Farhinstone
Mr. Svandhill stood at the head of the chamber, unveiling the construction blueprint for what he called the Orange School. The design was not his own—no, it bore the unmistakable signature of something far older, far more forbidden.
The Pinnaclester File.
All twelve figures had assembled once again, drawn by ambition… or perhaps by something darker. Their eyes traced every line of the blueprint, every impossible angle, every calculated detail. The structure was not merely a school—it was a statement. A monument to power.
"It will require no less than 140 million aurons," Svandhill announced calmly, "to complete construction. And several million more to… perfect it."
A voice from the gathering cut through the silence.
"That's too much."
Svandhill's lips curved into a thin, unsettling smile.
"Do not concern yourselves. You will not bear the cost alone."
He paused, letting his gaze drift across each of them—measuring, judging.
"All twelve of you will contribute. And trust me… the returns will be beyond comprehension."
His voice lowered, almost reverent.
"As you fine gentlemen already know… I possess the Pinnaclester File."
Then he laughed.
Not loudly. Not joyfully.
But with a hollow, echoing madness that lingered long after the sound had died.
One by one, the figures rose and left the chamber, their footsteps fading into the cold corridors.
Only Atiarnad remained.
He stepped closer to the blueprint, studying it with a quiet intensity.
"Extraordinary…" he murmured. "Only the finest will be permitted within these walls. Now… your vision reveals itself."
He looked up at Svandhill, a faint smile forming.
"Yes… this makes perfect sense."
Newland
The old man's eyes locked onto young Marchis.
There was something unnatural in them—something dim yet burning, like embers refusing to die. His body was frail, his breath uneven, illness clinging to him like a parasite. And yet… his mind remained sharp.
The chessboard lay between them.
The game began.
Hours passed in suffocating silence.
Each move was precise. Calculated. Deceptive. No mistakes. No hesitation. It was not a game—it was a war fought in stillness, where every piece carried intention… and consequence.
Then, suddenly—
Marchis spoke.
"Tell me… what do you think life is? What is life according to you?"
The old man paused.
For a boy of twelve, the question felt… wrong.
He stroked his beard slowly, gathering his thoughts.
"Life… is survival, my son," he said at last. "It is harsh. Ruthless. But when hardship comes, to react with selfishness… or violence for gain… is ignorance. True life is to stand firm in truth… and in love."
Marchis nodded faintly, as if acknowledging a trivial answer.
"True… true. Anything else?"
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
"And your life? In the end… you became alone. No ambition. No legacy."
Before the old man could respond—
Marchis moved.
A sharp, precise motion.
Check.
The old man blinked, caught off guard. Then… he laughed. A weak, fragile sound.
"What use is ambition… when death stands at your door?"
He shifted his piece, escaping.
Then he looked at the boy.
"Tell me, Marchis… what is life to you?"
The boy's face remained still. Empty.
"If you ask me… life is satisfaction. Doing what benefits you. What fulfills you. Life is about being careful… and certainly not being foolish."
The words landed cold.
The old man's expression shifted—subtle, but real.
Shock.
And then—
A violent cough.
Blood spilled from his mouth, staining the chessboard in dark crimson patterns.
Marchis did not flinch.
"I'm not finished," he said calmly.
"Life is not kindness. Not your version of it. A man who lives like that… gets crushed. Used. Forgotten."
His voice grew quieter. Sharper.
"You were lucky. You were alone."
A faint, humorless chuckle escaped him.
"But you should have been more careful."
The old man's body began to convulse.
Blood seeped from every opening. His skin… began to peel, as if something beneath it was trying to escape. His vision blurred, yet he forced himself to look.
At the board.
At the boy.
Realization struck him like a blade.
"You…!"
Marchis met his gaze.
No guilt.
No hesitation.
No humanity.
Only stillness.
He moved the final piece.
And in a voice barely above a whisper, he said—
"Checkmate."