Episode 116 — The Lecture Hall of the Abyss

"…Next."

Duke Daryl’s voice, low and raspy, echoed through the hall.

On the board, his King lay ignominiously on its side, every path of escape completely blocked. A total defeat. Yet, Daryl didn't even waste a second to reset the board himself; he immediately demanded the next match.

The second match, the third, and then the fourth. The nobles packed into the hall had long since lost their words. they could only stare at the "one-sided stomp" unfolding before their eyes.

The matches proceeded at a staggering pace.

Against every "desperate move" Daryl wrenched out of his mind, Argo responded without a single second of lag, as if the very concept of deliberation time didn't exist. He gripped the pieces and placed them. His movements were devoid of hesitation, as if he were simply following a musical score where every single note had been written from start to finish.

However, as the matches piled up, the harshness began to fade from Daryl’s face. His expression, which had initially been stiff with "hostility toward a Magic Race" and "fear of losing," began to shift with every game, turning into something calm—as if a haunting spirit had finally been exorcised.

"…I see. So that’s how you answer. …Next."

The fifth match, the sixth. Daryl was no longer seeking a shallow victory.

Every move Argo made was packed with the "logical correct answers" constructed by Felsen. Through the board, Daryl realized he was being "taught" by this Magic Race youth.

With every move, his own thinking became more refined. He felt a strange sense of pleasure as the mist of "vague intuition" he had carried for years as a military strategist was stripped away, layer by layer, by Argo’s cold, clinical calculations.

When the final match concluded, Daryl let out a long, deep breath.

He leaned back comfortably in his chair and stared at Argo. There was no longer a trace of prejudice against the Magic Race, nor a shred of humiliation at having lost.

"…I give up. I don't feel like I can win at all."

What escaped Daryl’s lips was a surrender so clean it was refreshing.

A man known as the Great General of the West, whose name thundered across neighboring nations, had been utterly defeated—literally unable to lay a finger on his opponent—by a Magic Race member who claimed to be nothing more than a clerk. Daryl accepted that reality.

"Your Grace, I am humbled. …Your moves became incredibly sharp from the mid-game onward. I found it necessary to raise the priority of my own calculations."

Argo bowed his head quietly. His inorganic voice now held a faint but certain note of respect.

It was then that an unexpected set of footsteps echoed through the silent hall.

"Teacher Argo! You really never lose, do you, Teacher!"

At that pure, innocent voice, the nobles in the audience turned as one.

There stood several children led by Martha—children attending the Felsen school. They ran toward Argo without a hint of hesitation.

"You looked a little more serious than you do during our usual practice, though!"

"Was the other guy really strong? We believed in you, though, Teacher!"

The children grabbed the sleeves of Argo’s robes, laughing familiarly with him.

The nobles from the other territories were more shocked by this sight than by the chess defeat itself. To them, the Magic Races were symbols of horror; letting a child get near one was an act of unthinkable barbarism. But to these Felsen children, Argo wasn't an inhuman creature to be discriminated against; he was simply their "favorite teacher" who taught them arithmetic and logic.

"…Yes. His Grace was a magnificent player. …Now, quiet, everyone. The tournament is still in progress."

Argo’s dusky hand gently patted the heads of the children.

The moment Duke Daryl saw that peaceful expression, he realized how archaic and inefficient the "prejudice" program they had been running really was.

"…Lord Gustav."

Daryl looked up at Gustav, who stood nearby.

"You win. …Felsen didn't just create convenient tools or new games. …You’ve rewritten the very 'roots' of people’s hearts into something else entirely."

Daryl stood up, placed his winner's trophy on the table, and let out a boisterous laugh.

"Lord Gustav. When we have the next banquet in my territory, you must bring this man… Argo. Do you hear me? It’s mandatory."

Daryl smirked and clapped Gustav on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"In fact, you don't even have to come yourself. …I’ve decided I want the people of my land to see the rest of this 'Abyss'."

At his joking words, a wave of surprise—and a few faint, sympathetic chuckles—escaped from the nobles in the hall.

The first Felsen Cup.

A former arch-nemesis had declared a member of the Magic Race his guest of honor.

That symbolic scene carved the "New Logic" of Felsen into the minds of the watching nobility as something definitive and irresistible.

If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc..), Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.