image [https://urogyn.sakura.ne.jp/images/2024-10-09chess1.png]

75) THE LOST TEMPLE

Ophelia sprinted through the thick mist, her heart racing as the ancient ruins came into view. Her breath caught in her throat. This was no ordinary discovery—this place was extraordinary. The stone structures loomed before her, reminiscent of the Ġgantija Temples she had studied so fervently during her architecture courses. But something was off. They weren’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t Malta, yet the resemblance was undeniable.

Her pulse quickened with excitement. The thrill of uncharted territory, of ancient secrets lost to time, surged through her. She had always been drawn to the mysteries of ancient architecture, but this was beyond anything she had imagined. How could a temple like this, built with such precision and enormity, exist here?

“This... this looks like Ġgantija,” she whispered to herself, awestruck by the massive stone pillars and the labyrinthine pathways that twisted around them. “But it can’t be... this place is all wrong.”

She snapped a few quick photos with her camera, eager to document her discovery. There was no time to study the details, not now. She had a mission, and time was running out. Yet every fiber of her being screamed to stop, to study, to understand the significance of this place.

A faint hiss drew her attention. Steam. Her AI scanner blinked to life, pinpointing the source of the steam—just as she had suspected. Somewhere deep in the temple, steam was leaking from the ground, a sign of the earth’s pressure building up beneath the surface. She had to act quickly.

Following the scanner’s directions, she veered left, down a narrow passageway. The air grew hotter as she neared the source of the steam. There, hidden in the shadows of the ancient stone, was the opening she had been looking for.

Ophelia didn’t hesitate. She reached into her pack and pulled out the bishop piece—a polymer-imbued chess piece, designed to seal the steam. With a deep breath, she tossed the piece into the opening.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like magic, bubbles began to rise from the hole. They swirled in the air, forming a delicate membrane that shimmered in the dim light. The polymer particles in the piece reacted, sealing the opening with a nearly invisible barrier. The steam slowed to a trickle, then stopped entirely.

But just as she allowed herself a sigh of relief, the ground beneath her trembled violently. The earth groaned in protest, and the ancient stones began to shift. A low rumble filled the air, growing louder by the second.

“No!” Ophelia cried as she stumbled back. The walls of the temple shook, and with a sickening crack, a massive stone block broke free, tumbling toward her. She jumped to the side, but it was too late. The stone crashed down, pinning her left leg beneath its crushing weight.

A sharp, searing pain shot through her leg, and Ophelia screamed. The agony was overwhelming, but she bit her lip, forcing herself to stay conscious. She couldn’t afford to pass out now. Not here.

Through her pain, she glanced up and saw something in the distance—something that hadn’t been there before. A lone stone pillar stood in the center of the collapsed rubble, tall and unbroken. Around it, arranged in a perfect circle, were smaller standing stones. A realization struck her.

“The old seal...” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “That stone pillar... it was the original seal.”

The ancient seal had been damaged, and the new structure had been built over it, mimicking the design of the Ġgantija Temple. But the steam leak she had just sealed was only a temporary fix. The true source of the disturbance was the broken seal, and unless it was restored, the earthquakes would only get worse.

She had to get back. She had to warn Sophia.

Ophelia tried to move, but her leg was trapped beneath the stone. The pain was unbearable, but she had no choice. Gritting her teeth, she pushed with all her strength, trying to shift the rock enough to free herself. It barely budged.

She glanced around, desperate for something, anything to help her. That’s when she saw it—a faint carving on one of the stones near her. It was an ancient mural, depicting figures in ritual, their hands raised toward the central pillar, as if offering something to the gods.

“Sacrifice,” Ophelia murmured.

She had to hurry. The earthquakes were growing stronger by the minute, and the ground beneath the temple was already unstable. If Sophia didn’t complete the ritual in time—if they didn’t win the chess match—everything would be lost.

Ophelia took a deep breath, pushing past the pain. She reached for her communicator, her fingers trembling as she pressed the button.

“Sophia... you have to finish the game,” she whispered, her voice weak but determined. “The seal is broken. The earthquakes will get worse unless... unless you win.”

Her grip loosened, the communicator slipping from her hand as her vision blurred. She had done all she could. Now, it was up to Sophia.

As darkness began to creep into the edges of her vision, Ophelia stared at the ancient mural one last time, her mind racing with the weight of history. They had uncovered something ancient, something powerful—and now, only Sophia’s victory could stop the destruction it threatened to unleash.

image [https://urogyn.sakura.ne.jp/images/2024-10-09chess1.png]

76) THE FORGOTTEN OFFERING

Ophelia’s vision blurred with pain as she strained to capture the ancient mural etched into the crumbling stone wall. The faint lines, barely visible at first, began to come into focus as she adjusted the color settings on her camera. Slowly, the intricate details emerged, each stroke clearer than the last.

Her heart skipped a beat. It was a horse—a horse without a horseshoe. Her mind raced through the historical implications. This placed the mural in a time before the rise of Rome, perhaps in the era of the great unifications of the continent. Ancient, far older than anything she had ever studied in her architectural courses.

But it wasn’t just the horse that caught her eye. The animal was pulling a cart, heavy with offerings, and in the center of the scene stood a queen—her presence undeniable. The figure was regal, but her face was devoid of emotion, cold and unreadable. This was no ordinary queen. She was... a Highness. A figure of reverence.

Ophelia’s stomach churned as she scanned the rest of the scene. The altar at the center, square and imposing, was surrounded by scattered offerings. But what made her blood run cold were the children. They were sitting in random positions, dotted across the stone courtyard, their postures unnervingly still, their faces blank.

Why were the children there? What was this place? The positioning of the figures felt deliberate, significant. The offering of children in such a manner was a grim reminder of ancient rites long forgotten, lost to the sands of time. This was no simple ceremonial scene—this was a dark, ancient sacrifice.

She blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the rising sense of dread. The arrangement of the children—it was oddly familiar. The positions reminded her of something she had seen in her studies, some reference in ancient urban planning or archaeology. But what? The answer was on the edge of her mind, just out of reach.

This is important, she thought. This is more than just history. There’s something vital here.

Ophelia's mind raced, connecting the dots. The positioning, the geometry... it wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Each child represented a point, a critical location in some larger architectural plan. Perhaps it had something to do with the layout of the temple, or maybe the surrounding lands. There was something profound in the positioning of the children, something that could hold the key to understanding the deeper purpose of this site.

Urban planning, architectural design, archaeological significance, she mentally listed off. She had studied these points, and now they were converging into this one terrible truth. This was a site of power, a place of sacrifice. And the ancient people who built it had embedded their dark rituals into the very stone.

But she didn’t have time to ponder further. She glanced at her watch. Thirty-five seconds. That was all she had before the next wave of seismic activity could strike. If she didn’t move now, the entire temple might collapse around her.

Ignoring the stabbing pain in her leg, Ophelia forced herself to stand. The ancient mural, with its disturbing offerings and cold, emotionless queen, would have to wait. The ground trembled beneath her feet, and she could hear the distant rumbling of the earth growing louder.

Her leg screamed in protest, but she shut out the pain. There was no time for weakness. Her survival—and the survival of her friends—depended on her ability to push through. She took off, limping at first, but her pace quickened as adrenaline surged through her veins.

The labyrinthine path through the ruins was collapsing behind her, the stones shifting and tumbling as the temple groaned under the strain of the earthquake. She jumped over fallen rocks, her injured leg dragging painfully, but she refused to stop.

Blood trickled from the cut on her leg, but she pressed on, her focus razor-sharp. She had to get back. She had to warn Sophia. This wasn’t just about stopping the steam or sealing the cracks in the earth. There was something far more dangerous hidden within these walls.

The ground shook violently as Ophelia scrambled onto a crumbling stone stairway. She clutched at the rough surface for balance, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The pain in her leg was excruciating now, but she pushed it aside. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting out alive and delivering the message.

The mural, the ancient sacrifices, the queen—they were all part of something much larger. Something dark and powerful that had been hidden for centuries. And now, it was waking up.

Sweat dripped down her brow as she reached the top of the steps. The path ahead was blocked by fallen stones, but Ophelia didn’t hesitate. She clambered over the debris, each movement sending sharp pangs of pain through her body. But she couldn’t stop. Not now.

She could see the exit ahead, a glimmer of light filtering through the dust and fog. Almost there. Almost safe.

The temple groaned one last time, the stones shifting beneath her feet. She felt the earth tremble, stronger than before, and a deep, guttural roar echoed through the ruins.

But Ophelia kept running. She had to make it back. She had to warn Sophia—because the mural wasn’t just a story from the past. It was a warning. And time was running out.

image [https://urogyn.sakura.ne.jp/images/2024-10-09chess1.png]

77) THE BURDEN OF TRUST

Alex’s legs burned as he sprinted toward Nyra, the weight of the mission pressing down on him with each step. His mind raced, calculating the time he had left to seal the cracks in the ruins and complete their task. Every second mattered, and yet, as he reached Nyra, a sudden unease settled over him.

“Nyra,” Alex panted, “I need your chess piece. The last one for the steam vent. Please.”

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Nyra nodded sluggishly, barely lifting his head. “Take it,” he mumbled, extending a trembling hand. “The hole... the steam... you’ll close it, right?”

Something was wrong. Alex could see it in Nyra’s face—his skin was pale, his eyes glassy, and there was a faint trickle of sweat and drool running down his chin. His breathing was shallow, irregular. Alex’s heart skipped a beat as realization dawned. This wasn’t just exhaustion. Nyra was succumbing to the effects of the witch’s mist.

“Nyra,” Alex said urgently, shaking his friend by the shoulders, “you’re not okay. You need to stay still. Don’t move. I’ll finish this. Just hang on, I’ll get you out.”

But the sight of Nyra, now slumped against the ruins, triggered memories that Alex had buried deep. It was just like the chess championship—the one where Nyra had pushed himself too far, using the mist as a dangerous enhancement to win against Sophia. The same signs were there: the trembling hands, the sweat, the fatigue that overtook him when his body could no longer handle the strain.

In the first half of that match, Nyra had been unstoppable, pressing Sophia into a corner, moving his pieces with precision and calculated ruthlessness. But when Sophia had found her footing, fighting back with her calm, strategic mind, Nyra had faltered. The mist he had relied on to sharpen his senses had turned against him, weakening his body. He had lost not just the match, but his strength as well.

Now, it was happening again.

“Nyra, you can’t move. I need you to stay here,” Alex said, his voice hardening with determination. “I’ll end this quickly. I’ll come back for you.”

Nyra nodded weakly, but Alex could see the pain etched into his features. The mist was draining him, sapping his life away with every breath he took. There wasn’t much time.

As Alex turned, he called out, “Sophia, come here! I need you!”

Sophia appeared, her face streaked with tears. Alex frowned, the pit in his stomach deepening as he saw the way she trembled.

“Sophia,” he said softly, his voice full of concern. “Why are you crying?”

Sophia wiped her eyes, trying to steady herself. “Alex, I... I realized something. This chess game... it’s not what chess is meant to be. It’s supposed to be a battle of minds, a beautiful game of strategy and spirit. But this... this is a ritual, a dark ceremony that’s forcing us to sacrifice our friends. It’s not chess anymore.”

Alex’s heart tightened. He had known it too, deep down. The moment they had started playing, something had felt wrong. The game was twisted, corrupted by the ancient magic of the mist. But he couldn’t show weakness now. Not when Sophia needed him the most.

“I know, Sophia,” Alex said, his voice firm but kind. “I know it feels wrong. But we’re going to figure this out. We’re not going to lose anyone. You’re stronger than this. We’re stronger than this.”

Sophia sniffed, trying to pull herself together. “I met Elizabeth Weiss—the one who sealed this place. She gave me a glimpse of her past, just for a moment, but I saw it all. I want to share it with you. Maybe it’ll help.”

Alex nodded, stepping closer to her. “Show me.”

Sophia reached out, clasping Alex’s hand tightly in hers. As soon as their fingers intertwined, a sharp pain shot through Alex’s head. His vision blurred, and suddenly, he was bombarded with flashes of memory—images, feelings, sensations.

Elizabeth Weiss. Her hands trembling as she performed the final sealing ritual. The weight of centuries of tradition bearing down on her. The fear, the pain of the sacrifices made. The faces of the children—the same ones Ophelia had seen in the mural—staring up at Elizabeth, waiting for her to complete the ritual that would bind their spirits to the earth.

And then, the final act. The moment Elizabeth had sealed the forest, not just with her magic, but with her very soul. The mist had come alive, the ancient magic wrapping itself around her, consuming her. She had bound herself to the land, becoming its eternal guardian, forever linked to the fate of the Misty Forest.

Alex gasped as the memories faded, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in his skull. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the images lingered like shadows at the edges of his mind.

“Thank you,” Alex whispered, his voice hoarse. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

Sophia squeezed his hand, her eyes filled with a fierce determination. “You’re the only one I can trust, Alex.”

He nodded, his mind racing. “I know where the final cracks are. I’ll go and finish this. I’ll be back in under a minute. But Sophia, listen to me—whatever happens, don’t carry all of this on your own. We’re a team. Don’t let the weight of this break you.”

Sophia nodded, but Alex could see the fear in her eyes. He wished he had more time to reassure her, to tell her that they would all make it out of this alive. But time was running out.

Without another word, Alex turned and sprinted toward the final ruins. His heart pounded in his chest as he pushed himself harder, faster, knowing that every second mattered.

The ancient stones loomed ahead, cracked and crumbling under the strain of the earth’s fury. The ground beneath him trembled, but Alex didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. Not when his friends were counting on him.

As he neared the broken stone circle, he could see the steam rising from the cracks, the earth groaning in protest. The mist swirled around him, thick and suffocating, but Alex didn’t falter. He pulled the final chess piece from his pocket—the bishop, its surface gleaming with the same polymer that had sealed the previous vents.

“One minute,” Alex muttered to himself. “Just one minute.”

He threw the chess piece into the crack, watching as the polymer reacted instantly, expanding to fill the gap. Steam hissed and bubbled, but within seconds, the fissure was sealed.

The earth fell silent.

Alex exhaled, relief flooding through him. He had done it. Now he just had to get back to Sophia, to Nyra, and make sure everyone was safe.

Thirty seconds, he thought, glancing at his watch.

And then, he ran.

image [https://urogyn.sakura.ne.jp/images/2024-10-09chess1.png]

78) BISHOP! TAKE THE BLACK PAWN ON B5!

The ground trembled violently beneath them, the earth itself roaring in fury as each steam vent was sealed. The very air seemed to vibrate with the anger of the ancient force beneath the land, a power older than any of them could comprehend. The quaking became more intense with every passing moment, as if the act of closing the cracks was only stoking the wrath of the earth’s spirit.

“Nyra!” Sophia cried, clutching him desperately as he slumped against the ancient stone. His face was pale, his lips trembling, and sweat poured down his face like a fevered man trapped in a nightmare. His words were coming out slurred, his mouth barely able to form coherent sentences, but Sophia knew—knew deep down—that he had realized something important.

“I... I can’t wait any longer,” Nyra gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, each word a struggle.

Sophia looked at him, confused. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Nyra’s eyes, glassy and distant, flicked up to meet hers. “Don’t... wait. We... we don’t have time.” His voice was thick, his tongue struggling to obey his commands, but his mind was racing at a speed that could rival any supercomputer. In his haze, the fog of confusion began to clear, and with it came the realization of what was truly happening.

“This... this is a ritual,” Nyra rasped, his voice faltering, but his conviction strong. “The witch’s seal... the chessboard... it’s all connected.”

Sophia’s eyes widened, her heart pounding in her chest. “How do you know that?”

Nyra tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “The 32 squares, Sophia. That’s the key. The 32 squares on the chessboard... just like the ritual. It’s not just a game—it’s a pattern. A ceremony. A sacrifice.”

He paused, catching his breath as the earth bucked and shook beneath them. His thoughts were moving faster than his body could handle, but he had no choice now. He had to push through, no matter the cost.

“I... I heard you and Alex,” Nyra continued, his voice shaky. “When you both said the moves out loud. The sequence... e4, e5... it’s the solution. The witch’s magic... it demands it.”

Sophia’s throat tightened as Nyra’s words hit her. She had suspected something like this, deep down. But to hear it confirmed, to hear that the ancient magic they were up against had woven itself into the fabric of the game they were playing—it broke her heart.

“This... this isn’t chess anymore,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s a sacrifice. You... you can’t be the one to—”

But Nyra shook his head weakly, cutting her off. “I... I’ll be the first.”

Sophia’s tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks as she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him. She couldn’t bear it—the thought of losing him, the thought of him sacrificing himself to complete the ritual.

Her finger throbbed, the pain sharp and real. In her desperation earlier, she had bitten down on her pinky, drawing blood to summon the mist. Now, as she held Nyra close, the blood from her wound smeared across his pocket watch, the one that had been passed down to him from her grandfather.

“This... this watch...” Nyra mumbled, his words barely making sense now. “Your grandfather... he was the champion... fifty years ago. I... I’ve always respected him...”

Sophia clutched the watch tighter, her heart breaking. She looked down at Nyra’s legs, both of them twisted and broken from when the stones had fallen. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t run. But still, he was determined to see this through.

The earth shook again, more violently than before, the tremors almost knocking them both off their feet. The quake seemed to come from deep within the ground, as though the earth itself was tearing apart at the seams. Sophia screamed as the ground beneath them cracked and groaned, but Nyra only smiled weakly.

“I... I have to go,” Nyra whispered, trying to pull himself up. His arms shook with the effort, but he pressed on, dragging his broken body toward the center of the chessboard that lay before them.

“Nyra, no!” Sophia cried, reaching out to stop him. She tried to enter the chessboard, but an invisible force repelled her, throwing her back as if the board itself had rejected her presence.

Nyra groaned in pain, but continued crawling, inch by inch, across the ground. His destination was clear—he was heading toward the b5 square, the square that had been calling to him ever since the ritual had begun. To him, it glowed with an otherworldly light, beckoning him forward.

Sophia, her body trembling with sobs, watched helplessly as Nyra moved. She wanted to scream, to beg him to stop, but deep down, she knew he wouldn’t. This was his choice. His sacrifice.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Nyra reached the b5 square. He collapsed onto it, gasping for breath, his broken legs useless beneath him. The ground beneath him shook once more, but he remained still, his eyes fixed on the space above him, as if he could see something none of them could.

With the last of his strength, Nyra turned his head toward Sophia, his voice barely audible as he spoke. “Don’t... don’t call my name,” he whispered. “Call me... Highness... like the others. I don’t... I don’t deserve to hear your name... the name of the witch who defeated me.”

Sophia’s chest tightened with grief. “Bishop!” she cried, her voice hoarse. “Take the black pawn on b5!”

Nyra had transformed into a bishop.

With newfound strength, he rose to his feet, no longer bound by the pain that had once held him down. Around his neck hung the pocket watch gifted to him by Professor Weiss, gently swaying with each breath he took. In his left hand, a silver staff appeared as if by magic, shaped like a dragon, its surface gleaming with intricate runes. His fingers were adorned with a thick ring, similarly engraved with protective runes of ancient magic.

Breathing was easier now, almost effortless. Though his voice had abandoned him, he found a new way to communicate, able to project his thoughts directly into the minds of those around him. A strange yet exhilarating feeling of clarity filled his entire being.

This... this is what freedom feels like.

He turned to look back at Sophia. Her name tugged at the edges of his mind, but he held back. He couldn't say it. There was a reason, though he couldn’t understand why. Now, her title echoed in his thoughts: Her Highness, the Mist Witch.

Sophia stood, no longer burdened by uncertainty. She had made up her mind—she was going to continue the game. Nyra could sense it in her determination, the way she thought ahead, planning her moves. She was searching for a way to win, to protect him in his transformed state without losing him as a piece on the board.

The black pieces moved, just as Nyra had predicted. The knight was developed to f6, a typical move, pushing the game further along. But Sophia’s mind raced as she focused on the fact that only 32 squares could be used in this ritual.

Sophia stopped to think, her voice breaking the silence. “Wait... there’s Ba4. I can move the bishop to a4 to save him.”

Indeed, moving the bishop to a4 would keep him safe from the black knight and pawns. It would be a retreat, a temporary shelter for the white bishop, giving Sophia more control over the queenside.

But Nyra’s thoughts pierced through her plan. That won’t work, Sophia. It won’t finish the game in 23 moves. The ritual demands the use of exactly 32 squares. Think! You must find the optimal solution, Mist Witch!

Tears welled up in Sophia’s eyes as she realized the weight of what he was saying. This wasn’t just a game—it was a ritual. A sacrifice. Her friend was now a piece on the board, and the decisions she made could mean the difference between life and death.

Just then, Linehart, her loyal Chihuahua, who had been drained of energy from the mist, slowly stirred. The little dog had fallen silent, unable to speak anymore, but his tail wagged weakly as he made his way to Sophia. His small frame trembled, but he managed to reach her side, licking the tears from her cheeks.

Sophia knelt beside him, allowing her tears to fall onto his tiny head, the weight of the game suddenly too much to bear. But Linehart’s presence grounded her. His small, loyal gesture reminded her that she wasn’t alone. She had her friends, and together, they could win this.

No more tears, Sophia thought, standing tall once again.

“White knight to f3,” she commanded, her voice steady.

The white knight moved from g1 to f3, establishing control over the center of the board. The game was advancing, and Sophia knew they were heading toward the final moves. But with every step forward, the tension only grew.

The black queen slid from h4 to h6, supporting the knight and threatening the white kingside. The pressure was building, but Sophia knew she had to keep her focus.

“White pawn from d2 to d3,” she called, her voice unwavering. The pawn moved forward, solidifying her defense and giving her pieces room to breathe.

Nyra, in his transformed state, felt a surge of pride. Amazing... he thought. To witness a game like this, to be a part of it... there’s nothing like it.

But the black knight moved again, from f6 to h5, its intent clear—it was preparing for a devastating attack on the white king’s side. Sophia couldn’t afford to hesitate.

“White knight from f3 to h4,” she said, moving her knight to counter the threat.

The black queen responded swiftly, moving from h6 to g5, locking the white pieces in a dangerous dance. Sophia’s heart raced. She had to act quickly.

“Nf5!” she cried, advancing her knight. The tension on the board was palpable now, each move carrying the weight of the ritual that bound them all.

But before the next move could be made, Linehart, the little Chihuahua, collapsed by Sophia’s side, his energy drained by the mist once more.

Sophia froze, staring at her loyal companion as the game hung in the balance.