"Between shadow and light, there is the place where monsters are born."
The sky was black that day.
Not night. Not a storm. Just a dense, suffocating black, without moon or wind. The entire Academy seemed suspended in the silence of the Sovereign Plateau.
The students spoke in hushed voices. The masters looked at the arena with worried eyes.
It was no longer a tournament.
It was a war.
And this battle... was feared.
Caelen Sareth, the boy from Umbra, silent since the beginning of the tournament, undefeated without ever invoking his zone.
Theon of Morholt, prince of House Arca, renowned strategist, manipulator, master of mental control. He had not merely won his matches. He had broken his opponents.
And now, they were to face each other.
The referee's voice echoed throughout the amphitheater:
— Second semi-final of the Tournament of Spirits. Caelen Sareth versus Theon of Morholt. No resigning before the 30th move. Only one zone invocation per player.
A murmur ran through the stands.
The Plateau awakened.
The two opponents took their places.
Theon wore a dark red outfit embroidered with gold, his metallic grey gaze locked onto Caelen's.
— At last, he whispered. The lost child comes out of his hole.
Caelen did not reply.
— I know you, Umbra. You play clever with your silence, but you've never played against me.
Still no words.
— I'll rip your zone from you like a mask from a fraud.
Caelen placed his hand on the board.
The Plateau vibrated.
The pieces appeared.
e4
Theon opened with a classic attacking variation. Direct. Violent.
1...e5
A mirrored response. Caelen wasn't avoiding conflict. He accepted it.
The moves followed one after the other.
5, 10, 15.
The spectators held their breath.
Both players were ice-cold, each move played like a scalpel cut.
22nd move.
Theon played his rook diagonally.
Then, without warning, he raised his hand.
— Mental zone: Hall of the Infinite Mask.
A shiver ran through the crowd.
The Plateau deformed.
The light changed.
All around, black mirrors appeared, floating, distorted. Every piece on the board wore a mask. Even Caelen. Even Theon. The stands blurred. Nothing was visible anymore, except the reflections.
— You don't get it, said Theon in the fog. I am you. I am everything you hide.
Caelen slowly moved a piece.
And noticed that the Plateau... reacted to his thoughts.
Every move he considered, the Plateau projected into a mirror. A false version of reality, growing ever closer to his nightmares.
— Your zone manipulates my visions, he murmured.
— Not just that. It tests you. And you will fail.
The mask worn by the black king on the board... bore Ashen's face.
28th move.
Caelen lost a knight.
A trap. A lapse in concentration.
Theon's zone was too precise, too intelligent. It anticipated emotional reactions. Each piece was a symbolic double, an illusion masking true intent.
But Caelen didn't panic.
He adapted.
He retreated.
He gave space.
A student whispered in the stands:
— He's retreating... he's losing...
But Venhal, standing in the shadow of a column, smiled.
— No. He's breathing.
30th move.
Caelen raised his hand.
The spectators held their breath.
But he triggered nothing.
Just a look.
— You want to see my world, he said to Theon. You want it so badly you tremble.
— You're bluffing. You want to save your weapon for the end. But there will be no final for you.
Caelen smiled. An almost imperceptible smirk.
— You forgot something, Morholt.
— What?
— It's not up to me to show you my zone.
It's up to you to lead me there.
32nd move.
An unexpected move. An exploited weakness. A rook of Theon left isolated.
Then two connected pawns slowly advanced on the f-file.
Theon frowned.
Caelen had hidden his progress.
He had used the enemy zone against itself.
Every illusion. Every reflection. He had observed them, measured them, analyzed them. He had turned them into weapons.
His king, hidden behind a wall of pawns, moved forward slowly.
As if approaching the enemy not to flee, but to strike.
37th move.
Theon hesitated.
His gaze grew unsteady.
The Hall of the Infinite Mask trembled slightly.
— You're getting nervous, Caelen whispered.
— You haven't won yet.
— No.
He advanced a bishop.
— But you've already lost.
40th move.
Theon's white king was cornered.
His queen trapped in a mirror.
Only one way out.
And behind that way out, the black bishop.
Mate in two.
Theon saw the trap.
He screamed inwardly.
And struck the table.
But nothing moved.
The Plateau had decided.
42nd move.
The white king fell.
The silence was absolute.
Then, a voice:
— Victory for Caelen Sareth.
Theon remained seated. Trembling. His eyes lost in the collapsing zone.
Around him, the mirrors shattered. The masks melted.
Only the Plateau remained. And his fallen king.
Caelen stood, picked up his piece, spun it once between his fingers... then set it down again.
Venhal awaited him at the exit.
— You still haven't invoked your zone.
— No.
— Not even against Theon.
— I'm saving it for the only opponent who watches without judging.
— Elwin.
He nodded.
— His zone is a dream.
— And yours?
— A dream that bleeds.