The guards at Brindlecross did not greet us with celebration. They watched from the walls with drawn bows and narrowed eyes as the gates groaned open just wide enough to admit us. Only when the heavy timber doors slammed shut behind the last refugee did the tension ease.
Relief spread through the villagers like warmth returning to frozen limbs. Some wept openly. Others clasped the soldiers' hands in gratitude, speaking over one another in breathless relief. The five young men accepted the praise with restrained nods, their shoulders loosening now that stone walls stood between them and the forest.
And then there was me.
I stood apart, dust-streaked and overdressed, my charcoal suit absurd against wool tunics and patched cloaks. Sweat clung uncomfortably to my collar. My shoes were caked with drying mud. The conversations flowed around me but never toward me.
No one knew where to place me.
Frankly, neither did I.
Groups formed naturally — families reuniting, neighbors gathering, soldiers escorting villagers toward familiar streets. I remained still, suddenly aware that I had followed them here without any actual plan.
Attachment required leverage.
I had none.
After a moment of internal debate, I approached one of the soldiers — the spearman who had held the center during the skirmish.
"Where should I go?" I asked, keeping my tone even.
He looked at me as though I had asked where the sky was.
"For lodging," he said bluntly. "There are two inns near the square."
"I don't have any coin," I admitted.
His expression shifted from confusion to irritation.
"Then find work," he said, already turning away. "You're of age. No one feeds a grown man for free."
And just like that, I ceased to exist to him.
I exhaled quietly.
Useful.
Very useful.
No money. No allies. No status. No shelter.
A king without a square.
The streets of Brindlecross were well kept, I would give them that. Packed dirt reinforced with gravel and stone slabs where traffic was heaviest. Timber-framed buildings leaned inward slightly, their upper stories overhanging the lower floors. Wooden signs hung from iron brackets, swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze.
The smell of baked bread drifted faintly from somewhere ahead.
My stomach tightened sharply.
I had not eaten since—
Since Texas.
The realization hit harder than expected.
Time felt distorted. My body, however, remembered hunger perfectly.
People gave me glances as I walked. Not openly hostile — but curious. Suspicious. My clothing marked me as foreign, though perhaps not wealthy enough to be dangerous.
A child stared openly until his mother pulled him along.
A merchant paused mid-sweep to track my movement with narrowed eyes.
Information spread quickly in small towns.
I needed anonymity.
Or influence.
Preferably both.
The building appeared ahead on the right side of the street — larger than the surrounding shops, its roof steeply pitched, chimney smoking steadily. A wooden sign hung above the entrance, carved with a tankard and the words:
The Vennue Tavern.
The paint was chipped, but the lettering was confident.
Food meant warmth.
Warmth meant opportunity.
I pushed the door open.
It resisted slightly, swollen from age or humidity. The hinges complained with a tired groan as I stepped inside.
Heat wrapped around me immediately.
The tavern smelled of roasted meat, spilled ale, sweat, and woodsmoke. Voices overlapped in layered conversation — laughter from one corner, a heated argument near the hearth, the rhythmic clatter of mugs against heavy wooden tables.
The lighting was dim but warm, lanterns casting a golden glow that softened edges and hid imperfections.
There were at least thirty people inside.
Laborers by the look of them — broad shoulders, rough hands. A few men in partial armor sat near the back wall, weapons within reach but not drawn. A serving girl wove through the crowd with practiced agility, balancing three mugs effortlessly.
And on several tables—
Plates.
Bread torn into thick hunks.
Stew steaming in earthen bowls.
My throat tightened involuntarily.
I stepped further inside, allowing the door to swing shut behind me.
No one greeted me.
No one stopped me.
Yet several sets of eyes lifted briefly in assessment before returning to their conversations.
I stood there a moment longer than necessary.
A king without coin.
Hungry.
Unknown.
In a world that did not yet recognize him.
Very well.
Every board begins with positioning.
I adjusted my cuffs subtly and moved toward the bar.
I chose a stool at the far end of the bar.
It was deliberate.
Corners allowed visibility. Fewer blind angles. Less conversation unless invited. The wood creaked faintly under my weight, polished smooth by decades of elbows and spilled ale. I folded my hands on the counter, posture straight despite the fatigue clinging to my bones.
The bartender noticed me eventually.
He was older — late sixties perhaps — with a beard gone mostly silver and eyes the sharp, watery blue of a winter sky. His sleeves were rolled to thick forearms corded with sinew. A faded burn scar traced along one wrist. Not a man unfamiliar with labor. Or violence.
He wiped a tankard slowly as he approached.
"You're not from here," he said, not unkindly.
It wasn't a question.
"No," I replied. "Is it that obvious?"
He snorted faintly. "Your clothes look expensive. Your shoes look ruined. And you're sitting like a noble who's misplaced his carriage."
Direct.
Observant.
Useful.
"I'm looking for information," I said. "And perhaps an opportunity."
"That so?" His brow lifted. "Information costs coin. Opportunities cost more."
"I don't have coin."
He gave me a flat look.
"Then you've come to the wrong counter."
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice. "I have something of value. I'd like to know where I might exchange it."
That earned a pause.
He set the tankard down.
"What sort of value?"
I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and withdrew it carefully.
The gold watch caught the lanternlight immediately.
It was not ostentatious, but it was unmistakably fine craftsmanship. Smooth casing. Etched backplate. A subtle weight that spoke of density and purity. I flipped it open; the delicate ticking sounded impossibly loud in my own ears.
The bartender's eyes sharpened.
He did not reach for it.
"Where did you get that?" he asked.
"It was a gift," I replied evenly. "Family heirloom."
That was not entirely untrue.
He studied my face for several long seconds.
"You're either a fool," he said finally, "or you're desperate."
"Both can be true."
A thin smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"There's a trader near the eastern road. Deals in precious metals. Keeps irregular hours." He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Won't give you full value. No one here will. But you'll get enough coin for lodging and a week's meals."
"That will suffice."
He gestured toward a younger man behind the bar — lean, sandy-haired, perhaps twenty-two. Quick eyes. Restless hands.
"Torren," the old man called. "Take our guest to Marvek's shop."
Torren wiped his hands and came around the counter.
He looked me over openly.
"You sure about this?" he asked the bartender quietly.
The old man held his gaze a fraction too long before nodding.
"It'll be fine."
There was something in that exchange.
A flicker.
I noted it.
But I was tired. Hungry. And lacking alternatives.
"Follow me," Torren said.
The air outside had cooled. Evening bled into the streets in muted blues and long shadows. Lanterns were being lit one by one, small islands of gold in the encroaching dark.
We walked east.
The town thinned gradually — shops giving way to storage houses, then to modest dwellings spaced farther apart. The noise of the tavern district faded behind us, replaced by the distant barking of a dog and the whisper of wind through eaves.
"How far?" I asked casually.
"Not much farther," Torren replied without looking back.
His pace had quickened.
Mine slowed.
We turned down a narrower street.
No lanterns here.
The buildings leaned closer together, their upper floors nearly touching. The smell shifted — damp wood, stagnant water, something metallic underneath.
My steps echoed faintly.
Too faintly.
No ambient noise.
No evening chatter.
No livestock.
Empty.
Torren stopped.
"There," he said, pointing toward a low structure ahead with its shutters closed.
I followed his gesture.
And then I heard it.
A scuff.
Leather against gravel.
Behind me.
I did not turn immediately.
Turning too quickly would confirm awareness.
Instead, I allowed my shoulders to sag slightly — feigned exhaustion.
Then I pivoted.
Three men blocked the mouth of the alley.
Rough clothes. Scarred faces. One carried a cudgel. Another rested a hand on the hilt of a short blade. The third simply smiled.
Torren had stepped away from my side.
Two more figures emerged from the darkness near the shuttered building.
Five total.
Efficient.
My pulse did not spike.
It slowed.
Interesting.
The smiling one spoke first.
"That's a fine piece you've got there," he said. "We'll be taking it."
Torren avoided my eyes.
The realization settled with clinical clarity.
The bartender had seen value.
He had calculated risk.
And he had chosen profit.
I was not led to a trader.
I was delivered.
The alley felt smaller now.
The sky above a narrow strip of indigo.
I flexed my fingers once.
Thirty-two pieces hovered invisibly at the edge of my awareness.
Silent.
Waiting.
But no.
Not yet.
Information first.
"You could have asked," I said calmly.
The man with the cudgel laughed.
"Asked?"
"Yes. Negotiation tends to be more efficient than blunt theft."
"Listen to him," another sneered. "Talks like a lord."
Perhaps I did.
The smiling man stepped closer.
"Here's how this works," he said. "You hand over the gold. Maybe we let you walk."
"And if I refuse?"
The blade slid halfway from its sheath with a whisper of steel.
"Then we search your corpse."
Crude.
Predictable.
But five men.
Enclosed space.
No immediate witnesses.
I measured distances.
Angles.
Escape routes.
Limited.
Very limited.
Torren finally spoke, voice uneasy. "Just give it to them. You're not from here. No one will miss you."
There it was.
Confirmation.
Isolation.
Disposable.
The board had shifted.
And I had been careless.
My hand moved slowly toward my pocket.
Five sets of eyes tracked the motion.
The smiling man's grin widened.
"Yes," he said softly. "That's it."
The alley held its breath.
And for the first time since arriving in Mundus Regnorum—
I considered making my first move.
The smiling man's grin widened as my hand slipped into my pocket.
Five predators.
One alley.
No witnesses.
No coin.
No leverage.
Very well.
I closed my fingers around the watch.
And then—
I reached deeper.
Not physically.
Mentally.
The sensation was like brushing silk threads suspended in darkness. Thirty-two presences hovered at the edge of perception, patient and cold.
I selected five.
Pawns.
The weakest pieces on a board.
The most numerous.
The most disposable.
Or so tradition claimed.
Go.
There was no incantation. No gesture. No light from my hands.
The world simply… shifted.
Five pale shapes tore free from the invisible orbit around me — translucent, geometric silhouettes shaped like carved ivory pawns. They moved without wind, without sound, phasing through air like thoughts given form.
The bandits saw them.
Their expressions fractured.
"What—"
The pieces entered them.
Not through flesh.
Through being.
Each pawn sank into a chest, into a skull, into the core of a living man as though slipping into water.
And then—
Silence.
Total.
The cudgel fell from nerveless fingers.
The blade clattered against stone.
Torren stumbled backward, choking on a scream that never escaped.
The men convulsed once.
Twice.
Their bodies arched unnaturally as something rewrote them from within.
I felt it.
God help me, I felt it.
Five consciousnesses slammed into mine like doors thrown open in a storm.
Memories.
Names.
Crimes.
Regrets.
Hunger.
Fear.
I saw a childhood spent stealing bread. A sister sold to pay debt. A failed harvest. A scar earned in a border skirmish. A man who never intended to become a bandit but found no other path.
It was not gentle.
It was not filtered.
It was absolute.
My knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.
And then—
It stabilized.
The transformation completed.
The men straightened.
Slowly.
The alley seemed smaller around them now.
Broader shoulders. Straighter spines. The shallow, ragged breathing of malnourished criminals replaced by deep, steady inhales. Scars faded like mist under sunlight. Crooked noses aligned. A milky eye cleared to sharp focus.
Muscle defined itself beneath threadbare shirts.
They were not merely healed.
They were refined.
Optimized.
The man who had carried the cudgel flexed his hand experimentally, staring at it as if seeing it for the first time.
Torren looked around wildly.
"What did you do?" he whispered.
Five heads turned toward me in perfect synchronization.
Not forced.
Not blank.
Aware.
Then, as one—
They knelt.
Knees struck stone in unison.
Fists pressed to chests.
Heads bowed.
"My King."
The words overlapped — five voices, one intention.
The alley felt like a cathedral.
I stood motionless.
Breathing controlled.
Heart steady.
Inside, a storm raged.
They were still themselves.
I could feel that clearly.
Their personalities had not been erased.
They remembered who they were.
But now—
They were aligned.
Not enslaved like puppets.
Integrated.
Their loyalty was not coerced.
It was foundational.
Irresistible.
A pawn does not question the king.
It moves.
I swallowed once.
Information continued flowing — structured now, organized. I knew their strengths, their endurance limits, their preferred weapons. I knew which one feared enclosed spaces. Which one had once trained formally with a spear. Which one could read.
I even knew the rhythm of their heartbeats.
Absolute awareness.
This was not influence.
This was dominion.
Torren collapsed backward against the wall.
"You— you're a demon," he breathed.
Five heads lifted slightly.
Awaiting command.
The power was intoxicating.
Not because of strength.
But because of certainty.
For the first time since waking in this world—
I was not alone.
I looked at the kneeling men.
Former bandits.
Now pawns.
Upgraded in body and bound in allegiance.
An entire village had needed five trained soldiers to repel goblins.
I had created five stronger men in seconds.
And I still had twenty-seven pieces remaining.
The implications were staggering.
Slowly, deliberately, I stepped forward.
"Stand," I said.
They rose instantly.
Perfect discipline.
No hesitation.
No confusion.
Their eyes were clear.
Focused.
Waiting.
I turned my gaze to Torren.
He trembled under it.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
This world was ruled by kings, bishops, nobles.
Hierarchy.
Power.
Territory.
And I—
I had just taken my first square. And it was a checkmate using Pawns.