The east hall was quiet, the air thick with old dust and disuse. Moonlight filtered in through narrow stained-glass windows, painting faded reds and blues across the floor. It was the perfect kind of forgotten place—hidden in plain sight.
Which made it perfect for bait.
Yuuji stood at the center of the arena. No team. No guards. Just him in his coat, hands in pockets, eyes half-lidded as if bored.
The false duel request had been logged in the Academy system two hours earlier.
Completely legit.
But fake.
Behind the outer corridor walls, Mira crouched in full armor, heart steady. Her blade hummed faintly with contained magic. Clara waited further up in the rafters, three spell nodes already active and masked. Ayaka, perched on the roof, held a massive shard-spear charged with kinetic force.
All they needed now...
was the enemy to take the bait.
At exactly 02:07, the lights flickered.
Then went dark.
Yuuji didn't move.
Even when the temperature dropped by ten degrees.
Even when the first figure stepped out of the shadows behind him, blade drawn, no voice—just killing intent.
Yuuji spoke without turning.
"Took you long enough."
The assassin lunged.
Yuuji stepped sideways once, avoiding the strike by less than an inch, and let his foot drag across the floor—activating the first glyph Clara had inscribed.
A burst of light exploded upward.
The assassin screamed as their arm locked in place mid-swing, bones crackling under invisible pressure.
Then Mira dropped from the ceiling.
One clean slash.
The mask shattered.
Not dead. But very, very unconscious.
Yuuji exhaled once.
"That's one."
Three more came out of the shadows then. This time, faster. Angrier. Coordinated.
They weren't just assassins.
They were trained duelists—rogue-level.
Ayaka dropped through the roof and crushed one into the stone with a single swing.
Clara triggered her spell nodes—barriers slammed into place around them, sealing the exits.
Yuuji finally turned.
He walked slowly toward the remaining two as if nothing had changed.
"You came for the king," he said calmly. "But forgot about the board."
One of the attackers reached for a scroll.
Yuuji moved faster.
His hand blurred.
A shockwave spell hit the scroll mid-draw, detonating it in the rogue's grip. The blast sent him flying.
The last one turned to flee.
Mira appeared in front of him with a smile that wasn't kind.
He didn't make it to the door.
Seconds later, the room was quiet again.
Yuuji stood among the fallen, his coat barely wrinkled.
Clara dropped from the rafters, tapping her crystal interface.
"All tagged. Academy security will find them here... asleep."
Yuuji turned to the main glyph burned into the stone floor beneath them. It was a perfect replica of the Academy's crest—with one difference.
A single crack through the crown.
Ayaka looked at it and grinned. "That'll get people talking."
Yuuji nodded once.
"Good."
He stared into the darkness beyond the windows.
"Let them talk."
"They need to understand..."
He knelt, drew a simple chess piece in the dust beneath the shattered moonlight.
It wasn't the king.
It was the pawn.
"...I don't need to play by their pieces anymore."
The next morning, the Academy was on fire.
Figurativ gesprochen.
Students clustered in whispering groups. Teachers held emergency briefings. Security golems swept through corridors with rune-scanners, trying to piece together what had happened.
Because four rogue duelists had been found unconscious in the east hall—
without explanation,
without injuries...
but all with one thing in common:
A single cracked crown marked on their chest.
Some claimed it was retaliation. Others whispered "declaration of war." No one could prove anything.
But everyone was talking about House Checkmate now.
And Yuuji?
Yuuji was in class. Quiet. Calm. Reading a textbook he didn't need.
The professor didn't even try to call on him.
Mira sat beside him, arms crossed, radiating "touch him and I end you"-energy.
Clara was already cross-referencing student surveillance patterns during class.
Ayaka had fallen asleep on her open notes, drooling slightly.
From the far corner of the room, another student stared at Yuuji without blinking.
Lenya.
She smiled when he glanced at her.
And then—
she vanished.
Gone in the space between blinks.
Yuuji didn't move.
But he felt it.
The other players were shifting.
Elsewhere, in the private observatory chamber reserved for high-clearance faculty, five instructors stood around a glowing chessboard made of light.
Each piece glowed with a sigil—student identifiers. One of the instructors pointed at the cracked-crown glyph hovering over Yuuji's name.
"He sent a message. Direct. Tactical. He didn't kill them, but he made a point."
Another voice spoke.
"He's acting outside regulation."
A third voice, the oldest, cut through them both.
"He's doing what none of our champions ever dared—he's taking initiative."
They all turned to the woman standing at the edge of the room.
Golden eyes. A silver mask shaped like a rook.
The High Arbiter.
She said nothing at first.
Then:
"Let him move."
Far below, in the under-chambers of the Shadow Hall, Arletta stood before the black mirror again.
This time, she wasn't alone.
Beside her stood a boy in a dark military jacket, pale-blond hair, and a crescent scar over his mouth that never quite became a smile.
He looked at the glowing pieces hovering over the board.
"Serizawa made his opening."
Arletta didn't respond.
The boy picked up one of the black knight pieces.
"I've been waiting for someone interesting."
He turned the piece over in his palm, and his voice dropped into a whisper.
"Time to show the King what a real warhorse looks like."
The west sparring field was quiet—too quiet for midday.
Yuuji didn't choose it.
It chose him.
He arrived alone. Not because he had to. Because he needed to.
And there he war.
Leaning casually against a tree, tossing a training sword from hand to hand like it was a toy.
White hair with a silver streak.
Scarred lips.
Eyes like glass—clear, reflective, empty.
He looked up and grinned when Yuuji approached.
"You don't look like a king," the boy said. "More like a bored librarian."
"You don't look like a threat," Yuuji replied. "More like someone trying to look cool in front of a mirror."
The boy laughed softly. "Fair."
He stepped forward, no tension in his body—but the air around him bent, just slightly, like his presence was cutting through reality itself.
"I'm Silas. No house. No rank. But I'm one of the Board's chosen," he said. "You could call me..."
He flicked the sword into the ground.
"...the black knight."
Yuuji's eyes narrowed.
"The one they send to test foundations."
Silas nodded.
"Exactly. And rumor is, your little House Checkmate's getting too sturdy."
He walked in a slow arc, keeping his distance—but circling.
"I watched your Trial. Clean execution. Clever traps. Emotionally stable team. You know what that tells me?"
Yuuji didn't answer.
Silas smiled wider.
"It tells me you're not desperate yet. You've never had to fight dirty."
He moved so fast the ground cracked behind him.
Yuuji ducked under the swing of the training sword—no magic, no warning.
Just instinct.
Silas didn't stop.
Three more strikes in a single second.
Yuuji dodged them all, feet shifting across the stone like water.
The fourth blow he caught.
Bare-handed.
Silas blinked. "Oh?"
Yuuji held the sword in one hand.
"Your opening's too wide. You talk too much. You play like someone who thinks the board is already his."
He shoved the sword back.
Silas laughed again and rolled his shoulder.
"Okay... maybe I underestimated you."
He cracked his neck and dropped into a real stance now. Not training. Not show.
Real.
Yuuji straightened his coat.
"Good. I'd hate to win before the match even started."
Silas grinned, showing too many teeth.
"You're going to be fun to break."
Silas vanished.
Not literally—but his movement blurred, a flicker of pure motion through the air.
Yuuji barely caught the angle. The step was off—diagonal, but distorted, like Silas bent the concept of position itself.
A swing came from nowhere. It wasn't aimed at the head, chest, or even vital points.
It was aimed at balance.
Yuuji deflected the hit with his elbow, turning his body with the blow to kill the momentum. He slid back three meters and landed without stumbling.
Silas smirked.
"Not bad. Most crumble on the second exchange."
Yuuji didn't respond. His mind was already adapting.
Silas wasn't fast.
He was unpredictable.
Every move was designed to force responses that led to exposure—positioning, momentum traps, psychological setups. He was a duelist built like a chess trap. A human fork.
"You fight like you study," Silas said. "Calculated. Clean."
He stepped again—this time low, blade coming in from below, then shifting upward at the last second with an illusion flicker.
Yuuji stepped into the blow.
Silas's eyes widened.
Yuuji twisted his hand, caught Silas's wrist, and redirected the strike upward.
With his free hand, he pressed his palm to the ground.
A glowing sigil snapped to life beneath them both.
"What's this?" Silas asked, pulling away.
Yuuji stood slowly.
"The board," he said. "My version."
The sigil expanded across the sparring ground.
It was simple—just lines and pieces, like a chalk outline of a chessboard.
But then it pulsed.
Silas flinched.
He tried to move—and stopped.
His leg refused.
One square.
That was all he could move.
Yuuji had changed the field.
"You're fast," he said quietly. "But not when the space itself becomes part of the rules."
Silas snarled. "What the hell is this spell?!"
"King's Domain – Square Lock."
He stepped forward. Calm. Measured. One square at a time.
Now he controlled the board.
Silas swung again—wild, brutal, raw.
But the blade froze mid-motion as it reached a boundary line.
He couldn't pass.
Not unless Yuuji allowed it.
Silas stared at him, breathing hard.
Yuuji stared back, silent, as if watching a trapped piece flail in a predictable pattern.
Then he spoke:
"You're not a knight."
Silas's eyes narrowed.
"You're a berserker dressed like a bishop. You don't play. You charge."
Silas hissed, trying to push forward again.
His foot stopped one millimeter before the square line.
Yuuji raised a single finger.
"Check."
A pulse of focused mana burst from the board—
Silas dropped to one knee, panting, sweat dripping from his chin.
He wasn't injured.
He was cornered.
Yuuji leaned down, voice low.
"Tell your Board... the King's done waiting."
Then he turned and walked away.
Silas didn't stop him.
Because he couldn't.
The game had changed.
And Yuuji had just proved:
He didn't need to win with power.
He just needed the right rules.