Chiêu Hoàng stepped into the rear of the Thái Hòa Grand Hall, just as her father, the emperor, extended his hand to invite Chế Củ to take a seat. No ceremonial regalia. There was no sound of gongs or drums to announce a guest. No heralded titles, no grandiose rituals as was customary when receiving a king.
Only slanted rays of sunlight pierced through the high stone window, casting light on the cold gray marble floor, reflecting a hazy, interwoven image of the two monarchs facing each other in a silence heavy with authority. One was the Son of God of Đại Việt. The other, a man recently freed from shackles, yet whose regal bearing remained unextinguished, standing tall like a Champa tower unshaken by tempests.
Ngô Tuấn paused at the steps, beside the heads of two stone dragons, their carved eyes fixed on the throne as if tracking the heartbeat of those before it. He could go no further. As an Imperial Guard Commandant, his authority permitted him only to stand there in the Thái Hòa Hall. He stood erect, hands resting on the hilt of the sword at his chest, his gaze slightly lowered—both a sign of absolute loyalty and a careful avoidance of meeting the emperor's eyes.
Looking into the eyes of a king was treason, Lý Thánh Tông spoke, his voice steady as a still lake at dawn, without a single ripple:
"I do not wish to execute a king. A king does not kill a king. But neither can we pardon one who has invaded Our borders slaughtered Our people and plundered Our lands. To avoid the charge of being an unjust ruler, I have a proposal."
Chế Củ did not respond immediately. He slowly raised his hand—freed from shackles, a hand that once held the fate of a southern realm, now momentarily that of a defeated warrior—and smoothed the folds of his russet brocade robe. The ceremonial attire bestowed by the Đại Việt court felt both unfamiliar and heavy on his frame.
A blurred sense of humiliation and honor churned within him. Lý Thánh Tông's unexpected act—lifting him from the ground and ordering his chains removed—was something he, in all his years as a king, had never witnessed from a victor. Even he, if in a position of triumph, wondered if he could extend a hand to raise his sworn enemy.
How ironic. The unfamiliar costume draped over him evoked memories of the scorched earth beneath the searing southern sun, where his ancestors had founded a nation, where his soldiers had fallen in endless campaigns of northern conquests and southern wars between their two peoples. He spoke, his voice hoarse and deep, like the resonant beat of a drum rising from the earth:
"I await Your Majesty's guidance."
Lý Thánh Tông gave a slight nod, his lips curling into a faint, calculated smile. He needed no threats. He needed no force. He only needed his opponent to address him as "Your Majesty." That was enough for the world to know who held the power of life and death.
"Three games of chess," the emperor said slowly. "Not to determine victory or defeat, but to settle four words: complete and utter submission. If you defeat me, I shall immediately release you and all your captured kin. Not one will be enslaved. They will be granted provisions and safe passage. My soldiers will escort you and your people back to your homeland…"
A brief pause, just long enough to make the listener hold their breath.
"And if I lose?" Chế Củ blurted, shattering the silence.
Lý Thánh Tông's tone remained unchanged, light as the morning breeze. "The terms remain the same. But with one small addition: you will swear loyalty to me before the entire court of civil and military officials. And for the rest of your life, you will ensure that not a single Champa soldier crosses into Đại Việt's borders."
Chế Củ's eyes widened as he stared at Lý Thánh Tông. He could not conceal his astonishment. He hadn't expected the terms to be so lenient. The fleeting surge of gratitude for his opponent's magnanimity dissipated. The mind of a king snapped back into focus—sharp, cold, and calculating. He knew that as long as his head remained on his shoulders, he was still a king. And as a king, he could not let personal emotions overshadow the greater interests of his nation. He asked in a low voice:
"But if I win, I won't have to swear anything?"
The question sliced through the thickening air of the Thái Hòa Hall like a thin blade.
Lý Thánh Tông fell silent. He clearly heard the bold pronoun "I" in Chế Củ's audacious question. Not "your servant." Not "this humble official." Not a single word of submission. Once again, Chế Củ proved he would never accept defeat, even in the heart of his enemy's capital. Once again, he revealed the unyielding ambition to conquer Đại Việt. But killing a man like Chế Củ was never the solution. Kill him, and ten more Chanpa princes would rise in rebellion. Raze and burn Champa, and they would rebuild. The southern lands would never know peace. Meanwhile, the northern borders were already wary of the hooves of Song cavalry. Lý Thánh Tông looked directly into his opponent's eyes, calm and composed:
"The first game—on a standard chessboard. The second—likewise. But the third…" His gaze shifted to the wide courtyard before the Thái Hòa Hall, where a platform had just been erected, its freshly painted white lines still drying, forming a grid of massive squares. "...will be a game of human chess."
Chế Củ's brow furrowed slightly.
"How could Champa slaves represent the final game? If it is to be the decisive match, allow me to choose my human pieces. The final pieces must be true warriors."
Lý Thánh Tông raised an eyebrow."Your meaning?"
"My soldiers. Those who crossed forests, scaled mountains, shed blood, and never fled. I will personally select each one from the prisoners here to face Đại Việt's forces."
A long moment of silence followed.
Then Lý Thánh Tông nodded: "I agree. But Đại Việt's human pieces will also be real soldiers. Both sides will choose. Commandant Ngô Tuấn will escort you to the courtyard of the Thái Hòa Hall to select your men. They will be fed, rested, and ready to fight at noon tomorrow. It will be a fair battle. No one may complain if blood is shed."
Chế Củ bowed his head, responding softly but with a voice firm and steely, like a general who never wavers:
"Never a complaint."
From behind the hall, Chiêu Hoàng tightened her grip on her sleeve. Her fingers were ice-cold. She shivered, not from fear, but from understanding. She understood that her father had transformed a surrender into a grand spectacle—a display of power, intellect, and will. A spectacle not only for his opponent but for the entire court to witness, for the people across the realm to see. To show who truly held the power of life and death, even over a chessboard.
Three games. Two kings. One outcome. But this was no mere chess match. It was politics. It was the will of men. It was blood.