Chapter 5: Checkmate & Meeting with the Staff.
The king lay on its side.
The board was silent.
Leon did not immediately withdraw her hand.
She remained seated, her posture unchanged, eyes fixed on the final position as if the pieces might still rearrange themselves if she looked away too quickly.
Nothing changed.
Only then did she slowly lean back.
So it ended here.
The method itself was not elegant.
Leon was well aware of that. In fact, if one were to describe it honestly, it was closer to coercion than strategy.
Yet the world has always been like this.
Things that appeared refined often failed, while crude methods—when applied at the correct moment—worked with frightening consistency.
From the instant she mentioned his mother’s death, the match had already begun.
Whether Avesta believed her or not was irrelevant.
Truth had never been the deciding factor in human behavior. Emotion was.
Once anger had been stirred, it no longer required confirmation to grow.
Hatred, once named, had a tendency to expand on its own.
Avesta had not lost control because of rage.
That was precisely why he lost.
His composure remained intact. His thoughts were clear.
Yet beneath that clarity, something else had shifted. Pride had crept in quietly, followed by a desire to prove that his victories were his own.
That desire created space.
And within that space, Leon placed the board.
Chess was not his domain.
More importantly, this world’s understanding of chess was still immature.
What Avesta knew was too simple.
What Leon brought with her was something that did not belong here.
An opening born in another world.
A move that appeared meaningless.
The moment Avesta hesitated—not because the move was strong, but because it was unfamiliar—the goddess’s guidance weakened.
But even a god’s grasp, once loosened, allowed things to slip through.
Leon had not outplayed him in strength.
She had outlasted his certainty.
Now that certainty lay overturned on the board.
Avesta remained silent for a long time.
Leon expected anger.
Or at the very least, displeasure.
Instead, she watched him lean forward, resting his chin on his hand, eyes tracing the path the game had taken.
There was no denial in his expression. Only curiosity.
Then he laughed softly.
A quiet sound, as though he had been reminded of something long forgotten.
“Well done,” he said, and began to clap.
The applause was unhurried. Genuine.
“To provoke obsession, to exploit pride, and to let the opponent defeat himself…” Avesta shook his head.
“I’ve done this countless times. Against kings. Against monsters. Even against gods.”
His gaze lifted to meet Leon’s.
“And this time, I was the one standing on the other side.”
There was no hostility in his eyes. If anything, there was appreciation.
Leon said nothing.
Her silence seemed to amuse him.
“You haven’t spoken since the match ended,”
Avesta remarked. “Does this outcome feel inevitable to you?”
Leon did not answer.
The impact of hunger was still affecting her.
Avesta leaned back in his chair.
“Very well,” he said. “You’ve won. Name your wish.”
Gold, what yourotection—such things passed through his mind effortlessly. They were the usual answers.
The predictable ones.
Leon finally spoke.
“I want what you brought here."
Avesta paused.
Then smiled.
“The Staff of Merlin.”
For the first time that night, the god of gamblers looked truly interested.
Avesta did not speak immediately.
For a fleeting instant, his breathing faltered. It was not something an ordinary person would notice.
His expression remained composed, his posture unchanged, and even the faint smile at the corner of his lips did not fade.
Yet within him, something stirred—an old memory dragged violently to the surface.
The staff of Merlin.
That name was not supposed to be spoken lightly.
It was not a relic recorded in common archives, nor an artifact circulated among collectors without discretion.
Those who knew of it either possessed enough strength to survive the consequences, or had already paid the price for curiosity.
How, then, did she know?
Avesta’s gaze returned to the woman standing before him.
Leon remained silent, her figure calm and unassuming.
There was no eagerness in her eyes, nor the impatience of someone desperate for reward.
The discomfort he felt earlier returned.
It resembled the sensation he experienced during their match, when her moves refused to follow any logic he was familiar with.
His thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to the past.
He had spent years chasing the truth behind his mother’s death.
The ones who had taken her were not the ones who had killed her. That much he knew with certainty.
And yet, this woman stood before him, somehow knew that to use it as leverage.
Besides that, If she were lying, he thought, she would have chosen something safer.
Now that she had won the usual demand would be power, authority or Protection.
All of those were rewards gamblers desired. Instead, she had asked for something most people avoided once they understood it.
That alone was proof.
“Follow me,” Avesta said at last.
Space folded.
A magic circle bloomed beneath their feet.
Flames surged upward, devouring not air, but distance itself. In the next moment, the fire vanished.
They reappeared underground.
Avesta adjusted his cuffs absentmindedly. Leon steadied herself.
“This is my collection,” Avesta said as they walked.
“I gather things that may be useful someday.”
The corridor stretched far longer than its entrance suggested.
The walls were lined with artifacts—some openly displayed, others sealed within transparent containers engraved with suppression spells.
Weapons that hummed faintly. Relics that radiated unease. Objects that pressed against the mind merely by existing.
Leon observed without comment.
Each item carried traces of its former owner.
They continued deeper.
Eventually, they stopped.
Before them floated a staff.
It was pristine, a wood base untouched by time. Its upper structure resembled a tower frozen mid-construction, while three orbs revolved around it in slow, silent orbit.
They reflected no light—only distance, as though gazing into something immeasurably far away.
Avesta stared at it for a long time.
“I don’t understand your choice,” he said quietly.
“That staff does not grant fulfillment.”
His tone carried neither warning nor malice.
“It ends paths. Those who wield it will outlive everything—friends, eras, civilizations. In exchange, all that remains is time and the inability to use and grow the path you are mean't to walk and see the end of it.”
Leon already understood.
He already had reached the end of her path.
However with how things were for her right now this item was her only solution to a peaceful life with no worries.
“I want a peaceful life,” she said. “If that requires watching all things fade, then I will bear it. As for my path it doesn't matter anymore.”
She stepped forward.
The moment her fingers neared the staff, her vision blurred.
The world dissolved.
When Leon opened her eyes, she stood amidst a field of blue lilies. They stretched endlessly beneath a pale sky devoid of sun or stars.
The air was still, heavy with age.
Before her stood a woman clad in white.
She radiated neither authority nor hostility.
Her presence was simply absolute, like a law that did not require explanation.
“You are not worthy,” the woman said.
There was no judgment in her voice.
Only certainty.
The lilies swayed gently.
—-
Leon lay flat among the blue lilies.
Petals brushed against her sleeves, soft and unbothered, as though the field itself had decided that whatever struggle had occurred moments earlier was none of its concern.
The sky above remained pale and distant. No wind. No sound. Just stillness.
She stared at it.
In the game, this was the part where a screen would appear.
Instead, she had been dragged into a metaphysical flower field and told—quite politely—that she was unworthy.
It was… irritating.
Not devastating. Not humiliating.
Just annoying.
Leon exhaled slowly and turned her head to the side.
The woman in white still stood where she had been before, hands folded, expression composed.
She looked less like a judge and more like a custodian who had been waiting far too long for someone to read the rules.
“…So,” Leon said at last, her voice flat, “why?”
The woman’s gaze shifted toward her.
“You lack the desire to become a guardian of this world.”
Leon closed her eyes.
Of all the reasons she had prepared herself to hear, that had not been one of them.
She let out a quiet scoff and pushed herself into a sitting position.
“Since when was that a requirement?”
The woman did not react to the tone.
“The staff exists to preserve the balance of creation. Only those who wish to protect the world may wield it.”
'That’s strange,’ Leon thought. 'Because I distinctly remember equipping it on characters who burned cities for fun.’
Silence.
Leon opened one eye.
The woman was still calm, but there was a faint delay before she spoke again—as though she were searching for something that had not been used in a long time.
She sighed and leaned back, resting her weight on her hands.
“Then let me ask you something. If your conditions are this strict, why do you even exist?”
The lilies swayed slightly.
“To prevent misuse.”
“To wait,” Leon corrected gently. “You’re waiting for someone who will never come.”
The woman’s fingers tightened.
Leon continued, her voice unhurried.
“What you’re asking for is impossible. You want someone willing to give up mortality, abandon personal desire, and bear eternity for a world that will never thank them.”
She tilted her head. “And on top of that, you demand those with innate power and their own path to discard it for the sake of protection only.”
“A guardian without a sword is useless,”
Leon said. “And a guardian without strength is even more useless as well.”
The woman hesitated.
Leon observed her carefully. The posture. The stillness.
“You haven’t had a master for a long time,” Leon said.
It wasn’t a question.
The woman did not answer.
Leon looked away, toward the endless field.
“The role you’re describing has already been filled. The world has chosen people for that. “The Chosen one”. His companions. People who burn, struggle, hesitate, and still move forward.”
She paused. “They won’t need you.”
The lilies trembled faintly now, reacting not to wind, but to something deeper.
“This duty,” Leon continued, “ that was imposed on you. It doesn’t align with your restrictions because it wasn’t born from world or your creator.”
She turned her gaze back to the woman.
“It was created by someone who loved you.”
The woman’s eyes widened—just slightly.
“Which is strange,” Leon added quietly, “because the one who last wielded you was a true immortal. Not even their souls could perish.”
For the first time, the woman’s composure cracked.
Her expression wavered—not with anger, but with something far more fragile.
Confusion. Doubt.
A long-standing belief being gently, inexorably pulled apart.
Leon watched her in silence.
It seemed she had been right.
