Jiggs' POV
Now I'm the commander of the black team in this human chess match—wait, no. This is no ordinary match.
This is the Human Chess Death Match.
Because of course... OF COURSE they just had to make it about people dying!
Currently, the remaining pieces on my side—my ride-or-die chaos squad—are Deux, Silver, Mr. Voder, Alaric, Melior, one trusty knight, and four barely-holding-it-together pawns.
Meanwhile, Nihilex still has his smug little collection: a Queen (Champ), a King, two Rooks, one Bishop, and three pawns.
So technically... yes, we have the numbers.
But the problem?
Champ—Nihilex's Queen piece.
And as long as he's on the board, we're all playing roulette blindfolded with a chessboard made of landmines.
"White player's turn."
Nihilex's lips curled into a grin, his eyes glowing with that smug-evil-overlord energy.
"Are you ready, little Beta?" he cooed toward me like he was about to offer me tea... laced with cyanide.
I ignored his villain monologue and scanned the battlefield.
And yes—this was no longer a chessboard.
This was a warzone.
And I, the reluctant general of the emotionally-wounded-but-fabulous resistance, had to pull a miracle out of my non-existent military training.
I stared down at the glowing tiles like a caffeinated barista trying to decode ancient runes made out of soy milk foam.
Let's break this madness down.
BLACK SIDE (Us. The mentally exhausted protagonists)
King – Mr. Voder – e8
Still. Steady. Regal. He hasn't moved an inch, and honestly, he gives off the energy of a dad who's seen too much and just wants his kids to live. If we lose him—we lose the match, the war, and maybe our will to live.
Queen – Alaric – d6
The moment you underestimate him is the moment you die. Shoulders back, head high, channeling his inner warrior queen with lip gloss. Covers both lanes, left and right. Ready to SLAY. Literally.
Rook – Deux – d2
Dead center. Unblinking. Unforgiving. In check position, straight-up staring down Nihilex's King like, "Your reign ends with me."
Rook – Silver – f5
Sharp eyes. Tension in every muscle. He's guarding Deux like a bodyguard who took an oath in blood. One false move and Silver will rain down violence like a protective brother with a vendetta.
Bishop – Melior – c6
Elegant but lethal. His positioning covers escape routes. You'd think he's just posing, but blink—and you're already checkmated.
Knight – g6
Wild card. Close to the King but can leap anywhere. You never really know what a Knight will do—and this one? Might just end the game with flair.
Pawn – a5
Way out on the flank. Slightly isolated. Probably writing emo poetry in his head. But if he survives, I'll buy him dinner.
Pawn – d5
Right behind Deux. Loyal. Supportive. Might not be the star, but he's ready to avenge if needed.
Pawn – f4
Trailing behind Silver. Hidden hero vibes. Could charge. Could perish. Either way—he's gonna do it dramatically.
Pawn – h6
Honestly, he hasn't moved at all. But he feels important. Emotional support pawn. We respect him.
WHITE SIDE (Nihilex's Hellish Regime)
King – e1
Cornered and pretending he isn't sweating buckets. Deux has him in check, and I swear if this was real life, he'd be calling his therapist right now.
Queen – Champ – e5
Golden. Gorgeous. Terrifying. The embodiment of a divine storm. Positioned to end everything—or to save the King. Depends on whether he's playing or plotting.
Rook – a1
Silent. Lurking. Probably sharpening a blade in the dark. Creepy but committed.
Rook – h2
Other end of the world. Doing his job but looks like he's bored.
Bishop – f3
Perfectly placed to wreck my plans diagonally. Has the vibe of a passive-aggressive coworker who ruins your presentation and still takes credit.
Pawn – b3
Guarding the Queen's left. Kind of forgettable. Might betray someone later.
Pawn – e4
Right in front of the King. Poor guy's trembling. I swear he just peed a little.
Pawn – g3
Flanking defense. Thinks he's important because he's next to the Bishop. He might be right.
This is the current setup.
This is battle ballet performed by warlords and traitors on a glowing floor of doom.
At the heart of this chaos, Deux at d2. Champ at e5.
One misstep, and sparks will fly—literally.
Alaric at d6 has access to the whole field. His next move could cut through our fate—or seal it.
Silver at f5 is a breath away from total annihilation or heroic glory.
Melior and the Knight are like tactical nukes, just waiting to launch.
And in the middle of it all—Mr. Voder at e8 is still breathing calm like a monk in a hurricane.
We're outnumbered in logic, outgunned in power, but dammit—We've got sass, strategy, and pawns who still believes in us.
So Nihilex...
Your move.
⸻
I blinked at the pieces.
No.
This wasn't chess anymore.
This was war dressed in rules.
A kingdom's fate disguised as strategy.
A love letter penned in sacrifice and blood and one hell of a dramatic power play.
It felt like I was leading a full-scale kingdom invasion—but with chess pieces. And unfortunately for everyone, I was the commander.
And my enemy?
Nihilex.
The psychopathic but calm overlord who treated this battlefield like a therapy session he was clearly not attending.
Team Aurivelle—yes, that's us—had claimed Melior as one of ours. (Sorry not sorry, Verilios.) And as for Champ?
He was ours first.
Nihilex just stole him like some overgrown toddler snatching someone else's toy and claiming it was his all along.
Then—
Silence shattered.
The air buzzed like a warning.
The floor beneath us—the board—trembled. As if it knew something terrible was coming.
Then—
Nihilex moved.
And I felt it before I even saw it.
"Bishop on f3. Kill the Pawn on f4," Nihilex ordered, calm as icewater in a grave.
Slash!
The Bishop lunged.
Straight into the space behind Silver.
My pawn.
My little pawn.
Gone.
Just like that.
No fight. No defense. No goodbye.
Silver turned, his expression darkening with every heartbeat.
"Jiggs," he growled, fists already trembling, "move me. Now. My hands are itching to tear that bastard apart!"
The board beneath f4 pulsed—BOOM—a blinding burst of light shot up.
I could barely scream—my voice caught somewhere between my lungs and the grief strangling them. He was one of ours. He wasn't the strongest, nor the loudest. He didn't have flashy moves or a title that echoed through the board like the others did. But he stood tall. He endured. He mattered.
And now... now he was simply—gone.
No explosion. No blaze of glory. No final cry etched into the moment. Just silence. He collapsed without resistance, as if the game itself had leaned in and pressed down on his chest, robbing him of breath, of presence, of existence.
And that was the cruelest part.
The silence.
Deafening in its stillness. No drama. No outcry. Just... absence. No one cheered. No one gasped. The board simply accepted his disappearance like it had been planned all along.
My throat burned, raw with rage I couldn't spit out. My body trembled, torn between fight and despair. I turned, jaw clenched and fists shaking, and locked eyes with Nihilex.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even acknowledge what he'd taken from me.
But inside me—inside every vein and nerve—I was boiling.
Fury surged like acid, corrosive and unrelenting, eating away the last threads of restraint.
"You didn't need to do that," I snarled.
But Nihilex only smiled.
A smile that belonged to demons. Thin. Cold. Cruel.
"A lesson," he said softly. "Every move has a cost, Jiggs. Let's see how long before you start bleeding."
"Black player's turn."
Something snapped inside me.
Oh, now he was going to regret it.
He had taken one of mine.
He had killed one of mine.
Not just a pawn, not just a piece, but a person.
Fine. If that was how he wanted to play—
Then now, it was my turn.
And I wasn't going to play gently.
I didn't wait for anyone's permission. I didn't ask for a strategy check or a moment to breathe. There wasn't time for breath. My body moved before my mind could catch up, running entirely on instinct, fury, and grief.
"Silver..." I whispered, my voice low, trembling with the weight of everything I was holding back.
But I never even finished the name.
Because he was already moving.
There was no hesitation in his step.
No warning.
No grace.
Just vengeance.
Merciless. Unapologetic. Absolute.
Silver turned and launched himself across the board, from f5 to f3, like a bullet of vengeance wrapped in leather and lightning.
Silver moved like a storm unchained.
His boots pounded against the glowing tiles, each step echoing with a force that shook the entire board. The rhythm wasn't just loud—it was apocalyptic. Thunder in motion. Fury given form. The air seemed to warp around him as he closed the distance between f5 and f3, a straight shot fueled by nothing but unfiltered rage.
Then—
Impact.
He collided with the Bishop like a cannonball through glass.
Shoulder-first. Brutal. No warning. No restraint.
There was no elegance, no choreography, no hint of strategic finesse. This wasn't chess. This was retribution. Silver didn't play the game—he shattered it.
The Bishop barely had time to register the attack.
One moment he stood, poised and calculated.
The next?
Silver's hand clamped around his throat, fingers tightening like iron jaws.
The Bishop's eyes widened—but he didn't even get the chance to scream.
CRACK.
The sound tore through the silence like a blade.
It wasn't a clean break—it was destruction.
A split-second later, blinding white light burst from the Bishop's core—violent, brilliant, sacred. It shot upward like the final breath of a dying star, casting jagged shadows across the battlefield and turning the board into a blinding cathedral of vengeance.
And then—the Bishop's body collapsed.
There was no scream.
No last gasp.
No desperate struggle for survival.
Just a sound—dull and final—a hollow, echoing thud as his form hit the board and crumpled like a puppet with its strings severed. The light in his tile flickered once, then died. His essence—his presence—gone in an instant.
Lifeless.
Motionless.
Erased.
Not just from the game, but from existence.
As if he had never stood there at all.
As if Silver's wrath had torn his name from the pages of this match and burned it clean from memory.
And standing above him, in the silence that followed, was Silver.
He didn't move.
He didn't gloat.
He didn't even blink.
He stood like judgment carved into stone—cold, steady, unshaken—his breath steady and eyes locked forward, already daring the next piece to try their luck.
His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths—the only proof that he wasn't a statue sculpted from wrath and silence. There was no triumph in his posture. No gloating. Just a terrifying stillness, like the eye of a storm deciding where to go next.
His eyes didn't blink.
Didn't wander.
They were locked—unyielding, burning—on one thing, and one thing only:
Nihilex.
The look Silver gave him wasn't just a glare.
It was a curse.
A vow.
A prophecy laced in pure, simmering hate.
If gazes could burn, Nihilex would've been nothing but a pile of smoldering ash on that throne.
If stares could kill, entire kingdoms would've collapsed beneath their own crowns.
And in that moment, Silver didn't look like a piece on a board.
He looked like the endgame.
I felt it before I even realized I was doing it—
A grin slid across my face.
Sharp. Venomous.
Because this?
This was only the beginning.
"You took one of mine," I hissed, "Now we're still winning."
But deep down?
I knew the truth, even before the dust settled.
Silver wasn't just payback. He wasn't vengeance served hot on a steel tray.
He was a message.
A declaration screamed in shattered bones and broken tiles.
A warning to the enemy:
Touch one of ours, and we'll burn the board.
But this wasn't over.
Not even close.
The silence that followed Silver's strike was suffocating.
Not a cheer.
Not a gasp.
Not even a whisper of breath.
Just the hiss of static beneath our feet—low, rhythmic, alive—like the board itself was breathing.
No... trembling.
Like something ancient, something buried deep in the circuits and stones of this arena, had just awakened.
And it wasn't happy.
Then, as if on cue—
"White player's turn."
The announcement cut through the air like a blade—flat, mechanical, emotionless. It had no weight, no ceremony. Just another line in a game where death had become routine.
And Nihilex... he moved.
No hesitation. No drama. Not a flicker of remorse for the Bishop Silver had just reduced to dust. His eyes didn't even acknowledge the scorched tile where his piece once stood. No mourning. No pause. Just the cold efficiency of someone who saw life—and death—as mere tools on a board.
He raised one pale, elegant hand. Slow. Deliberate. Like a puppeteer poised to pull the next string in a very calculated tragedy. His fingers extended—not toward me, not toward Silver, but to the far edge of the board.
a1—His Rook.
I froze, breath catching in my throat.
My pulse faltered, skipping like a record stuck on dread. Something cold—unnatural—crawled down my spine, curling like frost around bone.
Then the tile beneath the Rook ignited—glowing white-hot, intense, as if it had just been seared by divine wrath. A signal. A sentence.
And it moved.
The Rook slid forward—not with the stomp of boots or the rustle of fabric. It made no sound. It had no weight. It simply glided, like a ghost executing a divine command. From a1 to a8, it crossed the entire backline with eerie precision, each tile lighting in its wake like a funeral march.
It looked less like a chess piece and more like an executioner wrapped in ivory robes—faceless, soundless, inevitable.
And in its path...
a5—My pawn.
The quiet one.
The one who never asked for recognition, who had no name carved into history—but who had stood from the very beginning. He never made a move for glory. He never faltered. He was my soldier. My shield.
He had stayed—through the chaos, through every brutal exchange, through every sacrifice that left us emptier than before.
He had survived. Quiet. Steady. Reliable. He was never the one to charge forward or pull focus, but his presence was a constant—like the breath you never realize you depend on until it's ripped from your lungs. He had made it this far, outlasting louder voices and flashier pieces. And for a moment, I'd almost let myself think he'd make it all the way.
He had believed. In me. In the game. In the idea that we weren't just pawns in some twisted show. That we were more than disposable. That we could win.
And now—
The Rook reached him.
There was no warning. No clash of strength or grand explosion to mark the moment. He didn't get a heroic last stand. No dramatic music. No slow-motion echo of his name called across the board.
Just a flash.
A single, blinding burst of white-hot light—sharp, silent, and absolute. Like a blade so cleanly struck, it barely left time for pain.
And then—
He was gone.
The light faded, and the tile where he had stood fell dark, empty. Like he'd never existed. No trace. No echo. Just silence. Cold and final.
One moment, he was a piece. A fighter. A quiet anchor in a storm that never stopped.
The next?
A memory.
A gap in the board.
A void I hadn't braced for.
And that—
That hurt more than any sacrifice I had expected.
I staggered forward, my hand gripping the edge of the board as if letting go would pull me into the void too.
My knuckles turned white. Bone pressing hard against skin.
The pain grounded me—anchored me to the present like a blade lodged in my chest. It was sharp, real, almost welcome. Because at least pain meant I was still alive.
But the grief?
That ran deeper than anything the pain could touch. It didn't scream or lash out. It didn't come with fire or fury. No—grief sank. Heavy and cold, like a stone hurled into a bottomless well, vanishing into a silence that would never echo back. It settled in my chest, a weight I couldn't throw off, a wound that didn't bleed but still cut all the same.
Two of mine. Gone.
Not just pieces.
Not just pawns in this twisted mockery of strategy.
They were people.
Breathing, fighting, believing.
And now they were gone—snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Erased from existence as if their loyalty, their presence, their sacrifice meant nothing.
And Nihilex—
He smiled.
Not with joy. There was no spark of satisfaction in it.
Not with pride. No victory gleamed in his eyes.
It was cold. Surgical. A smile without soul.
The kind of smile you'd find on a god who thought creation was a mistake and destruction was the only true art form.
It was the same precise, unfeeling expression he always wore—like this entire board, this entire war, was nothing more than a performance staged for his amusement.
Cruel.
Methodical.
Beautifully merciless.
A predator who didn't just command the game...
He owned the kill.
"That's two," he said, his voice smooth as silk but sharpened like steel. "Shall we keep counting how many of your pieces I can kill... before the game ends?"
My stomach turned.
This wasn't strategy anymore.
This was slaughter.
The careful calculations, the poised decisions—they were gone. Replaced by brutality disguised as logic. This wasn't a game played by tacticians.
This was a massacre in slow motion.
And me?
I was running out of pieces to love.
He tilted his head. Not in confusion. Not in curiosity.
But as a threat.
A gesture that said: You're next.
The board beneath our feet buzzed low and ominous, like a war chant rising from the earth. Red and black lights pulsed across the tiles in sync—like the heartbeat of a dying world. Each flicker was a funeral bell. Each glow, a name being crossed off.
And above the chaos, the crowd had gone still.
Whispers slithered through them like ghosts unsure if they were supposed to mourn or cheer.
Because this wasn't a chess match anymore.
It had become something darker—colder. The board beneath our feet wasn't a battlefield of strategy and foresight. It was a graveyard in motion. A funeral procession disguised as a game, where every move carved a name into stone. Every glowing tile carried the weight of someone who had stood, fought, and vanished.
And me?
I was done watching.
Done calculating.
Done clinging to rules crafted by tyrants.
I wasn't here to protect my King anymore. This wasn't about defense. Not about survival.
This was about fire.
About retribution.
I was here to burn their empire down—piece by piece, tile by tile, until there was nothing left but ash and memory. I wasn't a commander anymore.
I was the spark they should have never let survive.
My next move wouldn't be clever.
It wouldn't be elegant or traditional.
It would be vengeance made manifest.
It would be the scream they never saw coming.
"Black player's turn."
And this time?
I wouldn't just play to win.
I would play to break him.
...
I scanned the board again—each glowing tile, each poised figure, each absence where someone used to stand. I wasn't just looking. I was reading it now, like a war map soaked in blood and memory. Every flicker of light beneath the board hummed with the tension of a thousand unspoken screams.
The second the pawn on a5 vanished, something inside me cracked. I almost lost it. Almost.
But then—I saw it.
The pattern.
The formation.
Like lightning slicing through fog, the strategy burst into focus—sharp, bright, undeniable. A plan not built from rage, but from clarity.
Champ—The corrupted Queen of Nihilex. A creature cloaked in gold, muscle, and divine distortion. Still shimmering at e5, still regal in posture, still deadly. But this time?
He was exposed.
Not vulnerable, no—Champ was never weak.
But flanked. Surrounded. A god caught in a trap of mortals.
And if I made the right move now...
I wouldn't have to kill him. I never intended to.
This wasn't about destruction.
This was about control.
About cornering Nihilex so tightly that he'd have no option left but to retreat.
To force his hand.
To make him panic.
I closed my eyes for a brief second and let the hum of the board crawl up through my boots, like the battlefield itself was breathing with me.
"f4 is gone," I murmured. "That opens the middle file..."
Silver now stood on f3—the very line that had once been clogged by the Bishop.
Deux, cold and unmoving, still loomed on d2, his presence slicing the diagonal just in front of Champ.
And Alaric... steady, unshaken, beautifully terrifying, parked at d6.
Champ was boxed in.
Nihilex could take out one of them. Sure.
But to do that would mean leaving Champ—his strongest piece—open. Unprotected. Dead.
My breaths came shallow now, almost inaudible against the backdrop of flickering lights and scorched air. The smell of burning tiles where f4 and a5 once stood still lingered, like ghosts clinging to the last threads of existence. Two lives lost. Two pieces erased. And Nihilex?
He was only beginning.
But so was I.
My hands hovered above the edge of the board—not in doubt, but in anticipation. The silence wasn't empty anymore—it was screaming. The board roared in numbers and lines, in flashing signals and unseen chains. I could hear it, see it—feel it.
And there, at the center of it all...
Champ.
Still gleaming at e5. Still lethal. Still ours, somewhere beneath that golden shell.
He had been ours.
Before Nihilex twisted him.
I wasn't going to lose him again.
I wouldn't raise my hand to end him.
I'd trap him. Contain him. Shield him from the madness that consumed him—even if it meant wrapping mercy in a dagger's edge.
"Okay," I whispered, voice low, eyes scanning every line of fire, grief, and calculation. "Let's corner a hurricane."
To my left, Silver stood like a coiled weapon, breaths heavy at f3, his fists still twitching from his last kill.
Deux remained locked at d2, an immovable sentinel, steel in human form.
And Alaric...
Alaric was poised like a war bride sculpted in silk and armor, radiant at d6, just waiting for a signal. Ready to strike. Ready to check the King.
Then I saw it.
The path.
While Champ is at e5, I can see the White King trembling at e1.
There was one move. Just one.
The key to flipping the entire momentum.
If I could check the King now, Nihilex would be forced to defend.
He'd lose his grip on the offensive.
And in that window?
We surround Champ—completely.
Here it goes, my next move.
"Alaric," I said, feeling a smirk cut across my lips. "It's time to walk the aisle."
He didn't hesitate.
"That's why I wanted you to play, Jiggs," he replied with that signature coolness. "Good choice."
He moved.
Queen from d6 to e2.
A perfect line.
A direct, undeniable check to the White King.
And a death sentence if ignored.
But Nihilex couldn't ignore it. Even in his madness, he was still bound to the rules of this warped game. Even he bowed to the blade of the Queen.
I lifted my gaze from the board. And there he was—Nihilex. The pale tyrant. The bastard king.
He didn't speak. But his fingers twitched.
His jaw clenched.
His calm cracked, ever so slightly.
He felt it, that he was cornered.
He couldn't strike back at Alaric—not with the King under threat. Not while the check hung above him like a guillotine.
And Champ?
Still frozen at e5.
His diagonal locked down by Deux at d2.
His side guarded by Silver at f3.
His rear cut off by the smoldering void where our pawn had once stood.
He was trapped.
And Nihilex?
He had to move.
Or sacrifice the entire game.
"You cornered yourself," I said, voice low but laced with fire. "You called this a lesson? Fine. Here's mine: When I get serious—even Betas like me can lead a war."
I leaned over the board, heart thundering, the light surging beneath me like the world itself was holding its breath.
"Check," I whispered, a quiet blade aimed at a tyrant's heart. "Your move, Nihilex."
And this time?
You're the one being hunted.
"White player's turn."
The silence was unbearable.
It wasn't just the absence of sound—it was a suffocating, living thing. A pressure that coiled around my ribs and dug its claws into my chest. The board, now painted in alternating flashes of red and white, pulsed beneath our feet like it had a heartbeat of its own.
The check—Alaric's move—still hung in the air like a guillotine blade suspended over Nihilex's King. But he didn't panic. He didn't retreat.
No.
He smiled.
That same cold, hollow smile. Thin, deliberate, too precise to be human. It never touched his eyes. Never held warmth. Just... calculation.
He didn't look at Alaric.
He didn't even glance at his endangered King.
He looked at me.
"Lovely move, Jiggs," Nihilex said, his voice like velvet soaked in poison. "Maybe I've underestimated you as a Beta. You finally started playing like someone with something to lose. That's what I love about mind games—when fear becomes inspiration."
His fingers floated above the board, each movement elegant and deliberate, like a composer deciding which note would kill the loudest.
And then he pointed.
At Champ.
The moment his finger extended, the air changed—like the atmosphere had been set on fire.
"No..." I whispered, breath faltering. "He wouldn't—"
But he would.
And he did.
The Queen moved.
Champ slid from e5 to e7.
The moment he landed, the tile beneath him exploded with light—blazing gold, brilliant and terrifying. His armor shimmered like molten sunlight and gaze fixed.
"Check," Nihilex said, smiling wider now, like the devil had just played his favorite card.
And it wasn't just any check.
It was a check on Mr. Voder—our King.
Our heart.
Our last hope.
My lungs seized.
I couldn't breathe.
Mr. Voder stood still at e8, noble and unwavering, the last anchor of everything we were trying to protect. And now—just one tile away—stood Champ. The Queen. Towering. Radiant. Ready.
His eyes were hollow. No recognition. No soul. Only command. Only obedience.
Only Nihilex.
And in that moment, the Queen we once trusted had become our executioner—not by will, but by manipulation.
I heard Silver mutter a sharp curse under his breath. His fists curled, his breath ragged.
Deux didn't speak, but his energy spiked—like steel unsheathed, silent but ready to strike.
And me?
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
Because this...
This wasn't just a tactical check.
It was a warning.
A reminder.
If I tried to back Nihilex into a corner—if I pushed too far—he would strike at the thing I couldn't afford to lose.
"You protect your King," Nihilex said, tone like mockery cloaked in silk. "How touching."
He tilted his head ever so slightly, the movement slow, almost tender.
"But you forgot... so do I."
And suddenly, everything clicked.
He wanted me to take the King.
He wanted me to press the advantage.
Because he didn't care about winning the game.
He wanted to break me.
This was never about victory. This was psychological warfare. And he was using my pieces—my people—to tear me apart, one move at a time.
He knew I'd try to counter.
He knew I wouldn't kill Champ.
But if I hesitated?
He would.
The Queen we loved... was staring down our King.
One tile away from taking the crown.
I clenched my fists, knuckles burning. My jaw tightened.
Tears gathered—but I refused to let them fall.
"Don't... make me choose," I whispered.
But the choice had already been made.
Check.
And this time?
It wasn't just the King on the line.
It was my soul.
"Black player's turn."
My knees nearly gave out.
The air surrounding the board shimmered with heat and heartbreak.
Everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once.
Champ stood tall at e7, his eyes empty.
He was poised to strike—one move away from Mr. Voder.
From our King.
From everything we had left.
I could hear Silver's breath—ragged, barely contained.
Deux's silence buzzed like electricity, sharp and brimming with fury.
And in the eye of it all, Mr. Voder stood—silent, unmoved, his expression calm.
He didn't panic.
He didn't flinch.
Because he trusted me.
He still believed in me.
I swallowed the scream building in my throat.
No.
I wouldn't lose anyone else.
Not Voder.
Not Alaric.
Not Champ.
"I see what you're doing," I muttered, eyes locked on the radiant Queen looming before us. "You want me to kill him. You want me to panic."
Nihilex's laugh was soft, infuriating.
"But I won't," I continued, grounding my voice, steadying my soul. "Because chess isn't just about destruction. It's about defense."
And in this moment—
when everything teetered on the edge of collapse—
my mind locked onto a single truth:
I had to protect what mattered.
Not just the King.
Not just the game.
But them.
All of them.
I dragged my eyes across the battlefield, every tile glowing with tension, every second stretching like a blade held to my throat.
Silver—anchored at f3, still brimming with rage. But he was too far. There was no clean path, no angle sharp enough for him to intercept in time. His fury couldn't outrun the mechanics of the game.
Deux—rigid at d2, watching the diagonal like a hawk carved in stone. He was brilliant, deadly, unshakable—but boxed in. His reach wouldn't cover the e-file in time. Not before Champ struck.
Panic scratched at the back of my throat.
We were out of time. Out of places to run.
Then—
through the chaos, through the smoke and the flashing red—
something shifted.
A flicker.
A thread.
A whisper of possibility.
Melior.
Still holding his position at c6. Unmoved. Precise.
He wasn't flashy. He wasn't loud.
But right now?
He was everything.
The diagonal from c6 to e7—open.
Unblocked.
Perfect.
And in that flickering light, that sliver of hope—
I saw it.
The move that could save us.
His diagonal was open.
And more importantly?
He saw it too.
"Jiggs," he said quietly, voice strung tight like a drawn bow. "Give the order."
I exhaled slowly, the breath tearing its way from my lungs like it had been trapped beneath a mountain of pressure. My chest burned. My heart thundered against my ribs, desperate, defiant.
But I nodded.
There was no room for doubt anymore.
"Melior to e7."
The moment the words left my lips, the board responded.
The tile beneath him pulsed—soft at first, then brighter, fiercer—like it recognized the gravity of what was about to happen.
And then he moved.
Not with hesitation.
Not with flair.
But with the quiet dignity of a warrior who knew what had to be done.
From c6 to e7.
Like a silver arrow gliding across the tension of the board.
Melior—our Bishop—became a wall. A shield. A sentinel of light.
He slid directly between Mr. Voder and Champ, standing tall beneath the golden glow of the corrupted Queen. The moment he arrived, the very air around the board seemed to still.
There was no fear. No hesitation.
Only resolve—pure and unwavering. The kind that didn't need to be shouted or dramatized. It was etched in Melior's every step, in the quiet grace of his movement as he stood tall between our King and the golden threat.
It wasn't just a move. It was loyalty turned into motion.
Sacrifice, reshaped into strategy.
A deliberate offering of protection. Not for glory. Not for credit. But because it was necessary. Because someone had to stand in the way.
In that single act, the path was severed.
The fatal line had been broken.
The check—defended.
And the King?
Still standing. Still untouched. Still ours.
For now.
But the war?
It was still here. Still breathing.
Still snarling beneath the surface of every tile—hungry, waiting.
And the next move?
It would decide everything.
Who would rise.
Who would fall.
And who would bleed next.
He stood between our King and his doom, cloak rippling like storm-washed silk, his chin lifted in silent defiance. Melior wasn't just a piece on the board—he was a statement. A wall of flesh and will declaring, You'll go through me first.
The block was complete.
Voder was safe.
But at what cost?
Melior now stood directly in front of Champ—face-to-face with the corrupted Queen we once called family. One wrong move, one shift in the air, and he'd be gone. Reduced to light and memory.
But Melior didn't flinch.
Didn't tremble.
Didn't waver.
Because he understood. This wasn't about survival anymore.
This was about holding the line.
"Come on, then," he murmured, his voice calm as steel. His eyes met Champ's vacant gaze. "If I fall here, it'll be with purpose."
I clenched my jaw, refusing to blink, refusing to breathe.
"Your move, Nihilex," I whispered. "But you'll have to kill me to win. You can't touch Melior—because if you do, one of my pieces will destroy Champ. And I know you won't let that happen."
This time, we weren't backing down.
We weren't bleeding.
Now?
We were fighting back.
"White player's turn."
The tension vibrated through the board like a live wire, crackling with the weight of what came next.
Melior, firm at e7, became a sentinel—his presence like a stone thrown into a river of chaos. The flow shifted. The game rewrote itself again.
And for a moment—
Nihilex said nothing.
He just stared at me. Not with rage. Not with fear. But like he was staring at a puzzle he couldn't solve.
Like I had just become unreadable.
Then he laughed. Soft at first. Cold. A single thread of sound that snaked its way through the silence like poison.
"A clever block," he said, voice low. "Didn't expect you to use him."
His fingers hovered over the board again.
And this time, they trembled.
He didn't move like a god now.
He moved like a man—hesitant, unsure.
Like someone realizing the game wasn't in his control anymore.
His hand drifted to the second Rook—the one coiled quietly at h2.
"Advance," he muttered.
The Rook slid forward.
h2 to h6.
It didn't strike. It didn't kill.
It loomed.
A threat placed behind my last pawn on that edge.
A move meant to intimidate.
To rattle.
But I saw it now for what it was.
"You're reaching," I said, voice sharp, unshaken.
Nihilex's gaze snapped to mine. "You're moving pieces to intimidate me... not to win."
I stepped forward, defiant.
"But you're not stopping me."
He blinked—slow, careful.
Then smiled again, a thin veil of arrogance stretched over a crack of doubt.
"Intimidation is a strategy, Jiggs."
"So is desperation," I shot back.
And in that moment, I knew.
He didn't see it—what I was doing, what I was building, the quiet storm gathering beneath every piece I moved. For the first time, Nihilex wasn't orchestrating the chaos. He was reacting. Reacting to me. To my board. To my rhythm. The tempo had shifted, and he hadn't noticed it until it was already out of his control.
And suddenly, I could taste it.
The checkmate—it was close. Not born from brute strength or overwhelming force. Not summoned through domination or fear. No, this victory was being forged from something else entirely.
It was crafted from the very things Nihilex had always dismissed. The tools he never considered powerful.
Subtlety.
Wisdom.
And heart.
The very things he thought made me weak... were the same things about to bring him down.
And as his Rook clicked into place at h6, I watched the light beneath it flicker... just a little too dim.
Even the board itself recoiled from his touch.
Even the magic knew—he was losing the rhythm.
And I?
I had found it.
"Black player's turn."
The hum beneath the board pounded like a war drum. Each glowing tile lit with memory—losses, victories, sacrifices. They had all brought us here.
Everything had led to this moment.
This move.
My final play.
I looked across the board, my gaze locking with Nihilex's. His face remained calm, unreadable, carved from marble like always. But I saw past the mask now. I saw the flicker behind his eyes—the first shimmer of uncertainty. A tremor in the stillness.
There it was.
A crack.
Small, but fatal.
He didn't know it yet—but I had already won.
He had placed his Rook at h6, hoping to throw me off, to rattle my focus, to bait me into reacting. It was a move made from habit, from old dominance. But it was empty.
Because while he tried to frighten me with threats...
He forgot to protect what mattered most.
His King.
I traced the alignment with my eyes—every move whispering to me like poetry.
Deux stood firm at d2, cutting through the diagonals with the precision of a sharpened blade, watching every angle like a soldier who had seen too many wars. He wasn't just stationed—he was ready.
Silver held the flank at f3, tense and alert, his gaze fixed and unyielding. Every muscle in his body coiled like a spring, guarding the side like a watchful sentinel who refused to let anything slip past.
Melior faced Champ head-on at e7, his posture unshaken, his presence unwavering. He was the line. The last line. And he wasn't moving, no matter what loomed before him.
And Alaric—our Queen—stood poised at e2, the final piece waiting to be unleashed. Regal. Calculated. Burning with restrained fire, he was the blade in its scabbard, ready to strike with elegance and finality.
At the end of that clear, unbroken path... sat Nihilex's King at e1.
No shields left.
No pawns to intercept.
No blocks.
No time.
As the alignment came into focus, something stirred in me. A grin tugged at my lips—slow and steady. Not smug. Not triumphant.
But earned.
And absolute.
This was the end.
"Sir Alaric," I called out, my voice cracking with everything I was holding back.
He turned. His gaze met mine.
There was no fear in his eyes.
Only fire.
"Jiggs," he said with a small nod and a thumbs-up, smiling. "Let's play a real match sometime."
"Queen Alaric to e1," I said, my voice breaking under the weight of everything it carried—grief, hope, defiance. The words trembled out of me, barely held together by what little control I had left. I was on the verge of tears, but I didn't let them fall. Not yet. Not until this was over. "Finish it."
The moment the command left my lips, the board responded.
The tile beneath Alaric ignited, flaring with a surge of radiant violet light that pulsed like the heartbeat of fate itself. For a heartbeat, the entire arena held its breath. The board shimmered. Time seemed to slow.
And then—he moved.
Alaric shot forward from e2 to e1, gliding with the grace of a falling star, a comet made flesh and fury. His movement wasn't rushed, nor reckless—it was regal, measured, and devastating. The path was clear, unchallenged. Not a single rook stood in his way. No pawns left to intercept. No barrier between him and the crown.
Just the King.
And silence.
Thick. Heavy. Absolute.
Then the board lit in a final surge of energy—brilliant, blinding. The game itself seemed to cry out one last time, its magic singing through every tile like the echo of a thunderclap swallowed by the void.
And in that instant—
It was done.
"White player, Checkmate."
The words rang out like a judgment. Final. Irrevocable. Sacred.
"Yes!" Silver yelled in celebration, leaping into the air. "Jiggs, you did it!"
"I can't believe it," Mr. Voder added, beaming. "Your strategy was flawless."
"You actually pulled it off without any of us dying. Because of that, I no longer see you as an insect, Jiggs," said Deux with a smirk. "You have my respect."
"You're a genius, Jiggs," Melior said, his voice filled with pride.
I could hardly speak. Tears blurred my vision. I laughed through the ache.
"Wait... hold on," I choked out, wiping my eyes. "I'm still Jiggs. The smartest, most handsome, most legendary Beta male in the world."
"That's right," Silver said, grinning. "There's no one like you."
The board froze.
The lights dimmed into black... then burst into white.
The board exhaled its final breath. Magic surged once, then faded.
The pieces stopped moving.
The hum went silent.
And the echo of our final move rang out into the void.
Then—
silence.
Nihilex didn't move.
Didn't speak.
His hands trembled—just slightly. His fingers twitched like puppet strings cut mid-command.
And I stepped forward, voice steady, heart hammering.
"You tried to control fate," I said. "You tried to rewrite love. You tried to turn us into monsters."
I pointed to the board.
To his fallen King.
"But in the end? You played yourself. Game over. We won."
And Nihilex?
He could only stare.
For the first time—
He had no moves left.
He couldn't believe it.
That a Beta male had outplayed him at his own game.
"No... impossible," Nihilex whispered. "How...?"
"We won," Alaric said firmly, stepping beside me. "Now return Champ to us. Release him from your control."
Nihilex took a slow, deep breath.
Then, he began to clap—slowly. Mocking.
"Congratulations," he said. "You've impressed me."
His voice returned to its eerie calm.
"And as promised... I'll return Champ to you."
"Yes!" I cried, relief washing over me.
But then—
Nihilex's smile sharpened.
"After he kills you all."
My eyes widened in horror.
"Champ," he commanded coldly. "Kill them all."
And in that instant—
We couldn't move.
None of us.
Not a breath. Not a twitch.
Nihilex was controlling us again.
Every limb. Every muscle.
And now...
our victory meant nothing.
For a moment, it felt like victory had finally arrived. We had delivered checkmate. We had outmaneuvered a tyrant. But as I stood frozen atop the pedestal, something shifted in the corner of my vision—something moved.
It was Alaric.
He was the only one among us able to resist the paralysis, the only soul on the board untouched by Nihilex's control. That could only mean one thing—his power matched Nihilex's. Equal. Unyielding. Unbreakable.
"Alaric," Mr. Voder called out, urgency in his voice. "You're the only one who can move. You have to stop them—Champ and Nihilex. We're completely frozen."
"Mm," Alaric responded with a determined nod. "I won't let any more of us get hurt."
The atmosphere twisted.
The air around the board shifted like pressure building before a storm. Every soul—every piece—froze, whether they were upright or fallen. The silence wasn't just stillness anymore; it was anticipation.
Because the Queen—Champ—still hadn't moved.
The match was over. We had won. But the board was still beneath our feet, and none of us could move.
Champ remained standing at e7, glowing softly in that otherworldly gold, completely still since Melior had stepped between him and Voder. His breathing was slow. Mechanical. Almost unnatural. His hands twitched at his sides like he was trying to remember they were his.
Then the glow began to change.
Not fade—burn.
Gold melted into white.
White scorched into electric blue.
And then came something darker. More ancient. The sigils etched across his skin twisted and reformed, curling into incomprehensible symbols that no language could translate. It was like the universe was trying to rewrite itself on his flesh.
"His body..." Nihilex whispered, a twisted grin spreading across his face. "He's become a pure Omega male! The Gene-Altering Formula has devoured what was left of his former self!"
And then... Champ moved.
The entire board seemed to inhale at once. Every breath caught mid-throat. Every heartbeat faltered. The hum beneath our feet stuttered as if the very magic holding the battlefield together had suddenly lost its rhythm.
Even Alaric, ever poised and composed, tensed instinctively—his stance shifting, his blade angled slightly forward, ready to intercept what we all expected to be an attack.
But what happened next...
was something none of us were prepared for.
He moved—yes—but not toward us.
Not to finish the fight.
Not to strike at Melior.
Not to slaughter those in his way.
He turned on Nihilex.
Like a compass spinning violently toward a new true north, his body rotated with unnatural precision. His gaze shifted, locking onto the very man who once controlled him. And for the first time since the match began, it wasn't fear that swept across our team—it was disbelief.
Because the monster that had stood between us and death...
Was now facing the one who created him.
A flash of motion—faster than wind—slammed into the silence.
"What—?" Nihilex gasped, voice trembling for the first time. "What are you doing?!"
Champ's eyes lifted. Gone was the radiant gold. Gone was the soft, warm glow.
In its place—black.
Bottomless, endless, Omega black.
This wasn't a Queen.
This wasn't a pawn.
This wasn't even a hybrid slave molded by the whims of the Omega King.
This was a predator.
"Your voice..." Champ spoke, but his voice was no longer his own. It echoed as if layered—like two realities folding in on each other. Deeper. Hungrier. Timeless.
One foot stepped off the board.
Then the other.
With each step, the tiles cracked beneath him, warping with molten fractures, the magic unable to contain what he had become.
"You don't command me," he said, voice hollow and filled with divine judgment.
Nihilex stumbled backward, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You belong to me! Kneel!"
But then—something terrifying happened.
It wasn't Champ who dropped to his knees.
It was us.
All of us.
Like gravity had reversed itself, like some monstrous weight was crushing us down. Even Nihilex, fighting with every ounce of will, began to collapse.
"No... no, this can't be happening!" Nihilex stammered, veins bulging, teeth gritted. "I'm the Omega King! You obey me!"
But it was too late.
His arms began to move against his will, trembling as they rose toward his own neck. His hands—his own hands—started to close in, wrapping around his throat with a creeping, bone-deep terror.
"Stop! Don't—Alaric, help me!" he cried, eyes wild with panic.
I looked to Alaric, whose breath now came in quick, shallow gasps. For a moment, he seemed torn. Despite everything Nihilex had done, something in him hesitated—like a sliver of humanity still wanted to save him.
But none of us could move.
Not even Alaric.
Because Champ was in control now.
"Impossible..." Nihilex choked out, struggling. "The formula was meant to bend you—"
"It did," Champ interrupted, his voice rumbling with divine fire.
His shoulders shifted, bones cracking.
"It bent me," he growled, lifting his gaze. "And now I'm snapping back. I've taken full control of my body."
Even Silver and Deux—both hardened warriors—were frozen in place, eyes wide, breath caught in their throats.
Because this wasn't Champ anymore.
This was something more.
Something terrible.
Something divine.
Nihilex, now crawling across the board like a wounded animal, tried to speak, to issue another command. But his voice faltered. No sound came. No power followed.
"No more games," Champ said, his voice calm now, terrifyingly calm. "I'm done playing."
He stood over Nihilex, eyes dark as the void, power bleeding from every inch of his body.
"You took everything from me," he said, and for a moment—just a moment—his voice cracked with pain. "You made me your pet..."
He raised his hand.
"...but I was born to be a God."
Then, with a whisper of sound—so soft it was almost loving—he lowered it.
Crack.
Just like that, Nihilex—our opponent, the tyrant, the Omega King— Was dead.
Champ didn't even touch him. He simply commanded, and Nihilex's own body obeyed. He had controlled others for so long...
And in the end, he couldn't even control himself.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as ash. My hands trembled as I watched Champ's back—motionless, spine straight.
He didn't turn.
He didn't move.
And none of us knew what would come next.
Because we weren't sure anymore.
Was he still our friend?
Or was this the birth of something new?
Was Champ now the new Omega King—
or had we just witnessed the rise of a tyrant?
Silver stood rigid, his fists clenched, knuckles white and trembling with restrained fury.
Deux hadn't blinked—his eyes locked on Champ like a hawk watching a storm about to break.
Melior clutched his chest, trembling, pale, barely standing—but alive.
And Alaric... Alaric's expression was trembling too. Not with fear, but with something deeper. Something he couldn't name.
Only Mr. Voder managed to whisper, voice soft as falling ash, "It's done."
But I didn't believe it.
Not yet.
Not with what I was seeing.
"Champ..." I called out, stepping forward, my voice barely more than breath.
He didn't move.
"Hey," I tried again, this time louder, my voice cracking from a storm of hope and dread. "It's me. It's Jiggs."
Still—nothing.
The silence that followed was unbearable. It was thick, pressing in on my chest like a second skin. My eyes stung. My legs trembled. My hands clenched at my sides, desperate for some sign—any sign—that he was still in there.
"Let's go home to Aurivelle, Champ," I said, barely able to speak through the knot in my throat. My voice broke completely as tears blurred my vision. "I still want us to party. Remember? You promised me..."
And then—
His head turned.
Just slightly.
Not all the way. Just enough for me to see the eyes.
They weren't gold anymore.
They weren't warm.
They were black. Deep, hollow voids that reflected nothing back.
But then... they blinked.
Once.
Slow. Mechanical.
And in that flicker of motion, in that single moment of subtle humanity, I thought—I hoped—I saw something stir. Something familiar.
"Champ...?" I whispered.
He turned, his body slowly rotating toward us.
The floor cracked beneath his feet with every shift of weight. Each step distorted the tiles, fracturing them under pressure no man should carry.
Then—
He spoke.
But it wasn't his voice.
Not the warm voice we knew.
Not even the cold echo of Nihilex's control.
No—this was older.
Heavier.
As if two voices, layered across time, spoke at once—one waking, the other remembering.
"Who are you?"
Not a question.
Not a shout.
But a curse.
A declaration from something ancient clawing its way through centuries of silence.
The words didn't echo through the air. They echoed in our bones.
Silver flinched.
Deux took a single step back, sweat beading down his brow.
Even Alaric, as battle-hardened as he was, lowered his arm slightly. His breath hitched. The air had shifted. We all felt it.
Because the voice...
that wasn't Champ anymore.
And then the sigils across his body began to twist again—violently, erratically—like something beneath the skin was clawing to get out. The once-elegant marks warped into jagged runes, symbols none of us recognized. They pulsed, not with magic... but like a second heart.
A heart that didn't belong to him.
His arms spread open, slow and deliberate, like a figure at the center of some apocalyptic ritual. And when he opened his mouth again—
This time, there was no mistaking it.
"This body... no longer belongs to Champ."
The wind shrieked through the ruins of the chessboard like a funeral dirge. The very arena trembled, the tiles beneath our feet splintering like cracked glass beneath an invisible storm.
And then—from the shattered core of the board—
a whisper began to rise.
A name.
A name lost to time.
A name buried in fear.
"...I am Zenith!"
I felt my chest tighten. My legs nearly gave out.
"Z-Zenith..." Melior breathed, almost choking on the word.
Alaric turned ghost-pale, his lips parting as if reciting an ancient prophecy no one dared believe.
"In the earliest records of the world," he began, voice quiet, reverent, terrified, "long before the rise of Omegas, before the Alpha Rebellion, before the classifications of Alpha, Beta, Omega, or Sigma—there existed only one."
Zenith.
He wasn't a king.
He wasn't a god.
He was something older.
"He was the firstborn of the Primordial Core," Alaric continued, voice gaining strength with every word, "the raw energy that birthed the hierarchy system. A being of perfect balance. Alpha strength, Omega fertility, Sigma independence, Beta obedience—all in one vessel. He was everything."
And that's why he was feared.
"Zenith was never bound by scent, or pheromones, or primal instincts," Alaric said. "He ruled not with dominance... but inevitability. They said when Zenith looked at you, he saw your fate. And if he chose to speak it—you became it."
"But he wasn't cruel," Alaric added, softer now. "He was curious. That was his downfall. He tried to replicate his power, to split himself into lesser forms, to test the limits of hierarchy. And from that act—Alpha, Omega, Beta, Sigma were born."
None of us could speak.
None of us could breathe.
"But those fragments were incomplete," Alaric said, almost in a whisper now. "They turned on him. They feared him. They bound him in a prison of bone and ruin. They erased him from history—reduced him to myth. A ghost whispered between generations. But Zenith didn't die. He was sealed. Locked inside a vessel meant to carry his soul—reborn centuries later."
A hybrid.
An anomaly.
A golden warrior forged in pain, rebuilt in silence, designed to hold a god.
"I never expected that vessel would be..." Alaric's voice trailed off, unable to finish.
"Champ...?" Deux asked, swallowing hard.
But me?
I screamed.
Because for me, Zenith wasn't a name.
It was a warning.
And now, he was back.
He had awakened.
Inside Champ.
And in those obsidian eyes—we weren't friends. We weren't allies. We weren't even enemies.
We were nothing.
"He doesn't know us," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Because to him... we were never his creations. We were the mistake."
Alaric nodded grimly, his voice barely audible over the trembling of the ground.
"His awakening means the beginning of a new age," he said. "One that may erase every known class... and rebuild the world under a new law. One that follows no scent. No bond. No order."
"And I have no doubt," Mr. Voder added, steel entering his voice now, "that Zenith... won't hesitate to kill us all. Until he rewrites the history of our world."
End of Chapter 51