The tournament hall buzzed with a gentle murmur—soft footsteps, the occasional cough, the subtle clicks of chess clocks. Rows of players hunched over boards under sterile white lights, each immersed in their own private wars.
Alexei sat at Board 6. Round Three. (Alexei won the first two rounds meticulously)
ROUND THREE...
His opponent, a teenage prodigy from another city, was adjusting his blazer and sipping nervously from a water bottle. But Alexei… Alexei was elsewhere.
Move nine…
The cursed variation. It had been haunting him since the dream—since the queen vanished and the scorch mark was left behind. He hadn't dared play the full line again.
Until now.
The position on the board seemed vaguely familiar. Not identical, but close. The structure mirrored the setup from Tal's secret variation.
And then it happened.
For the briefest moment, the board shifted before his eyes—pieces rearranged themselves silently into the cursed position. It was only for a second, but he felt it more than saw it. Like a pulse behind his eyes.
The room grew quieter. The lights dimmed—not literally, but in his perception. A cold sweat formed along his neck.
His opponent leaned forward, unaware.
"Your move."
Alexei didn't remember reaching for the bishop. His hand moved on instinct. He played the sacrifice.
Gasps rippled from a few nearby boards. A risky, aggressive line. Too early. Too dangerous.
But Alexei wasn't seeing just this game.
He was seeing deeper. Beyond the moves. Past the logic.
For a moment, it felt like he was playing with someone watching over his shoulder. A whisper in his ear, too faint to decipher but strong enough to guide his hands.
More sacrifices followed. A pawn. Then the rook. Even the knight. Every move sharpened the atmosphere around him. The world outside the board blurred.
He could feel the black figure. Not behind him. Inside the board.
Post-Game...
He won. Brilliantly.
The arbiter even shook his hand. So did his stunned opponent, murmuring something about "never seeing it coming."
But Alexei didn't feel triumph. Not entirely.
When he went to pack up his pieces… the white queen was once again missing. He hadn't used her at all in the game.
And worse?
His hand was stained faintly—barely visible but real. A pale black smudge across his palm, like smoke residue.
He closed his fist.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered to himself.
That night, he didn't sleep.
Because he knew… the line wasn't finished with him yet.
The Night Before the Trial of the Forbidden
The room was heavy with silence — the kind that presses on your chest and refuses to let go.
Outside, the city slept under a blanket of mist, but Alexei was wide awake. He sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor, the antique chessboard between him and the flickering torchlight above. The board glowed faintly, its surface cracked with age, the pieces arranged in a position burned into his mind. The position. The one that had haunted his dreams since the night Tal had first whispered to him from the shadows.
His fingertips hovered over the bishop — the keystone of the cursed variation. One move, and the game spiraled into madness. Into beauty. Into danger.
He exhaled sharply and muttered to himself:
"Why does something that feels so right... come with so many warnings?"
He had replayed it a hundred times. The audacity. The logic-defying brilliance. A move that looked like a blunder to everyone — until it wasn't.
Just as he reached to lift the piece again, the shadows behind him stirred.
A gust of wind slipped through the closed windows.
And then he heard it — the low, steady voice he'd come to recognize like his own heartbeat.
"You're planning to play it."
Alexei didn't look up. "I'm not planning. I'm ready."
From the darkness, the shadow figure emerged, slowly forming as if drawn by Alexei's defiance.
"You don't understand what it takes," the figure said, voice like falling ash. "What it demands."
Alexei stood up slowly, staring at the board.
"It demands everything. Sacrifice, clarity… madness. That's what Tal gave."
The shadow moved closer, shadows bending and curling around his form.
"Tal paid the price. He was warned too. The line is cursed not because it loses… but because it wins in a way no one can explain. It bends reality."
Alexei's hands trembled as he touched the piece again.
"So that's why they buried it?" he whispered. "Because it was too much?"
No reply. Just the hum of the torchlight, dancing on the board like fire on a battlefield.
"Maybe it's not the move that's cursed," Alexei said, turning toward the figure. "Maybe it's the fear of playing it."
The figure's shadow warped slightly. Watching. Listening.
"Will you guide me?"
The figure tilted his head. "Only if you listen. And only if you're ready to lose more than just games."
Alexei didn't blink. "I already have."
He sat back down and played the bishop sacrifice once more. A deep, unnatural chill spread across the room — like someone had opened a door to something ancient.
And then the board pulsed.
Just once.
A dim flicker of red beneath the pieces, gone in an instant.
The shadow vanished.
Alexei was alone again.
But not really.
Tomorrow, he would walk into the tournament hall. Tomorrow, the cursed variation would breathe again. And the world would finally see what had been hidden in the dark.
Next day...
The tournament hall buzzed with whispers, but none reached Alexei.
He sat at Board 7, elbows resting lightly on the table, eyes locked on the familiar layout of black and white. The overhead lights hummed like distant thunder. All around him, clocks ticked, pieces clicked, and tension built like a storm behind stained-glass windows.
His opponent — a smug, overconfident prodigy named Lev Orlin, known for humiliating weaker players with icy precision — stared at Alexei with a crooked smile.
"Try to last twenty moves," Lev said, cocky. "That would be a win for you."
Alexei didn't respond.
His hand moved almost on instinct, reaching into something deeper. He'd rehearsed this position with the shadow man in a thousand dreams. He'd seen it on fire, in ruins, and in glory. Now… it would breathe.
The opening was standard. Queen's Gambit Declined.
Lev pushed confidently through the first ten moves.
But then…Move 11.Alexei played it.
The first whisper of the forbidden variation. The bishop slid into a sacrifice—unsound on paper. Madness on analysis boards.
Lev paused. His smirk faltered.
He stared at the board, then at Alexei, as if realizing the ground beneath him wasn't quite stable.
A hush fell over their table. Another board glanced over. Then another.
"What line is this?" one of the arbiters whispered to a nearby coach.
"I… I don't know. It looks like—no, it can't be…"
A few more moves, and the cracks in Lev's confidence widened.
Alexei's pieces danced like fire — not with safety, but with meaning.
Every sacrifice screamed purpose. Every threat twisted logic. His rook invaded down the f-file like a dagger. The queen retreated only to lure, the knight leapt into enemy territory, unsupported — but unavoidable.
Lev fidgeted, breathing shallow.
"What is this?" he muttered.
Alexei didn't blink.
And then, on move 23, Lev slammed his clock and stood up, his voice tight:
"This isn't theory. This is… something else."
He stormed off, the crowd parting in silence.
The arbiters gathered around the board, murmuring in awe and confusion. One of them snapped a picture of the position. The evaluation engine on the side screen glitched, spiking wildly, unable to make sense of the chaos.
From the corner of the room, a hunched old man with white gloves — the antique shopkeeper — watched, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Meanwhile, Alexei sat still.
Behind him, just for a second, a dark silhouette shimmered in the reflection of the trophy cabinet. The same cold grin. The same haunted eyes.
Tal.
And he whispered, only to Alexei:
"Now they'll remember the line. But will they remember you?"
Alexei clenched his fists under the table. He had won — but he knew this was only the beginning.
The cursed variation had returned.And it had chosen its new magician.