The golden years faded faster than expected.
After his meteoric rise, everyone wanted a piece of the shadow-born line. Analysts poured over his games, decoding the sacrifices. Trainers weaponized it. Even mid-tier players began mimicking his brilliance without understanding its spirit.
And then — the defeats came.
One after another.
Round 2: Reykjavik Open — a 12-year-old prodigy used a mirror line and crushed Alexei in 28 moves.
Round 4: Russian Winter Blitz — he played the forbidden line, too confidently, too early… and lost horribly.
Final Game: Candidates Warmup Match — the same cursed line, countered. The audience gasped not because it failed, but because it had become predictable.
The magic was fading.
And for the first time since he picked up the board, Alexei felt alone.
The Breakdown
That night, he didn't go to the press conference.
He locked himself in his room, turned the lights off, and collapsed to his knees in front of the old, worn chessboard — the one from the antique shop. The weight of a thousand games pressed on his chest.
The pieces were scattered. The board felt… cold.
Alexei whispered, almost choking on his breath:
"I… I'm sorry, Tal."
No answer. Just silence and the flickering shadows on the wall.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, quiet at first… then harder. Shaking sobs. His head pressed against the board.
"I was arrogant. I made your brilliance a weapon. I made it predictable. I thought I could use it… like a trick. But I ruined it."
"You gave me something sacred… and I let the world devour it."
He wept like a boy again — not a Grandmaster, not a champion. Just Alexei.
And then... the torchlight flickered.
The shadows twisted.
A familiar figure emerged from the dim: tall, graceful, enigmatic.
Tal.
His eyes burned, not with anger — but sorrow. And kindness.
"You think you dishonored the fire," he said softly. "But fire must burn, Alexei. That's its nature. And those who play with it… will get burned."
Tal knelt beside him, one hand on the board, gently rearranging the pieces.
"The line is broken because they copied the surface — not the soul."
He tapped the board once.
"You must now defend the fire."
Alexei looked up, eyes red.
"But how?"
Tal smiled — the kind of smile you only see once in a lifetime.
"By creating again. The line isn't dead. It was only your opening. Now... I'll teach you the answer they've never seen."
Tal shifted the board.
He moved one piece.
Then another — not attacking, but defending. Quiet, strange, beautiful.
"The fire has a shadow… and now, it learns to protect itself."