At the center of the pavilion sat Daverion.
He was seated on a low chair, firm and simple, close to the ground, without imposing himself. His presence did not need height to be central; it was enough for him to be there. The pavilion seemed arranged around him, as if his stillness defined the balance of the place. The air was clean and steady, perceptible with each breath, filled with a calm that neither weighed down nor faded.
Before Daverion stood a chessboard, placed upon a small, square wooden table. The table had no visible legs or joints. It was supported by nothing, yet it remained completely still, suspended in the air with absolute stability. It did not sway, did not sink, did not respond to the movement of the surroundings. It simply floated, as if space itself had accepted the task of holding it.
The wood was dark and smooth to the touch, carefully polished, without unnecessary shine. It looked neither new nor worn. Upon it, the board stood perfectly aligned before Daverion, waiting—silent, attentive.
"What a good scene," Daverion commented.
His voice was calm, almost contemplative, and when it sounded, the silence did not break; it adjusted itself around it.
"Someone should paint this and capture it. It would be a work of art."
He fell silent for a moment, as if evaluating not the game, but the composition of the moment itself.
"Better yet," he added, "to narrate it… and have it recited throughout the world."
Then Daverion began to describe it.
Not as one who explains, but as one who names.
"Above the pavilion stretches a sky covered in stars—deep, silent, endless.
A full moon, immense, dominates the night and feels close, so clear that its light seems to descend effortlessly, as if it had always belonged to this place.
Nearby, shooting stars cross the firmament and vanish—brief, precise—leaving only the certainty that they passed.
That light falls upon an immense lake.
The water receives it and reflects it like a living mirror, and as it moves, it fractures the reflection into slow ripples that spread without haste.
Koi fish break the surface, trace gentle arcs through the air, and return to the lake; as they fall, the reflection shatters, and the sound of the splash spreads—clear, real.
The wind blows and moves the flowers, loosening them and letting them fall upon the water. The lake answers with a constant murmur, deep and serene.
In the distance, fauna can be sensed—unseen creatures that inhabit the night and sustain it with their silent presence.
At the center of all this, a sovereign remains.
Young in appearance, ancient in presence. Not hardened by time, not weakened by it, but intact—held by a calm that does not need to impose itself.
Before him, the chessboard waits.
It keeps the past in silence.
Observes the present without intervening.
Awaits the hand that will reveal what separates the now from the future."
Daverion fell silent.
Before him, the chessboard continued to wait.
And the world, for an instant, seemed to do the same.
At the center of the pavilion, Daverion raised his hand. The air vibrated with the gesture, dense and charged, as if space itself were holding its breath. Before him, figures began to form, suspended in nothingness: first, a serpent—silent, coiling, its body emitting a faint glow that softly illuminated the pavilion; then the Celestial Court, ethereal and fragmented, forming a chorus of presences that seemed to uphold universes with every motion. Mael emerged next, solid and calculating, followed by Theron—elegant, precise—positioning himself beside him. The Seventh Shadow appeared, dense and dark, absorbing the light around it. An incomplete figure wavered, diffuse and unstable, hesitating for an instant. Finally, Kel emerged, firm, like a pillar of contained force.
Each figure rose slowly, floating in a space that obeyed neither gravity nor time. First the serpent, then the Celestial Court merged with it, and each new presence combined in turn, until the last to rise was the incomplete figure, suspended with a weight that made even the pavilion itself feel the density of its existence.
Daverion observed it closely. His gaze traced every detail: Theron's contained tension, Mael's deliberate stillness, the oppressive density of the Seventh Shadow. There was full recognition in his eyes—calculation and fascination, impossible to hide.
"It's complicated to read a sovereign," he murmured, his voice calm yet heavy with intent.
A pause, then he added with a faint, unsettling smile:
"The one behind the Seventh Shadow should be him."
Without haste, he allowed the incomplete figure to merge with the others. In the end, all the figures condensed into a single presence—a being without features, without gender, nothing in appearance to distinguish it, and yet overflowing with substance. It contained all the thoughts, fears, concerns, intelligence, cunning, tastes, hatreds, and resentments of the figures that formed it. Its mere presence tightened the air; the pavilion seemed to tilt subtly toward it, and the silence became absolute, expectant.
"Celestial Art… Divine Sin," Daverion said, his smile carrying both amusement and threat.
"An art that allows me to access every emotion—to the entirety of a person. All through sin."
Daverion leaned back slightly, and for a moment it seemed as if he absorbed all space, all light, all tension. The second game was ready.
"This is our second match," he said, "though this time, there are more variables."
The pavilion itself seemed to hold its breath with him, as if every thought and emotion of the opponent were already in play.
Daverion began the game and advanced the first piece.
A simple movement—almost trivial.
As his fingers withdrew from the board, his voice began to narrate, as if each move turned a page.
"It was no coincidence that I arrived on this planet."
His gaze was not fixed on a single piece, but on the whole—on how the board responded.
"Only here did a real possibility exist for the Seventh Shadow to draw near."
The opponent—the faceless figure formed of overlapping wills—remained motionless. There was no expression, but Daverion sensed the tension: thoughts that were not one, but many, struggling to decide.
"I'm not interested in the organization," he continued, "but in the one behind it."
Another piece moved, this time with clear intent.
"His martial art is unique."
The board was no longer just wood and figures. Each piece represented an external will. Each displacement, an event in the world.
"The Celestial Court of this planet has an infiltrator from the Network."
A subtle positional adjustment. Lateral pressure.
"One of the largest information-gathering organizations."
Daverion did not look up. He knew the opponent was watching now, trying to understand when control had already been lost.
"That I used my power to shake the entire planet was not a whim."
A piece was offered. A calculated sacrifice.
"Poor serpent. It acted against its will."
The board answered exactly as he had anticipated.
"Where would a beast of that level attack without reason," he asked quietly, "even knowing it had been forcibly extracted from its depths?"
His fingers brushed another piece.
"With its intelligence, it knew something was wrong. Normally, it would never have attacked."
He moved it.
"But there was pride in you. Little… but enough."
A pause.
"Enough for me to make it grow beyond your control."
A faint laugh escaped his lips.
"You didn't even notice."
The opponent attempted to respond. A defensive move. Too late.
"I revealed my power to make my presence known to everyone," Daverion said, "but above all to that infiltrator, because only the Celestial Court and a few others could truly see what happened at the lake."
Another piece settled into place.
"That infiltrator informed the Network. He wouldn't dare investigate me on his own."
A figure advanced, closing lines.
"Therefore, they would turn to another organization."
For the first time, Daverion lifted his gaze and looked directly at his opponent.
"They had two options."
He placed the piece with precision.
"But only one pointed in my direction… and was close enough."
"The Seventh Shadow."
The game was already decided, though not yet finished.
"This is where the first match ended."
He continued without pause.
"The arrival of Mael and Theron was deduced beforehand."
Two new pieces seemed to enter the board, as if they had always been destined to.
"Now let us continue," he said, "and reach a conclusion."
Another move.
"Mael reported… something he would not have done without influence."
A subtle pressure.
"Your sin: selfishness."
The board trembled—not physically, but in intent.
"Through him, I accessed you. Your thoughts."
Another move.
"The Seventh Shadow, upon the appearance of someone capable of breaking that object, would not only notify its client."
Daverion inclined his head slightly.
"It would also notify the one behind them."
Kel entered the game like a long-range piece.
"Kel, by prestige and more, will spread the information to many places."
A line opened.
"But the first to be notified… will be the First Sovereign. Or a primordial sovereign."
Daverion advanced the key piece.
"Only he will detect the hidden message I prepared for him, within the video Mael sent."
The opponent understood far too late.
"Consequently, the grand conference will be advanced."
Silence.
"And the sovereign behind the Seventh Shadow…"
The final move.
"Should have already begun to move."
Daverion smiled.
"Out of curiosity."
He placed the last piece.
"The board is already pulling him toward me."
The board became still.
"Checkmate."
Daverion withdrew his hand. The pieces did not move, but the game had ended long before that gesture.
"I won. All objectives were fulfilled."
He fell silent for a moment—not from doubt, but from certainty.
"Any person, creature, or entity involved in an event related to this game automatically enters the board."
His gaze swept over the pieces, though he no longer needed them.
"Every action, every decision, every mistake and every success becomes a piece.
Everything moves under my vision.
Everything remains within my game."
The chessboard remained there, intact.
The game had ended.
And the game, though finished,
continued to extend far beyond the chessboard.