Black and white pieces clashed across the board, each guided by unseen hands, locked in a fierce battle of strategy.
On this chess-based platform that combined various board game formats, the live broadcast of this particular match had drawn thousands of viewers. The chat on the right side of the screen updated every second, dozens of new comments flashing by.
But as the match reached a fever pitch, the barrage of messages slowed. Not because viewers were leaving, but because they were too captivated by the match to type. It was the kind of rare and brilliant game that demanded complete focus.
Sakayanagi Arisu, just fourteen years old, stared at her screen in tense silence. Her pale lips were pressed tightly together, and her knees trembled slightly under the desk. She gripped her mouse tightly, the cursor drifting aimlessly across the screen. The countdown timer ticked in her ears like a metronome of pressure.
"Check."
As if seeing it with her own eyes, Arisu imagined her opponent moving the black piece into position—the final move.
The chat erupted with a wave of "GG (Good Game)" comments.
But it wasn't so much a good game as it was a one-sided slaughter.
"Excellent technique. You're clearly not an amateur," Arisu typed, exhaling softly. She wasn't the kind to be hung up on a single win or loss. This was already her fifth straight defeat against the same opponent.
To show goodwill, she even added a small smiley face at the end of her message.
"Thanks. You're very skilled as well. You must have trained seriously," came the prompt reply.
On this platform filled mostly with beginners and casual players, both of them stood out for their high rankings and had practically become each other's regular sparring partners.
"Yes, I started formal training in chess when I was eight. It's been six years now," she replied. Despite her loss, she explained her experience openly. From her point of view, her opponent could very well be a veteran with decades of experience.
Yet, a small spark of pride still flickered in her.
There was a pause.
Her opponent seemed momentarily stunned by the information and didn't respond for a while. Arisu took the initiative.
"Do you have time for another match? I'd love to play two more games with you."
It wasn't that she couldn't find skilled opponents. With the Sakayanagi family's resources, she could easily hire nationally recognized chess masters as tutors. But they wouldn't lower themselves to spar so freely with a mere student. This opponent, with their compatible playstyle and exceptional skill, was rare.
"No."
The reply came swiftly, blunt and without a shred of courtesy.
"May I ask why?"
"You're very good—almost professional level. But... still too weak."
In front of her screen, Arisu froze.
Her immaculate brow twitched. She was known for her elegance and grace, praised by everyone who met her. But now...
"Well, excuse me," she snapped back, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Seems you enjoy bullying newbies quite a bit."
"I won't bother the great master any longer."
"...Hardly a master."
"I've only been studying chess seriously for two years."
Arisu's eyes widened in disbelief. Her hand bumped her cane off the table without noticing.
"...Hah?"
Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, she narrowed her eyes and typed:
"Then how about I introduce you to a new opponent?"
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What she saw through the glass that day still lingered vividly in Sakayanagi Arisu's memory, as if it had happened only yesterday.
Returning to this secluded mountain facility after six years, Sakayanagi felt an even more intense discomfort than she had as a child.
The building's exterior, the hallways, the identical rooms—everything was dyed in an unrelenting pure white. Walking through this heavily whitewashed space made her feel slightly dizzy. Pressing her lips together, she steadied herself. Her father, noticing her discomfort, gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Sakayanagi—no, I should now call you Chairman Sakayanagi, shouldn't I?"
A man in his forties appeared at the end of the corridor. He extended his hand in greeting, his sharp gaze leaving a deep impression.
"Ayanokouji-sensei. It's been a long time."
Her father bowed slightly in greeting.
"What a nostalgic title. Since you took over your father's position as chairman six years ago, we haven't spoken much, let alone seen you here."
The middle-aged man called Ayanokouji scrutinized the two of them.
"This must be your daughter. I remember she came here with you once before."
"Yes."
"I'm well aware your stance on this experiment has shifted from support to opposition over the years. That's precisely why I allowed you to visit again. Do you understand?"
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Ayanokouji leaned in to whisper in the chairman's ear, his tone laced with an almost pathological satisfaction:
"Because we're finally close to producing a true success."
"Using his training program as the prototype..."
Sakayanagi Arisu ignored his self-indulgent muttering.
She pressed her hands against the clear glass and stared intently into the room beyond.
It was one-way glass: she could see in, but those inside could not see out.
Teenage boys and girls in matching uniforms were inside, reading. None of them made any extraneous movements—just methodically turning pages.
"These are the fifth generation subjects. There are some promising samples among them, but they pale in comparison to him—a fourth-generation subject."
Noticing her rapt attention, Ayanokouji stopped his monologue and began explaining flatly.
"They sound impressive, but there are numerous issues with this experiment."
Sakayanagi turned around, smiling as she clasped her hands behind her back.
"If you're referring to the ethical concerns, there's no need to discuss them."
Ayanokouji frowned. If it weren't for his desire to flaunt the experiment's results and draw the Sakayanagi family back to his side, he wouldn't have wasted time here.
"That's not what I meant. After all, this experiment has been running for years. Nothing I say now can stop it."
Sakayanagi shook her head, and what she said next caused Ayanokouji's expression to darken considerably:
"I simply believe this experiment will never succeed in creating artificial geniuses."
A person's potential is determined the moment they are born, the instant they gain life.
This potential—a product of chance—manifests across countless fields.
Such is the structure of human society.
People cannot surpass what is imprinted in their genes.
Whether inherited through generations or sparked by sudden mutations, this is how true talent awakens.
In other words, if one wants to create a genius, the only viable method is genetic engineering. There is no alternative.
As someone born an ordinary person, no matter what one does, they cannot escape the limits of the ordinary.
No matter how privileged the environment, an untalented learner cannot become a genius.
This belief had been ingrained in Sakayanagi since childhood. It was the root of her opposition to this experiment.
The concept of manufacturing geniuses through postnatal methods stood in complete contradiction to her worldview.
Turning her gaze back into the sterile white room, she saw that reading time had ended. Teenagers roughly her age were now performing their daily physical training.
They moved with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
It was only natural.
Whether in academics or athletics, the level of competition here far surpassed what was expected of children.
And the one said to have emerged from such a brutal environment, the "near-success"—
"Ayanokouji Kiyotaka. I've seen him play chess before."
Sakayanagi paid no mind to Ayanokouji's increasingly sullen expression. She smiled and handed over a dossier:
"If you truly believe he is the pinnacle of the White Room, the closest thing to a success..."
"Then I must say, you're deluding yourself. At best, he's an artificially molded pseudo-genius."
"If you're unwilling to accept that, why not pit him against someone his own age from the outside—a true genius?"
"As far as I know, Ayanokouji Kiyotaka has been systematically studying chess since the age of four. Even here, no one can match him."
[Kitagawa Ryo, male, age 14.]
Those words were printed at the top of the dossier. Ayanokouji squinted, his expression flickering.
In truth, Ayanokouji was even more invested in the White Room project than most assumed. In his mind, it was a system capable of shaping the future of the nation.
"He debuted in the theater world as a child star, hailed as the most talented actor of the past decade. In just two years, he captivated audiences nationwide. Last month, he abruptly announced his retirement from acting, sparking widespread speculation."
Page after page revealed nothing related to chess.
Ayanokouji's fingers relaxed slightly on the paper. Then he noticed a small sentence obscured in the bottom corner:
[Started playing chess two years ago. Winner of the 3rd "Checkmate" Cup.]
"The 'Checkmate Cup' is an amateur tournament hosted by an online chess platform," Sakayanagi helpfully added.
Snorting, Ayanokouji crumpled the dossier into a ball and sneered:
"Follow me."
-------------------------------------
Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.
When did I first learn that name?
Even if I tried to recall, I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment.
But one thing was certain—his name had been etched into my memory for as long as I could remember.
Anyone who studied within the White Room knew the name.
The reason was simple: he was more exceptional than any student, of any generation, regardless of age.
No one could surpass the Fourth Generation's Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.
As a result, he was revered—idolized—as the perfect specimen.
The Fifth Generation students entered an empty classroom in orderly lines, following their instructors' commands. On the snow-white wall, a video was being projected.
At the center of the screen sat the unforgettable figure: Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.
As students just one generation below him, the Fifth Generation had been most influenced by his legacy.
No matter how hard any of them worked, no matter how outstanding their achievements, they never earned even a sliver of recognition.
All they received was a single directive: catch up to that distant, god-like existence.
Under this suffocating pressure, some began to worship him. Others grew to hate him. Most, however, developed a singular obsession: to defeat him.
A few even doubted whether "Ayanokouji Kiyotaka" was a real person—wondering if he had been fabricated by the instructors as a motivational tool.
Then, one day, the most outstanding students of the Fifth Generation were brought before Ayanokouji himself.
As challengers.
The result was inevitable: complete defeat.
From that day on, many of them were haunted by the terrifying realization that as long as he existed, they could never be first.
Those who succumbed to that despair were later eliminated in subsequent evaluations.
Only those who still saw Ayanokouji Kiyotaka as a rival remained.
No matter what it took, they had to prove he was not invincible.
That became their life's sole objective.
Then came the day they witnessed the failure of the "god" they had once revered.
On a chessboard, black's mighty dragon swept across the white pieces.
The pure-white building around them suddenly felt like it was melting—like the white pieces dissolving under pressure. Everything they believed in, everything they clung to, crumbled in an instant.
The sweetness and purity painted over their dark emotions were violently torn away. The Fifth Generation students stared with burning eyes at the blank white wall—the projection had been shut off by the instructors the moment things took a bad turn.
Kitagawa Ryo.
Amasawa Ichika memorized the username of the one who had faced Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.
She licked her lips, savoring the thrill.
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