The next morning in Estor was quiet except for the distant bleating of goats and the rhythmic creak of a water well being drawn. The sky was washed in pale gold, and a light mist still clung to the edges of the village. I sat at the wooden workbench in the manor's back courtyard, staring at a pile of scrap wood, a carving knife, and a faint sketch I'd made the night before.
Ever since I got here, my hands had been itching to make something familiar. The toilets were useful, sure, but they didn't exactly give me a sense of… home. What I wanted was something from my own world—not just to use, but to enjoy. Something that could pass the time, spark conversation, maybe even help me blend in. Chess seemed perfect. It was simple to make with the tools at hand, easy to explain, and people could play for hours.
I'd scavenged a few decent planks from an old storage shed, planed them smooth, and marked a grid with a charcoal stick. The carving of the pieces was the tricky part—making them distinct enough to tell apart without overcomplicating the shapes. I kept the knights simple horse heads, pawns just rounded tops, rooks like little towers. Without access to fine paint, I used two types of wood: pale oak for one side, darker walnut for the other.
By mid-morning, I'd finished sanding the board, rubbed it down with a bit of oil to bring out the grain, and set the pieces neatly in place. It wasn't a masterpiece, but it had the right weight and look. It felt like something I could've bought in a small shop back home.
I was admiring it when a shadow fell across the table.
"What's this?" asked a voice, tinged with curiosity.
It was Merin, one of the village youths—probably seventeen, wiry, with the perpetually messy hair of someone who never bothered to check his reflection. He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the grid. "Looks fancy. Did you make it?"
I hesitated. In a way, yes. I'd built the physical thing here, but the design, the game, the rules—they weren't mine. "It's a game from my homeland," I said, resting a hand on the board. "It's called chess."
"Chess," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the unfamiliar word. "How do you play?"
Before I could answer, another head popped around the courtyard gate—it was Nella, a weaver from the village, followed closely by two more curious onlookers. In a matter of minutes, I found myself surrounded.
"It's like a battle," I began, moving two pawns forward as demonstration. "Each player controls an army. The goal is to capture the opponent's king." I explained the movements of each piece—how bishops moved diagonally, rooks in straight lines, knights in their L-shaped hop. The pawns drew a few chuckles; apparently, the idea of the smallest soldiers being able to become powerful was novel.
Merin tried a game against Nella while I guided them through. The first match ended quickly, with Merin losing most of his pieces in just a handful of moves.
"This is harder than it looks," he muttered, leaning back in his chair.
"That's the beauty of it," I said. "It's simple to learn, but you can spend a lifetime getting better."
By the time lunch came around, word had spread. More villagers came to see the strange game from a faraway land. Some sat to try it, others simply watched, murmuring in amazement as pieces were sacrificed, strategies formed, and victories claimed. A few children lingered at the edges, eyes wide with curiosity.
At one point, Old Bram, the village's blacksmith, came lumbering over, wiping his hands on his apron. "What's all the fuss about?"
When I told him, he scratched his beard. "Huh. I've never seen anything like it. Looks… clever."
"It's popular where I'm from," I said. "People play in markets, in taverns, even in the streets sometimes."
"Bet it'd be a good way to settle disputes," he said with a grin. "Better than shouting at each other."
I chuckled, imagining two drunk villagers deciding the fate of a stolen chicken over a chessboard.
Later in the afternoon, Lady Lydia appeared. She'd heard from her steward that "Mister Han Yu had invented a curious battle game" and wanted to see it for herself. When she stepped into the courtyard and saw the board, her eyes lit up.
"It's… beautiful," she said, touching the smooth surface. "And you made this yourself?"
I gave her the same answer I'd given the others. "It's a game from my homeland. I only built this particular board here."
"And the rules?"
"They're traditional where I'm from. Everyone knows them, though some play better than others."
She watched as I played a demonstration game against one of the older villagers. Even though I played at half my ability, it still ended with a quick checkmate, earning a few gasps from the onlookers. Lydia seemed impressed—not just by the game, but by how it drew people together.
"This could be more than just entertainment," she murmured, almost to herself. "It encourages planning, patience… foresight. Qualities we could use more of."
By early evening, nearly half the village had either tried the game or at least seen it played. I left the board in the common hall for anyone to use. The idea of chess becoming a thing here was oddly satisfying—like planting a small seed of my old world in this one.
But satisfaction came with a ripple of unease. Every time someone asked where the game came from, I had to repeat the line about my homeland, careful not to reveal more. Most accepted it at face value. Still, a few sharp-eyed villagers—particularly Lydia—seemed to suspect there was more to the story.
After dinner, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in streaks of orange and pink, Lydia caught me in the hallway.
"You've been very generous with your… ideas," she said, her tone gentle but probing. "The toilets. Now this game. I can't help but wonder how many more things like this your homeland has."
I gave a small shrug. "Many. But I'm not sure which ones would be useful here."
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment before she smiled. "Well, whatever the case, you've given the people something to talk about. And that's worth more than you might think."
That night, I lay awake in the small guest room, staring at the ceiling. It felt good to create something that sparked joy instead of suspicion. But I couldn't shake the thought that every little thing I made, every idea I introduced, was another thread connecting me to this place—and another chance for someone to start pulling on it until they unraveled who I really was.
Still, when I thought of the villagers laughing and arguing over the chessboard, the clack of pieces moving, the gleam of competition in their eyes… I couldn't help but smile.
If this was how I'd "invent" my way into their world, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.