The final chessboard felt heavier than any before. Across from Nixxin, Kairn waited calmly, hands folded, eyes scanning the pieces without hurry. The room smelled of polished wood and faint sweat, the sound of whispers and footsteps drifting through the hall. Each move was measured, cautious, a small battle of patience. Pieces clicked softly against the board, silence wrapping tighter with every passing second.
A slow nod, a quiet exhale, and the match ended. Kairn shook hands, a faint smile on his lips. Words weren't needed. The tension had already said everything. Stepping away from the board, the muscles in the legs and shoulders felt stiff, but the chest held a strange calm, a quiet victory that wasn't loud or dramatic.
The waiting area was surprisingly empty. Students walked past in groups, laughing, arguing, sharing medals, but not one came near. Conversations hummed in the background, distant and hollow. A bench along the wall offered a place to sit, and there, time seemed to stretch endlessly. Clocks ticked, footsteps echoed, and yet the silence of not being noticed weighed heavier than noise. The gold medal rested on the lap, heavy and solid, a reminder of battles fought and contracts made without fanfare.
Finally, the announcements began. Chairs scraped, papers shuffled, and voices cleared through a microphone. One by one, students stepped forward. And then came the name: "First place… Nixxin."
Applause rose, sudden and loud. Classmates shouted, clapped, and nudged each other. Hands slapped on the back, smiles were wide, laughter carried across the hall. Yet focus remained inward, a stillness beneath the noise. The medal hung around the neck, solid against the chest. Gold, real, undeniable. It was more than a prize. The altar. Wise Honor. The drop of blood. The chessboard. All pieces aligned in one moment of quiet understanding. The contract was real, waiting to be fulfilled.
Classmates crowded closer, their words pouring out at once. "You were amazing!" "I thought you lost!" "You're scary when you think!" Gratitude and acknowledgement came, yet attention drifted elsewhere. The mind wandered back to the Land of Diligence, to Ardent's silent watch, to the training that had become more than practice—it was preparation, a promise to oneself and something unseen.
Night fell, and the Datora gate shimmered in the dim apartment light. Stepping through, the Land of Diligence stretched wide and endless, still as the air itself. Fifty others moved alongside, some nodding, some quiet. Focus sharpened. Training began. Every movement mattered. Hands gripped, muscles burned, and legs pushed against pain. The world shrank to effort, motion, and endurance. Hours melted away in the rhythm of push, lift, run, repeat.
Collapse finally came, sudden and complete. Darkness wrapped around, and cold wind cut against the face when consciousness returned. A mountain peak rose under an endless sky. The Land of Diligence sprawled below, silent and vast. Another gate stood nearby, different from Datora's familiar shimmer. Taller, darker, full of unknowns.
The hand glowed faintly. Awareness spread through it, tingling, alive. A whisper of understanding came: this hand itself was the key.
"Diligio," a voice said, calm and quiet. Stillness clung to the figure standing beside the gate, its presence solid against the wind and the mountain.
Raising the hand, the gate stirred, shimmered, and opened. Nothing lay beyond. No kingdom, no land, no guide. Only emptiness stretched outward, infinite and silent. The wind swept through, cold and sharp, carrying the taste of snow and stone.
Steps forward were careful, testing the strange, open space. Nothing shifted. No sounds of creatures, no warmth, no guidance. Only mountains and sky, empty as thought itself. A heartbeat seemed loud in the emptiness, a small rhythm against the vast unknown. The mind turned over the medal, the altar, the chess games, and the contract. The weight of promise pressed down, heavier than fatigue, heavier than heat or cold.
Then came the collapse. The mountain faded. Consciousness slipped back into a bed, warmth and comfort clashing with fever and heat. Skin burned, head throbbed, chest ached. Coughs rattled through, dry and wet. Limbs felt heavy, almost as though they were made of lead. The medal sat on the table, gold and heavy, a quiet reminder of battles fought and promises made.
Voices came through the door. "He's sick," Grandpa said softly. A sigh followed, Uncle Welp standing in the doorway, shaking his head. "Figures," came the quiet reply.
Eyes closed against the heat, against the ache, against the cold that ran under the skin. Thoughts drifted to the empty gate, to Diligio, to the wind, to the mountain, to the Land of Diligence. The chessboard, the altar, the blood, the medal. The contract. A promise unfinished.
Somewhere deep inside, a small spark of understanding flickered. Nothing was simple anymore. Nothing was safe. The next steps would not be guided by comfort or clarity. The path would be lonely, full of unknowns, full of empty gates and cold wind, but unavoidable.
Sleep took over again, heavy and restless, carrying the weight of training, chess, contracts, and mountains. Somewhere in that half-dream, the medal felt heavier. Somewhere in that quiet, empty space, the hand glowed brighter. Somewhere in the fever and the heat, a promise whispered back: the work had only just begun.