Chapter 65 Holding Black or White, the Dao Heart First Cracks

Three voices refused to leave.

Chen Yuan sat on the prayer mat, holding a black piece, his fingertips trembling.

The chessboard was right before him, and the old man sat across from him. But he couldn't make a move.

That gentle and steady voice echoed in his ear—"Ziyuan, you forgot to take your medicine again."

He didn't know what the person speaking looked like, but the helplessness and indulgence in that tone...

...was like a thread passing through the Chaos, hooking into the softest part of his consciousness.

It pulled with a sharp pain.

Clack.

The black piece fell. Upper-right star point.

The old man followed with a white piece, cutting deep into the heart of his formation like a blade.

He didn't see it.

The second voice exploded again—

"Gu Ziyuan! If you dare sneak out to play chess alone again, I'll break your legs!"

Fiery and pungent, like a string of firecrackers going off in his head.

The corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily; he didn't know if he wanted to smile or say something.

He placed a stone. Komoku.

It was off by two lines.

The old man's white piece leaned in gently, turning the black piece into a dead stone.

The third voice was the most lethal. Soft, sweet, and carrying an irrepressible, mischievous smile—

"Senior Brother Ziyuan, I've hidden your chess pieces. Come find me!"

Chen Yuan's hand froze in mid-air.

The black piece between his fingertips almost fell.

He wanted to go look. He wanted to ask where they were hidden.

But he couldn't even remember who that voice belonged to.

He only felt the blurry lotus mark on his chest burning hot, so hot that his entire consciousness trembled.

He placed a piece.

He didn't look at the board. He just slapped it down randomly.

The old man didn't hold back. In three moves, the black Dragon was slaughtered.

"Collect."

First round, twenty-one moves, total annihilation.

Chen Yuan said nothing. He returned the pieces to the jar and started a new game.

Second round, nineteen moves.

Third round, twenty-four moves.

Every round ended cleanly and swiftly, with not a single piece left on the board. He was like a completely different person compared to the past two days.

Ten rounds finished.

The old man put the last white piece back in the jar and looked up at him.

"When the heart is in Chaos, the game is dead. What's the difference between you now and when you first arrived?"

Chen Yuan's illusory figure stiffened for a moment.

These words weren't heavy, but they stung deep.

He didn't remember what it was like when he first arrived, but his body did.

That feeling of powerlessness—being crushed by Chaos, consciousness dissipating, not even knowing his own name—was etched into the marrow of his bones.

He was unwilling to return to that state.

Unwillingness.

This unwillingness was like a fire, burning away all the relaxation and empty space accumulated over the past few days.

His gaze changed, becoming sharp, tense, and unyielding once again.

"Again."

The old man raised an eyebrow and didn't refuse.

The game began.

With Chen Yuan's first move, the Yin and Yang Qi were pinned down by a single stone, and the Qi flow of the entire board was instantly locked.

Ruthless. Precise. Leaving no room for maneuver.

This was his original style—calculating everything.

The old man's white piece followed. This time, there was no deflecting a heavy blow with a soft touch.

It was a head-on collision.

The white pieces ferociously cut into the black formation, every move tearing apart Chen Yuan's layout.

Chen Yuan gritted his teeth and countered. Black pieces surrounded while white pieces broke through; both sides were locked in a death struggle on the left half of the board.

Yin and Yang Qi surged and collided on the board, two cyclones of black and white devouring each other.

The space of Chaos trembled slightly from the shock.

Thirty moves.

Forty moves.

Fifty moves.

A faint golden light seeped from the surface of Chen Yuan's illusory figure; the Great Dao Golden Wheel was slightly activated by the intense confrontation.

His calculating power was squeezed to the limit, with every move simultaneously projecting seven to eight subsequent variations.

The seventy-third move.

He saw it.

A path.

The old man's layout revealed a tiny crack in the lower-left corner, so thin it was almost non-existent. But he saw it.

The black piece fell.

This move cut off two of the old man's three escape routes while simultaneously threatening the eye position of the white pieces above.

No matter how the old man responded—to the left, he'd be strangled by a chain of black pieces; to the right, black would seize the vital point with priority; upwards, it would play right into Chen Yuan's hands.

Twelve responses, all of them dead ends.

Chen Yuan's consciousness was strained to the limit.

This was the best move he had ever played in the Chaos.

The old man stared down at that black piece for a long time.

Then he shook his head.

The white piece fell.

Tengen.

The exact center of the board.

Chen Yuan was stunned.

This move was not among his twelve projections.

It wasn't because he had miscalculated, but because this move wasn't in his calculation framework at all—the old man hadn't taken the bait.

He hadn't responded to the killing blow; he hadn't even spared a glance at the trap that had been set.

The white piece landed on Tengen, doing nothing.

But in that instant, the Qi flow on the board underwent a fundamental change.

All the killing intent, key stones, and interlocking traps Chen Yuan had meticulously constructed seemed to lose their point of leverage.

They weren't broken; they were bypassed.

The old man stood outside his entire System of calculation, stepping lightly over all his schemes.

"That move of yours was indeed exquisite."

The old man twirled a white piece and pointed to where Chen Yuan's killing blow was aimed.

"But have you considered why you were able to calculate this move?"

Chen Yuan did not answer.

"It's not because you are clever. It's because you've locked yourself within the two words: 'victory and defeat'."

The old man's voice was as flat as water.

"Every step you take is in pursuit of winning. Therefore, every step can be predicted."

"Because 'wanting to win' is, in itself, the greatest flaw."

Chen Yuan's consciousness felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head.

He understood.

Not the understanding of an Epiphany, but the kind where one is stabbed through a vital point and jolted awake by the pain.

His calculation of everything had never been the true Way of Chess.

It was fear.

Fear of losing control, fear of failure, fear of "not being strong enough."

He filled every gap with calculation and blocked every variable with layouts, not because he wanted to win.

But because he was afraid to lose.

Afraid that if he lost, he would be unable to hold onto anything.

He thought he was the one holding the pieces.

In reality, he was a chess piece trapped by the word "win" for untold years.

"Crack."

A faint sound.

A crack appeared on the surface of Chen Yuan's illusory figure.

Starting from between his brows, it extended downward to the edge of the lotus mark on his chest.

It wasn't a collapse.

It was a breaking of the shell.

The moment the crack burst open, memories flooded in like water from a breached dam.

Green seas. Blue skies. The bamboo forest atop the ten-thousand-fathom cliffs of Jinao Island.

A faded Daoist robe of a Jiejiao Outer Sect Disciple.

A dust-covered chessboard.

A name—Gu Ziyuan.

A chess formation—Zhenlong.

A figure sat at the highest point of Biyou Palace, their face too majestic to look upon directly, yet their gaze softened when looking at him.

His name was Gu Ziyuan. He was an Outer Sect Disciple of Jiejiao. He was a transmigrator. He had a System.

It was too much.

Information poured in like a flood; his consciousness couldn't bear it.

The cracks on the illusory figure expanded rapidly; he was like a mirror on the verge of shattering.

A finger tapped his forehead.

The torrent of memories came to an abrupt halt.

"Don't bite off more than you can chew," the old man said, withdrawing his finger, his tone flat.

"Your current Dao Heart cannot support all your memories. Do it layer by layer. When your Dao Heart is tough enough, you will remember everything."

Chen Yuan gasped for air, his illusory body heaving violently.

The crack on his forehead slowly healed.

After healing, his entire figure became more solid than before.

His features were clearer, his silhouette more distinct, and a heavy weight now resided deep within his eyes.

It wasn't sharpness.

It was depth.

He now knew his name was Gu Ziyuan.

He knew he was a Jiejiao Disciple.

But more details remained blurry, like looking at distant mountains through a fog—he could only see the outlines, not the trees.

He was just about to say something.

"Buzz—"

A low vibration, almost inaudible, came from the deepest reaches of the Chaos.

The old man's movements stopped.

He slowly looked up, gazing toward a certain direction in the Chaos.

This was the first time Chen Yuan saw a change in the old man's expression.

It wasn't fear, nor anger, but a very faint, almost imperceptible... wariness.

"Someone is prying."

The old man waved his sleeve, and a vast, unbelievable power enveloped Chen Yuan, concealing his aura into nothingness.

In the depths of the Chaos, that buzz sounded again, a bit heavier than before.

It was as if something, from a vast distance, had cast a glance this way.

The old man lowered his eyelids and tapped his fingers twice on his knee.

"The 'Heaven' of your world doesn't seem to want you to stay here for too long."