The sound of the signal drum echoed, rising and falling as if urging the hearts of men. Chế Củ ascended the nine steps, each stride deliberate and slow, his head held high, his eyes blazing with the proud defiance of a lord. Within him, a smoldering anger mingled with the humiliation of captivity, but he masked it with an unyielding demeanor.
The wooden gates of Thái Hoà Palace stood wide open. From below, he could not see what was inside. Now, before him, at the center of the grand hall, Emperor Lý Thánh Tông sat enthroned on his golden seat. His dragon-embroidered robe, shimmering under the light of Minh Long lamps, depicted dragons paying homage to the sun. His flat-heaven crown was adorned with pearls and gems. The emperor's posture was composed, yet his piercing eyes radiated the aura of a wise ruler—both merciful and stern.
The court officials, dressed in impeccable ceremonial robes, stood in two rows according to their civil and military ranks. Civil officials wore crane-embroidered robes, while military officials bore gleaming sword sashes. All stood in utter silence. Behind them, the imperial guards, clad in shining armor and clutching long spears, stood as still as wooden statues. Their cold gazes awaited commands and responded rapidly in any circumstance.
Chế Củ approached closer to the throne. He did not kneel, merely bowing slightly—enough to show respect while preserving his pride. The entire Thái Hoa Grand Hall fell silent, with only the faint rustle of wind passing through the curtains.
Lý Thánh Tông gazed at Chế Củ, his eyes briefly assessing, but his voice was warm and commanding:
"Chế Củ, you have repeatedly violated the borders of Đại Việt. God has eyes, and those who cause chaos and rebellion shall face retribution. I personally led the campaign to subdue you, capturing you, your soldiers and warriors, and bringing all of you to the Thăng Long Citadel for judgment.
Now, after a year of punishment, I, in the name of great justice, triumph over brutality; with humanity, I replace tyranny. I will grant you and your soldiers and warriors amnesty, allowing you and your followers to return to your homeland to preserve your lineage and ancestral lands.
Yet I know you remain unconvinced and unsubmitted. You believe I defeated you through cunning and trickery. Therefore, I propose to win your submission through a contest of three games of chess—two games of traditional chess and one game of Human Chess.
The two traditional chess games will test the intellect of both of us and a Human Chess game will test military strategy and strength. Chế Củ. Do you accept?"
"Yes," Chế Củ replied, his voice low and curt, his eyes flashing with a spark of defiance.
Lý Thánh Tông gripped the armrests of his throne, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips.
"If you lose, will you kneel and swear lifelong allegiance as a vassal state of Đại Việt?"
"You must win first," Chế Củ retorted, his voice sharp and his lips curling with pride.
"Bold and arrogant words," the emperor declared. "Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor Trần Thủ Độ, announce the rules of those games."
Trần Thủ Độ stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over Chế Củ, his voice clear:
"The two traditional chess games will take place outdoors, before the steps of Thái Hoà Palace, witnessed by the court and the people. Chế Củ, you will guess whether the black or red piece is held in the hand of the Chief Eunuch. The holder of the red pieces moves first.
After the first game, the sides will switch pieces, with no further guessing for all three games. If the two traditional chess games do not determine a victor, the Human Chess game will decide the victory."
Chế Củ frowned. "How is the Human Chess played?"
Trần Thủ Độ continued calmly:
"His Majesty and you will play the role of the King, directing the pieces of Human Chess in real human combat. The side that moves first attacks first. The defending side may only counter-attack when attacked. If victorious, the winning side's piece takes the defeated piece's position. If defeated, the move is nullified."
"What does that mean?" Chế Củ asked.
"For example: if your Pawn is captured by the Emperor's Chariot, and the Chariot wins, it will take the Pawn's position, as is customary in traditional chess. If the Chariot loses, it is eliminated, the Pawn remains, and you make a new move. That is the rule of the Human Chess."
"I see," Chế Củ replied.
"The Human Chess differs from traditional chess in this philosophy: the intellect and strategy of the commander and the strength of the soldiers and warriors together determine the victory. Do you understand?"
"I do," Chế Củ said. His fist clenched, his heart burning with resolve, though his face remained impassive.
A drum resounded.
A golden chessboard was placed before the steps of the Thái Hoà Palace. Two intricately carved chairs faced each other. The court officials left the hall, taking their places on a wooden viewing platform. Lý Thánh Tông and Chế Củ took their seats. Two eunuchs raised royal parasols, casting long shadows under the midday sun.
The Chief Eunuch stepped forward. He picked up two Pawns—black and red—hiding them behind his back, then extended two closed fists. Chế Củ pointed to the left hand. The eunuch opened his hand: a black Pawn.
A herald's voice boomed:
"Đại Việt takes red. Champa takes black. Đại Việt royal army! Prepare the battlefield!"
A commanding drumbeat sounded.
The ground trembled as if thunder rose from the earth. Dust swirled like storm clouds before a great tempest.
Thirty pieces of Human Chess of Đại Việt, embodiments of war and destiny, marched onto the colossal chessboard before Thái Hoà Palace. The midday sun blazed like divine fire, transforming armor, spears, and weapons into thousands of dazzling rays. They were not mere soldiers but war gods forged from steel and fire. Each step roared like the drums of fate, their duty to protect the empty throne placed under the open sky—the throne of Lý Thánh Tông, the wise emperor of Đại Việt.
Leading the charge were four colossal war elephants—the chess pieces of Elephant—like moving mountains. Each step seemed to crack the green Thanh stone tiles before the palace. Their curved tusks, capped with gleaming iron, were as sharp as the scythes of death. Gold-threaded reins fluttered like battle banners. Atop them, warriors in dragon-and-phoenix-etched armor wielded five-zhang-long spears, their steel tips flashing like lightning. The elephants' roars shook the air, drowning out the signal drums, like the calls of ancient deities, striking fear into the faint-hearted.
Next came four cavalrymen—the chess pieces of Horse—galloping in formation, their iron hooves striking the stone steps, sparking like falling stars. On horseback, the Knights clad in resplendent armor, their red and black cloaks billowed like the wings of hunting eagles. They carried bronze bows etched with Phi Bạch calligraphy script by the handwriting of the king and wore steel swords at their waists. The horse's knight, dyed crimson and jet black, danced in the dust, creating a whirlwind of battle. Each rider's gaze was as sharp as an arrow, ready to pierce the darkness to protect their lord.
Then rolled four war chariots—the chess pieces of Rooks—like primordial machines of war. Each was drawn by five bronze-armored horses. Spears and lances bristled from the chassis like a forest of steel thorns. The iron wheels ground against the stone, emitting a grating clatter, sharp as the whistle of a slashing sword. The warriors aboard cracked leather whips, their eyes blazing like unquenchable flames, ready to crush all obstacles in their path.
Following were four artillery wagons—the chess pieces of Cannons—each carrying a soldier armed with a small cannon and a massive bronze cannon, as thick as bamboo trunks, covered with bamboo trunks and braided ropes. The wagons were fully loaded with round iron and rock shot that clinked like death knells. The gunners, clad in red and black armor marked with roaring tiger emblems, stood tall, their breaths mingling with the dust like emissaries of the fire god. Each cannon gleamed under the sun, promising to turn the battlefield into a sea of fire and ash.
Finally came fourteen infantrymen—the chess pieces of ten Pawns and four Ministers—marching like a tidal wave crashing ashore. The Ministers, commanding officers, carried long swords on their left and short swords on their right, their tiger-faced bronze armor hugging their bodies, paired with thick buffalo-hide shields painted with coiling dragons.
Each Pawn wore round buffalo-hide armor and shields, wielding long spears and short swords at their waists. The steel tips glinted with a cold, deadly light. They marched steadfastly, like stone statues brought to life. Their eyes burned with unyielding resolve, like flames that never fade. Each breath mingled with the hot wind, a silent oath to live or die for their king.
The thirty pieces of the Human Chess split into two formations, standing proudly on the vast chessboard, a battleground fit for gods. Where earth and sky seemed to merge, sunlight and dust wove a magnificent tapestry of an eternal war. The roars of Elephants, the neighs of Horses, the grinding of wheels of Chariots and Cannons, and the breaths of warriors - Pawns and Ministers - blended into a majestic symphony, a song of destiny.
Chế Củ squinted. His face was pale. His heart pounded before the grandeur of Đại Việt's army. Even in the battle, he had never witnessed the heroic splendor and might of their forces as he did now.
A commanding drumbeat sounded.
All fifteen black pieces—Champa's side—dismounted from elephants, horses, cannons, and chariots, laying down their weapons. Then led by their Minister, they formed a line and moved behind the red side.
Another drumbeat resounded.
Fifteen Champa warriors and soldiers, selected by Chế Củ yesterday, were brought forward. They walked between two rows of crossbowmen, their bolts aimed at the newcomers. The fifteen were clad in black—more accurately, black cloth with a hole cut for the head—positioned to replace their counterparts.
Chế Củ clenched his jaw and fists. No general's eye or commander's mind, honed by leading thousands and surviving countless battles, was needed to realize:
He could not win this Human Chess game.
The black side—Champa—had soldiers and warriors who couldn't even mount horses or climb chariots and cannons. The unruly warhorses reared and neighed, refusing strangers on their backs or in chariots. The war elephants were untouchable. None of Chế Củ's men could approach them. All black-side elephants and horses were removed. His soldiers could only fight as ordinary infantry, without war machines.
He suddenly recognized he was whispering:
"This is not a game of Human Chess. This will be a massacre of my people."
"Will you swear allegiance?" Lý Thánh Tông's voice echoed in his ear.
He raised his head. The sky of Thang Long Citadel was so blue. There were broken pieces of pottery spread on the yin-yang tiles that covered the roof of Thai Hoa Palace. Without looking aside, Chế Củ's voice softened:
"Let's first begin with the two traditional chess games."