“What is that immigrant boy doing here?”1
A hush fell over the room.
Anant Kaur tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. He had barely stepped into the tournament hall when the whispers began. His hoodie was soaked from the relentless London rain. His sneakers, worn thin from countless matches, squeaked on the polished floor. His name wasn’t on anyone’s list of rising stars. And still, he had registered.
With a passport that had finally collected its first international stamp, Anant had made it—alone. No coach, no sponsor, no flashy team jacket. Just the money he scraped together from back-alley tournaments, prize money handed over in cash. When his parents finally said yes, it wasn’t with confidence; it was laced with anxiety.
But they still said yes.
The woman at the registration desk had stared at him a moment too long. “You’re here for this tournament?” she asked, her skepticism apparent.
“I registered,” he replied, his voice steady despite the weight of her gaze.
Her eyes narrowed, and she tapped a few keys, skepticism still seen on her face. “You’re in.”
And just like that, he was here.
“What’s your name?” another player asked, smirking as Anant walked past. “Oh—do they really allow the likes of you?”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. He didn’t respond.
He just took his seat.
The arena was small, yet the tension crackled in the air. Opponents came and went; smirks morphed into silence. Silence escalated to stares. Stares spiraled into panic.
One by one—checkmate.
One by one—KO.
One by one—Anant sat back in his chair and watched giants fall.
They had asked what someone like him was doing here.
They had laughed.
But by the time the semifinals ended, the scoreboard narrated a different tale.
Now, as he wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned back in his chair, there were no more whispers.
Just one voice left in the room.
“…Who the hell is that kid?”
He beat everyone.
“Good times, good times,” Zeno mused to himself, a grin creeping across his face. The money he won back then had been fantastic, and he had stashed it away with his parents before heading back to Avalis.
Just then, the countdown began. Oh! He’d forgotten it was his turn.
– He’s under pressure now.
– I, too, would be panicking at this point.
– He’s about to be cornered.
– Doyeon has this one.
Doyeon, oblivious to Zeno’s internal dialogue, assumed he was floundering under pressure. He shook his head in amusement.
“H1 to G1,” Zeno finally said, quietly tucking his king a little further away into safety.
“Running away already?” Doyeon barked a laugh.
But Zeno remained silent.
“I hate this guy,” Yuan said, shaking his head. “He’s almost as bad as Daniel.”
Daniel turned to him, furrowing his brows. “What do you mean by that?”
“He’s cocky, but I guess it’s for a reason,” Yuan continued, ignoring Daniel’s question.
Move thirty.
The arena lights flickered slightly, yet no one seemed to notice.
Zeno took a long breath.
“F3 to H4.”
It was subtle—a knight recapture that no one had realized he had been planning.
Doyeon frowned. Hadn’t he taken that knight earlier?
Meanwhile, Zeno’s lips twitched, but he quickly masked his smirk. It was too early to react.
Doyeon pressed his next move with less confidence.
“D8 to D6.” Another rook down.
Now something shifted in the air.
Zeno straightened his posture, his eyes narrowing in focus. He moved his knight.
“C3 to D5.”
A loud ding signified his move. Just then, the board with the pieces was showcased to the audience, and it was only at that moment that everything began to make sense.
“What the hell…” Doyeon muttered under his breath.
D5? That knight hadn’t moved for over ten turns. Doyeon had thought he’d boxed it in.
He blinked and replayed the mental board, trying to comprehend how it had gotten there.
In a moment of desperation, he tried to swat it off the board with Bishop takes Knight—E6 to D5.
Zeno responded instantly.
E4 to D5. Pawn recapture.
And suddenly, the center of the board was wide open.
Back in the theater, the others stood up in disbelief. Well, everyone except Daniel, who still didn’t understand how the game worked. He stood, looking around, just so he wouldn’t feel too left out.
“Oh my gosh,” Risa muttered, eyes glued to the board.
“What?” Daniel asked, halfway into a handful of chips.
“He just opened the center. Zeno’s king is safe. Doyeon’s isn’t.”
Daeshim’s eyes widened in astonishment. “No way. He was planning that this whole time?”
Move thirty-six.
Zeno moved his queen. D1 to H5.
Direct line of sight.
Doyeon’s face went pale.
He’d completely missed it—Zeno’s queen hadn’t moved once. She was still sitting there, poised and deadly.
Queen to H5. And his king had made a move… F1 to G1. An open file.
“Shit,” he muttered, scrambling for a pawn.
G7 to G6, trying to block the impending attack.
Zeno smiled softly, a hint of satisfaction in his demeanor.
Queen to H6.
A soft ding.
– I can’t breathe.
– Wait, wait. Is that?
– What the heck? How did that happen?
– Wasn’t Doyeon winning a couple of moves ago?
The audience could only watch, captivated by the unfolding drama on the board. They couldn’t deny what they saw. Some wanted the show to end so they could replay it again, analyzing the points to determine if it was an entirely fair game.
However, there was no denying it now. Some attempts to attribute Zeno’s success to luck fell flat as the grid was laid out before the spectators.
Zeno had the last move.
Bishop G4 to F6.
Check.
Doyeon stood frozen, his mind racing.
His mental board shattered. Every move he’d thought was secure had been undone by one patient sequence. It wasn’t just that; he couldn’t remember all the moves.
Somehow, Zeno did.
Not only that, but a kill box had been crafted around his king ten moves ago, and he had walked right into it.
Finally, Zeno let himself smirk.
“Checkmate.”
Zeno’s past mission