The setting sun slanted across the Iron Fortress Central Plaza, dyeing the
cobblestones in a bruised, orange glow.
At the registration booth, the Lizard-folk lady was tidying her station, her
green tail swaying rhythmically behind her as she organized her ledgers. In
three minutes, she would be officially off the clock and heading ho to enjoy
her husband's fried locusts with tart strawberry jam.
Just as she was about to lock the coin box, a long shadow fell across the desk.
She looked up. An old man stood before her.
His hair was a ssy shock of white, and three dicinal patches were plastered
across his face. His left arm was held in a makeshift sling, and his right leg
trembled with a barely perceptible tremor. The clothes he wore, which might have
once been fine silk, were now tattered and stained with spots of dried,
blackened blood.
The registrar recognized him instantly. He was the local celebrity of the
week—the man who had misheard "Passenger" as "Pass-Anger" and tried to start a
revolution at the city gates, only to be beaten senseless by his own "allies."
She maintained her professional smile, but looking at the battered yet defiant
man, her composure nearly cracked.
"Sir... the registration portal is closing in two minutes."
Pete didn't speak. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small cloth
bundle. His movents were slow, each shift of his weight causing a visible
wince of pain to ripple through his fra. He opened the bundle on the desk,
revealing a scattering of silver and a mountain of copper coins.
He used his uninjured right hand to count the coins, one by one, with trembling
fingers.
"The fee... for the tournant. Is this... sufficient?"
His voice was raspy. As he spoke, a scab on his lip split, and a bead of fresh
blood appeared.
The Lizard-folk lady stared at the pile of loose change, then back at Pete's
bruised face. A flicker of genuine surprise passed through her slitted pupils.
Beaten to within an inch of his life, and he still wants to play a ga?
She didn't voice the thought. "It is sufficient."
She deftly swept the coins into the box and pulled out a fresh form. "Na."
"Pete Griffin."
"Race."
"Human."
"Category."
"Chess."
She completed the paperwork and pulled a small wooden tag from a rack, sliding
it across to him.
"Sector C, Number 217."
"The tournant comnces at eight sharp the day after tomorrow. Do not be
late."
Pete took the tag, gripping it firmly. Though it was rely a scrap of pine, to
him, it felt as heavy as a lead weight. He turned to leave, but the registrar's
voice stopped him.
"Sir."
Pete paused, turning his body halfway around. He looked anxious, as if fearing
so administrative error would snatch his tag back. But instead of an
objection, the "savage" Lizard-folk woman he had once looked down upon offered
him a closed-fist salute.
"Good luck," she said with a small smile.
Pete blinked, gave a shallow nod, and continued his limping walk toward the
exit.
A few residents still lingered in the plaza. They spotted him imdiately.
"Look! It's him! The 'House of Pass-Anger' guy! Hahaha!" "He still has the sling
on! Look at those bruises—he really took a thrashing." "Serves him right. His
ears are full of wool and he caused a three-hour backup at the gates."
The whispers followed him, but Pete ignored them, one agonizing step at a ti.
In the crowd, a young human student who had just heard his na let out a sharp
gasp. "Wait! Pete Griffin? I know that na!"
The people around him scoffed. "Yeah, he's the town drunk with the bad hearing.
Everyone knows him now."
"No!" the student's voice shook with excitent. "Don't you rember the
archives? Twenty years ago, at the Grand Tournant in the old Capital... Pete
Griffin took the Bronze!"
"Wait, for real? That old wreck?"
"It was the Old Era!" the student insisted. "Back when Courtier's Gambit was the
only ga that mattered. They said only ten n in the world had a deeper
tactical mind than him!"
The crowd's mood underwent a subtle shift. The jeering turned into a low hum of
curiosity and surprise. "The Old Era, huh? A Master of the Gambit playing the
Sovereign's Chess? That could be... interesting."
Pete heard the whispers. His mind drifted back across the decades.
Before Chess. Before Gomoku. Back when the Astrolabe and the Gambit ruled the
courts. A ga of a hundred and eight pieces moving across a celestial board of
shifting gears. In those days, they called him Master Pete. He was the youngest
champion in the kingdom's history. His tactical patterns were recorded in
textbooks. His na had been etched into the Hero's Pillar beside the King's own
image.
He had thought that glory would be eternal.
Then, the Evernight ca.
The Kingdom vanished. The Court gas were buried under the dust of history. No
one cared for complex, aristocratic puzzles anymore. Master Pete beca a ghost.
He had tried to adapt. He went to the rchant Guilds, but the Undead cared only
for logistical efficiency and profit margins. He went to the Academy, but the
young mages and scholars told him—politely—that his "antiquated theories" had no
place in modern Magitech.
Having lost his identity, he had spent years wallowing in drink, waiting for the
end. It was only when he was deep in a bottle that he could see the silhouette
of the man in the silk tuxedo, surrounded by admirers.
Pete exited the plaza and turned into a narrow alley. It was dark here; the
setting sun couldn't reach the damp bricks. He leaned against the wall and
slowly slid down to sit on the cold ground.
The wounds beneath his bandages throbbed, but the physical pain was a dull echo
compared to the ache in his soul. He pulled the wooden tag from his pocket and
stared at it in the dim light.
Sector C, Number 217.
He let out a short, jagged laugh that turned into a wince as it pulled on his
split lip.
"Pete... you old fool," he whispered to the silence. "What are you doing? Even
if you win those ten gold coins... how much ale will it buy you before the
curtain finally drops?"
He asked the question, but he already knew the answer.
He wasn't going for the gold. He wasn't going to prove anything to the world.
He was going because his na was Pete Griffin. And he was a Player.
☆☆☆
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