Chapter 62 Chaos Meets the Chess Ancestor, the Dao is of the Same Origin

Chaos was lightless.

Nor was there darkness.

That wisp of consciousness did not know how long it had drifted. It might have been a moment, or perhaps ten thousand years.

In this void devoid of any reference points, time itself lost its meaning.

The consciousness was dissipating.

Like a drop of ink falling into a boundless sea, its edges were constantly thinning and blurring.

He had already forgotten his name, where he came from, that city of Zhaoge, and those people waiting for him.

But he remembered one thing.

Playing chess.

This thought was incredibly stubborn, like a final nail driven into a collapsing wall.

All memories were peeling away, except for these two words, which were firmly embedded in the deepest part of his consciousness, remaining unmoved despite the erosion of Chaos.

The consciousness continued to dissipate.

That nail also began to loosen.

At the very moment the words "playing chess" were about to be swallowed by Chaos—

A beam of light.

It wasn't sunlight, nor moonlight, nor any light he recognized.

That light had no color and no temperature, yet it caused his dispersing consciousness to suddenly contract, as if something had caught it from below.

The dissipation stopped.

His consciousness was enveloped by a layer of gentle power, no longer leaking away. Like a person on the verge of drowning, he was pulled up from beneath the water.

Then he "saw" it.

An old man, sitting there.

To say he "saw" was not quite accurate, for he no longer even had eyes, only a remnant wisp of consciousness.

But he truly perceived the other's existence—not far away, an old man wearing a coarse gray cloth robe sat cross-legged.

The old man's face was very ordinary.

So ordinary that if he were thrown into the marketplace of any city, no one would spare him a second glance.

But as he sat there, Chaos fell silent.

It wasn't suppressed, nor was it sealed.

It was simply quiet.

It was as if this ancient Chaos had consciously restrained its temper before this old man.

Before the old man was a chessboard.

The chessboard was naturally condensed from the currents of Chaos, with black and white pieces floating above the board, slowly rotating.

They were not jade or crystal, but condensed masses of Yin and Yang Qi, each containing power like that of the creation of heaven and earth.

The old man raised his head and looked at that wisp of nearly extinguished consciousness.

He smiled.

"Little friend, the Way of Chess shares the same origin; why have you lost your way here?"

His voice was very light, like an old man next door asking a passerby for a drink of water.

But the reaction of that wisp of consciousness was incredibly intense.

The moment the word "chess" entered his consciousness, that nail which was about to loosen suddenly became firm again.

The consciousness, which had dissipated to a mere thread, began to condense, bit by bit.

Drawing something from Chaos, it slowly took shape once more.

It was not a physical body.

It was an illusory silhouette—the appearance of a youth in white clothes, with blurred features, yet sitting upright.

It was the posture of someone about to play chess.

Watching this scene, a trace of approval flashed in the old man's eyes.

"Interesting. Your Divine Soul was almost gone, yet hearing the word 'chess' brings your soul back."

With a wave of his hand, a prayer mat condensed from Yin and Yang Qi appeared on the opposite side of the chessboard.

Sit.

The illusory silhouette slowly drifted down onto the prayer mat.

He didn't know who this old man across from him was.

He didn't know what place this was.

He didn't even know who he was.

But the chessboard was before him.

So he sat down.

"You first."

The old man picked up a white piece and pushed the black ones toward him.

Illusory fingers lifted and pinched a black piece.

The moment his fingertips touched the piece, the power of Yin and Yang contained within it surged into his body.

It was naturally absorbed and transformed by something dormant.

Without hesitation, he placed the piece.

Upper-left star point.

The old man raised an eyebrow.

The black piece landed in the center of the board, where the Yin and Yang Qi surged violently, forming a miniature vortex.

That black piece seemed to become the hub of this chessboard, with all Qi gathering toward it.

Determining the whole game through the hub. Seizing momentum with the first move, leaving no room for the opponent.

This was his instinct.

The old man smiled and casually placed a white piece.

The position appeared unremarkable, at a corner of the board, neither competing nor confronting.

He frowned—though he no longer had actual eyebrows.

His opponent's first move seemed like a casual toss.

He continued to place pieces.

Second move, star point. Third move, Small Point. Fourth move, Corner Approach.

Every move was extremely precise, every step interlocking perfectly.

His layout was seamless, both offensive and defensive, taking every inch of space on the board into calculation.

This was something etched into his bones—calculating everything.

The old man remained unhurried, white pieces falling one after another.

Their positions were scattered, showing no clear pattern, like a novice just learning chess throwing stones randomly.

After thirty moves.

He suddenly realized something was wrong.

Every step of his meticulously constructed layout was the optimal solution.

Yet the situation on the board was unconsciously evolving in a direction he could not understand.

Every "optimal" move of his had happened to step right into the web woven by the opponent's "casual" placements.

It wasn't a killing trap. It wasn't a blockade.

It was following the flow.

The old man's white pieces did not confront him; instead, after every one of his "calculated" moves—

They followed his strength and used his own layout to nonchalantly change the direction of the entire game.

It was like someone pushing a door with all their might, while another person simply stood behind the door and gently pulled it open in the same direction.

The more force applied, the harder the fall.

Fifty moves.

He lost.

He didn't lose due to a calculation error in a specific move; he had already lost from the very first move.

He sat dazed on the prayer mat, his illusory figure trembling slightly.

It wasn't because of the blow of failure.

It was because of confusion.

He couldn't figure it out.

Every move of his was the optimal solution, and he had calculated every possible response from the opponent.

Yet in the end, all these optimal solutions combined to form a complete and utter defeat.

"Again."

He spoke. His voice was hoarse, but his tone was firm.

The old man nodded.

Second round. He changed his strategy, no longer determining the game through a hub, but instead advancing step by step, playing steadily and surely.

Forty-three moves, loss.

Third round. He gave up calculation and placed pieces by intuition.

Thirty-seven moves, he lost even faster.

Fourth round. Fifth round. Sixth round.

In every round he changed his style, and in every round he lost.

The ways he lost were all different, but one thing was the same—he never saw how he had lost.

By the time he came to his senses, the game was already over.

After six rounds.

His illusory figure was a bit fainter than before, but it wasn't because his consciousness was dissipating.

Rather, it was because something deep-rooted was collapsing.

His certainty in his own Way of Chess.

"Can't figure it out?" The old man finally spoke, his tone flat.

"...I can't figure it out."

"Your chess skill is not bad," the old man said, picking up a black piece and twirling it between his fingers.

"Your calculation is profound, your layout tight, and your command of offense and defense is nearly flawless. Anywhere else, you would be a top-tier player."

"But you have one problem."

The old man placed the black piece back on the board and pointed at the Tengen Point.

"You think the Way of Chess is something that can be 'calculated'."

That wisp of consciousness fell silent.

"You calculate every move. You calculate your opponent's response, the changes in the situation, the direction three, five, or ten moves ahead."

"You treat the chessboard like an arithmetic problem and yourself as the one solving it."

The old man looked up, his eyes—so ordinary they couldn't be more so—reflecting the surging of Chaos.

"But the Way of Chess is not arithmetic."

"The Way of Chess is alive."

Having said this, he swept his hand across the board.

All the black and white pieces vanished at once, leaving only the crisscrossing lines on the board.

"Look at this board. Nineteen horizontal lines, nineteen vertical lines, three hundred and sixty-one intersections. What do you think these intersections are?"

"...Positions to place pieces."

"Wrong."

The old man shook his head.

"They are choices."

"Every intersection is a choice. And every combination of choices forms a possibility."

"The possibilities formed by three hundred and sixty-one points are more numerous than the stars in Chaos."

"No matter how precisely you calculate, you are merely choosing one path among infinite possibilities."

"Whereas I,"

The old man smiled, "simply did not choose."

"Did not choose?"

"I do not pick a path," the old man's voice became very soft, like wind blowing through an empty valley.

"I follow the Dao."

That wisp of consciousness suddenly shuddered.

Something exploded within his nearly blank perception, like a seed breaking its shell within Chaos.

He couldn't grasp that feeling or say what it was, but he knew—

Every word the old man said was correct.

"Your chess is too heavy."

The old man added one last thing. "So heavy that every move is a struggle against heaven and earth."

"The end of the Way of Chess is not to calculate everything under heaven."

"It is to forget that you are calculating."

As his voice fell, the old man reached out and gave a push.

That wisp of consciousness was once again swallowed by Chaos.

But this time, he felt no fear.

For that seed had already been planted.

And at the final moment before his consciousness sank into darkness, he vaguely heard a sentence the old man muttered to himself—

"In three thousand eon of the Way of Chess, another interesting one has finally arrived."

"A pity you've even forgotten who you are."

"Then first, remember."