete stared down at the water. The surface reflected the amber glow of the
hearth and the deep, map-like wrinkles on his own face.
"Pete," the Orc hunter rumbled, his voice low and heavy. "Look at us. We're the
losers."
"Some of us were terminated in the first bracket. Others didn't even make the
quarter-finals." He paused, a flicker of raw resentment dancing in his eyes.
"But you're different."
"You're the last man standing."
The Dwarven blacksmith stepped forward, his voice thick with a sudden, jagged
emotion. "People like us... the relics of the Old World... we've been living in
the shadows of this new era. The glory is gone. The status is gone. We're just
scenery now."
"We wanted to prove that we weren't just discarded trash. That our minds still
held weight." He raised his own mug, his hand trembling. "But we failed. We
didn't have the edge."
"So, Pete..." The Dwarf took a sharp breath, staring directly into Pete's eyes.
"You must win. Take that crown for the rest of us."
The tavern fell into a heavy, ringing silence. Every pair of eyes in the room
was locked onto Pete. In those gazes, Pete saw a terrifying mixture of
expectation, desperation, hope, and an ancient, shared burden.
Pete's grip on the water glass tightened until his knuckles turned white.
Karl, sensing the weight of the moment was becoming a crush, let out a booming
laugh and raised his own mug. "To hell with the logistics! Regardless of what
happens tomorrow, you're already our King!"
The room erupted. Mugs were hoisted high.
"TO PETE!" "TO OUR CHAMPION!" "TO THE OLD GUARD STILL IN THE FIGHT!"
Pete looked at them. He saw the tears glistening in the eyes of battle-hardened
mercenaries and stubborn craftsmen. He suddenly smiled—a jagged, ugly grin that
made his bruises throb.
"You bastards..." He wiped his eyes with a rough sleeve. "Fine. I accept the
contract. I will not lose!"
He raised the water glass high.
"TO US! THE FOSSILS WHO REFUSE TO TURN TO DUST!"
They drank as one. The tavern exploded into a roar of cheers.
That night, they didn't talk of Chess. They talked of the glory of the old
kingdoms, the confusion of the transition, and the things they had lost and
found under the Sovereign's banner. Pete sat in his corner, listening. He didn't
speak much, only offering a nod or a small smile, but the fire in his eyes was
reaching a white-hot intensity.
The next morning.
Pete woke earlier than the sun. He hadn't slept well, but his mind was in a
state of hyper-lucidity. He walked to the window and pushed the shutters open.
The light was pale and promising. It was a good day for a revolution.
Pete donned his most "noble" attire—a deep blue robe that had grown threadbare
at the cuffs but still carried the silhouette of his former stature. He
meticulously straightened his collar and smoothed his hair in the mirror.
He exited the inn and headed toward the Central Plaza. The streets were already
choked with people, a river of humanity and demi-humans flowing toward a single
destination.
"Move it! The Finals are commencing!" "Master Pete versus the Valkyrie! My gold
is on the old man!" "Are you mad? Alya is the most famous novelist in the
Empire! They say her tactical mind is a Tier 6 marvel!" "I don't care! The old
man is a juggernaut!"
Pete moved through the murmurs, his heart hammering a rhythmic beat against his
ribs. Finally, he reached the Plaza.
It was a fortress of souls. The grandstands were packed to the rafters, with
thousands more standing on the periphery, straining for a glimpse of the Grand
Table.
The Seven Sins were already in position. Their soulfire watched the arena with a
cold, absolute silence. Bochi was bouncing in the Sector A staging area; his
Gomoku Final was scheduled for the next block.
But for now, the world was focused on the center. There stood a table carved
from pure white marble, topped with a board of obsidian and ivory pieces. The
"Altar of the Finals."
Pete drew a long, steadying breath and stepped onto the dais. The grandstands
erupted.
"PETE! PETE! Master Pete!" "Give them hell, Pops!" "TAKE THE CROWN!"
Pete offered a single, dignified wave. Then he sat.
Opposite him, a figure slowly approached. It was a young Elf woman, possessing
the haunting, refined beauty of her race. She had cascading silver hair and eyes
the color of emeralds. She wore a simple, elegant white dress and carried a
small leather-bound notebook.
Alya. The most celebrated novelist in the Empire. Her stories were sold by the
millions; there wasn't a literate citizen who hadn't walked through the worlds
she created.
Alya reached the table and offered a graceful hand. "Greetings, Master Pete. It
is a profound honor to meet the legend."
Pete paused, then shook her hand. "You... recognize me?"
Alya nodded, her emerald eyes shimmering. "Of course. Master Pete Griffin, the
Bronze of the final Grand Championship. In my research for my historical
fiction, your name appeared in the archives more than any other."
She sat, opening her notebook to a blank page. "In truth, I entered this
tournament primarily for 'field research.' I wanted to capture the psychology of
an Old Era strategist for my next book."
"And you, Master Pete, are the perfect protagonist."
Pete went silent for a moment. "So... you are not here for the crown?"
Alya offered a small, knowing smile. "I wouldn't decline the gold. But more than
a title, I want a story. I want a match that will make the readers' Od pulse
with excitement."
She looked Pete directly in the eye. "So, Master Pete. I ask that you give me
everything. Show me the 'True Path' of the board."
Pete adjusted his sleeves, his mouth curving into a smirk. "As you wish, little
author."
The Lich Referee stepped to the table, raising a bony hand.
"THE DUAL-KINGS CHAMPIONSHIP: CHESS GRAND FINALS!" "SECTOR C: MASTER PETE
GRIFFIN VS SECTOR D: ALYA!" "BEGIN!"
The crowd's roar was like a physical blow. Pete took the Black pieces; Alya took
Red.
Alya moved first. Central Cannon.
Pete countered with his Knight. Screen Horse.
The lines were drawn. The game was no longer a match; it was a conversation
between eras. Alya's play was mesmerizing—every move was a calculated
masterpiece of pacing. She didn't hunt for a quick kill; she methodically
constricted Pete's breathing room, using her pieces like a slow-moving flood.
Pete soon realized that this "author" possessed a tactical depth that rivaled
the mages of the Academy. Her moves were perfectly timed—never too fast, never
too late. She played like a veteran who had seen a thousand endgames.
Sweat began to bead on Pete's forehead. He couldn't afford a single oversight.
He threw himself into the calculations, his Od fueling his brain as he
visualized the shifting board.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.
The game entered the "Mid-Game Slaughter." Pete's aggression spiked. He began to
trade material with a reckless, desperate intensity. He knew his biological
stamina was his primary weakness; if he allowed the game to reach a protracted
endgame, his mind would fray before hers.
Alya's defense was a seamless web of ivory. She neutralized his charges and
pinned his heavy units with the calm detachment of someone editing a manuscript.
But Pete refused to break. The flame of his obsession burned hot. He thought of
the tavern, the tears of the blacksmith, and the weight of the "Old Era" on his
shoulders.
I cannot lose! I will not be erased!
Pete suddenly spotted a "flaw"—a microscopic gap in Alya's structure. It was a
gamble, a move that would leave him utterly exposed if it failed. He didn't
hesitate. He slammed his Rook across the "River," driving directly into her
defensive core.
Alya's eyes flared. She recognized the threat instantly and moved to intercept.
But it was too late. Pete's offensive was a tidal wave, drowning her lines
before she could pivot.
"Checkmate."
Alya stared at the board for several long seconds. Then, she smiled.
"I have lost," she said softly.
The Plaza became a hurricane of sound.
"HE DID IT! THE OLD MAN WON!" "MASTER PETE! KING GRIFFIN!" "UNBELIEVABLE! THE
OLD GUARD STANDS!"
In the Generals' section, Pride's soulfire pulsed. "Fascinating. A pure victory
of will." Wrath nodded in agreement.
Alya stood, smoothing her skirts, and extended her hand to Pete once more.
"Congratulations, Master Pete. That was a magnificent chapter. I have more than
enough material for a trilogy now."
Pete took her hand, his voice thick. "Thank you."
Alya laughed and turned to leave. Pete stood alone at the Grand Table, watching
the crowd. His eyes were wet. He had done it. He had taken the first step.
The Lich Referee marched back to the center of the dais.
"VICTOR: MASTER PETE GRIFFIN!"
"THE FINAL SHOWDOWN SHALL TAKE PLACE THIS AFTERNOON!"
"MASTER PETE OF SECTOR C VS THE NAMELESS OF SECTOR A!"
"THE BATTLE FOR THE CROWN OF THE CHESS KING AWAITS!"
The crowd roared again. Pete turned toward the grandstands. He saw Karl. He saw
Old Tom. He saw every "loser" from the tavern standing and screaming for him.
He raised his hand to them, one final time.
Then, he turned back to the waiting room. The Grand Final against the shadow of
Sector A was all that remained.
He would win. He had no other choice.
☆☆☆
-> 20 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Hollowborn
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you