The statue wasn't anything impressive at first glance—just a man carved from a strange black-grey crystal, almost metallic in sheen but not quite. He stood tall, unmoving, arms outstretched to hold a stone tablet. That same strange language covered the tablet, etched in harsh, deliberate strokes. It matched the writing carved into the walls all around the chamber. As always, he couldn't read a word of it.
But he didn't care.
What did catch his attention was something else—at the base of the statue were boxes. Square outlines, arranged with purpose. He leaned in, counting silently to himself.
"Eighty-one," he murmured.
Even though the writing didn't fill all the squares, the design was unmistakably deliberate. A grid. A pattern. Something designed not just to be seen—but used.
He reached forward and carefully pried the object from the statue's grip. It was heavier than it looked, but still manageable. The cool weight of it sat comfortably in his arms as he turned and walked away from the statue, back toward the resting area. The giant bed—massive and ancient—loomed in the center of the chamber. He placed the grid tablet down on its soft surface.
For a moment, he frowned. Something was missing.
Without another thought, he leapt off the bed, his boots thudding against the polished stone floor. The chamber was vast, cluttered with forgotten relics and long-lost minerals. Scattered piles of crystals lay here and there, untouched by time. He moved through them methodically, collecting stones in his arms—black ones, grey ones, dull red, faintly blue, even a few with colors he couldn't name. He didn't know what they were, didn't care about their proper titles. They'd serve his purpose.
He wandered the chamber for a while, occasionally peering through cracks in the floor to the void below. Something shifted in the darkness, but he didn't linger. There was something else on his mind.
When he returned to the bed, he sat cross-legged in front of the tablet. He examined the grid again—nine rows and nine columns. Perfect symmetry. He began arranging the stones.
First, he placed seven pale white ones along the front row—except for two gaps in the center. Into those, he inserted a slightly larger pair, smooth and dark like slate. The second row was more colorful; he mixed in reds, a pale green crystal that shimmered faintly. Each piece was chosen with care, even if he didn't yet know their names but they would work as the bishops. In the back of the row he two silver stones for the generals, gold stones for the gold generals and a grey one for a lance. In the very center of the back row, he placed a black crystal—a heavy, onyx-like piece that caught no light at all.
Then he mirrored the setup on the opposite side. Same shapes, same layout. But this time, he placed a red crystal in the center instead of black.
He sat back, tilting his head.
Yes. That was better.
He didn't know what this place was. He didn't understand the writing on the walls or the stories they might've told. But he understood structure. Balance. Tension. He understood games.
With slow satisfaction, he looked down at the board he'd made. The symmetry, the contrast of color and shape—it sparked something familiar in his mind, though he couldn't say why. Something ancient, maybe. Or maybe it was just something deeply human. The desire to bring meaning into quiet places.
Finally, he smiled.
He had done it.
A means of entertainment, born in silence. Something to pass the time in this strange tomb of a place. A challenge in thought and strategy.
He had created a game.
He had created shogi.
....
He had spent hours—maybe more—sitting cross-legged on the massive bed, hunched over the makeshift board. The pieces lay scattered and reassembled in new formations again and again as he challenged himself, switching sides, imagining different minds and strategies. The simple board of 81 squares had become a battlefield of thought. He played in silence, a quiet intensity creeping over him with every move.
His fingers moved like a machine, tapping and placing pieces as he worked through dozens of imagined scenarios. Every turn invited a counter. Every counter led to a new trap, a reversal, or a sacrifice. What started as amusement slowly became obsession. His mind churned with possibilities, calculations, predictions. It was exhilarating—and exhausting.
Eventually, the burn behind his eyes grew unbearable. His temples ached. He leaned back on his hands and let out a slow, frustrated breath.
"I need a break," he muttered to no one. "I need to eat."
His stomach growled in protest, as if agreeing. He glanced over at the fading light filtering through the cracks in the chamber ceiling. He had spent nearly the entire day playing alone.
He sighed, stretched his limbs, and rolled off the bed with a grunt. The cold stone floor greeted his bare feet. Without hesitation, he crossed the chamber and approached the wide entrance that opened into the shadowed mountainside. Jagged peaks jutted out around the ancient temple like the ribs of a fallen god, and beyond them, a vast, open sky.
With practiced ease, he unfurled his wings.
They stretched outward in smooth arcs—black and wide, leathered, Sharp edged claw like , with subtle veins of grey that caught the last traces of twilight. With a single push, he leapt into the air and soared into the cool evening sky, leaving the dark chamber behind.
He could've walked, but didn't feel like it. Flying was easier. Quieter, too. He knew this region well enough by now—where the cliffs dropped, where the air currents could carry him, and most importantly, where the monsters tended to nest. Tonight, he was careful. He skimmed above the ridges and kept close to the shadows. The daylight had passed; night had fallen—and that meant fewer eyes, fewer watchers.
By the time he spotted a creature worth the trouble, the moon was high and silver. It roamed just beyond the cliff's edge, snout raised to sniff the air, completely unaware of the predator above.
He descended fast.
The fight wasn't much of one. He dropped down with both feet and sword slamming into the beast's spine, driving it to the rocky floor. It thrashed once, tried to turn, but he was already on its back—his blade driving deep through sinew and bone. The thing whimpered, then fell still.
He stood up, panting, catching his breath as he looked down at the carcass. It wasn't pretty. The creature had tough hide, clawed limbs, and a face like a twisted lizard. But it was meat. Heavy meat.
He bent low and grunted as he dragged the body across the uneven stone, careful not to injure his wings in the process. It wasn't graceful work. The thing was nearly the size of a horse, and dragging it across loose gravel and narrow ledges took effort. But he made it work. Eventually, he reached the sky bridge carved into the mountain, leading toward the towering ridge wall that hid the chamber.
The entrance came into view—the massive crack in the stone face, like a wound carved by the gods. And within it, the ancient keyhole-like opening: wide at the bottom, narrowing near the top, leading directly back into the chamber he had claimed for himself.
This time, he landed perfectly. His feet hit the stone with a clean tap, wings folding behind him as the bulk of the beast slid to the floor.
He was sweating by the time he pulled the body inside.
Back in the chamber, he dragged the creature toward the center where the fire pit sat—a circle of blackened stones he had constructed days ago from fallen debris. With practiced familiarity, he stacked the dried wood and flint he had gathered and struck sparks until the fire took. The flames licked the air and brought a faint warmth to the otherwise cold room.
He carved into the beast slowly, hacking away the scaled hide to get at the muscle beneath. It was crude work, but necessary. Soon, slabs of raw meat lay on a flat stone by the fire's edge, sizzling and spitting grease into the flames.
The smell wasn't pleasant. It never was.
He tore into the first piece as soon as it looked cooked enough. The taste was dry, tough, almost bitter. He chewed anyway, sighing as warmth finally began to return to his body.
"It's food," he said aloud, even though no one was there to hear it.
But it wasn't good food. Not like Xin made.
He frowned as he chewed, thinking of his friend's cooking. Xin had always known how to mix random things—plants, spices, weird oils—from even the smallest scraps. Somehow, he made the worst meat taste halfway decent. More than once, he'd promised himself to ask Xin how he did it. But he hadn't. He'd just eaten, like always, assuming there'd be a next time.
Now he regretted that.
He finished his meal in silence, staring into the flames as the last bits of meat cooked beside him. The light shimmered and blomed, casting flickering shadows on the chamber walls.
For a moment, he let the peace settle.
The quiet.
The fullness in his belly.
The warmth.
Then he stood.
There was no more time to waste.
The break had been long enough. His mind was rested, his body fed, and the chamber had become too still again. He turned back toward the tablet he had left on the bed, the pieces still arranged neatly on the 9-by-9 grid.
But he didn't move to sit back down.
This time, he moved toward the wall.
The far wall—where the strange writing curved around a dark door sealed with a circular emblem with runes around it. A lock of some kind. A symbol that had stared back at him since he first arrived. His fingers brushed over it gently, almost reverently.
Now, the real mission would begin.