The Dragon Courtyard in front of Thái Hòa Palace was bustling once again. The late spring noon sunlight gilded the stone steps with a golden hue. Two eunuchs, holding new royal parasols made of Thổ Lỗi silk, stood behind two kings. The final game of traditional chess started. The fateful game resonated between heaven and earth. The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông held the Black pieces. And Chế Củ, with the Red pieces, moved first.
In Chế Củ's eyes, this chess game was not merely a game but a sacred battlefield, where each move was a decision, each piece a battalion. He had to win this game. Otherwise, the Human Chess, the massacre would have happened to hí soldiers and warriors. Every decision was not just a line between glory and defeat but also the boundary between life and death.
He had to win this game. Only by winning could he save his men in the game of Human Chess. It would not happen if he won. There would be no reason to play the Human Chess if he won.
The late spring sunlight shone down, gilding the stone steps, transforming the chess scene into a magnificent painting, where he faced Lý Thánh Tông, the emperor of Đại Việt, imbued with the aura of a dragon, the forthrightness of a wise ruler, and the sharpness of a brilliant strategist.
On the grandstand, the civil and military officials were like a flock of phoenixes spreading their wings, while on the ground, the Đại Việt army stood like hungry tigers stalking their prey—his fifteen Champa soldiers, and warriors. They, together, witnessed this fateful traditional chess game.
Chế Củ firmly placed a Red piece on the gold-plated chessboard, making an opening move to seize the initiative. He began with the Cannon Advance, mirroring the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's move from the previous game. He felt his heartbeat synchronize with the waves crashing at the foot of Cả Mountain Pass. That move was not merely a tactical maneuver but a declaration of an unyielding kingdom. The red Cannon, a fiery cannonball from Champa's warships, aimed straight at the center of the chessboard, as if to pierce through the opponent's defensive navy fleet. In his mind, vivid images emerged of blazing cannonballs launched from his homeland's shores, hurtling toward Đại Việt's warships in the north, carrying Champa's burning resolve to protect its homeland.
But the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, with a calm gaze and a subtle smile, responded with the Screen Horse Defense. Two black Horses, like Đại Việt's warhorses standing tall before a fortress, showed no fear of the red Cannon's fiery shots. Chế Củ sensed the steadfastness in that move. A declaration that Đại Việt was not easily subdued. He clenched his fist. Sweat soaked his palms, but his eyes never left the chessboard. This game was not just a pastime but a battle of honor between two kingdoms.
Undeterred, Chế Củ deployed his two red Horses and advanced his Chariots along the river, like war machines of wagon rolling across a battlefield, crushing all obstacles. He envisioned Champa's army charging forward, their momentum like a tidal wave, ready to obliterate any resistance.
The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, with unnerving composure, countered by advancing his black Chariot to meet the challenge, while pushing a Pawn on the right wing forward, maintaining an even position. Chế Củ saw in that move the confidence of a king accustomed to victory. The officials on the grandstand nodded in approval, admiring the balance and finesse of both sides. For Chế Củ, his mind was immersed in the game, where each move was a heartbeat, each decision a test.
The game entered its critical phase—the middlegame—and Chế Củ felt the heat of the midday sun, as if it were scorching his resolve. He resolved to press the attack. The red Cannon and Chariot coordinated seamlessly, targeting the black King's palace like a tempest from Champa's seas, engulfing everything in its raging waves. In his mind, images of Champa's warships gliding over the waves, carrying the line between life and death, came alive. He wanted to prove that Champa was not just a small kingdom but a flame that could neither be easily extinguished nor subdued.
But the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, like an immovable mountain, sacrificed a central Pawn. At first glance, the move seemed like a retreat. Chế Củ, with the pride of a general, could not resist this opportunity. He used his red Cannon to capture the Pawn, feeling the thrill of leading his army to victory with spoils in hand. In that moment, he, suddenly, realized his mistake. It was a critical turning point in that traditional chess game.
The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's eyes, though still calm, glinted with a cold sharpness. That Pawn was not a prize but a trap. The black Cannon, like thunder in a clear sky, suddenly opened the endgame by advancing into the red King's palace, the central area of the board marked with diagonal lines, restricting the movement of the King and Ministers. The King and the Ministers could not leave this zone. The black Cannon threatened the red King. The black Chariot and Horse, like divine generals, moved in perfect harmony, launching relentless attacks.
Chế Củ felt the game tilting heavily in his opponent's favor. He was forced to retreat and defend, step by step, like a Champa army cornered and besieged on the battlefield. Each of the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's moves was a precise and sharp sword stroke, leaving Chế Củ in awe. But within him, the flame of Champa still burned. He vowed that, no matter how the game tilted, he would not be easily defeated.
The radiant sunlight bathed the Dragon Courtyard. Chế Củ looked at the gold-played chessboard, where the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's seven black pieces was still remained—two Charriots, one Cannon, two Horses, and two Pawns.
Under the Đại Việt Emperor's command and control, those seven black pieces were like the seven stars of the North Star Constellation, twinkling in the night sky. They coordinated flawlessly, without a single gap. Chế Củ felt their majesty. An invincible army. His red King, though protected by two Ministers and two Elephants, was falling into a desperate position. The black Charriot, like a soaring dragon, delivered a check, cutting off all retreat. The black Cannon, like rolling thunder, struck another check, cornering the red King. The black Horse leaped in, like a warhorse galloping freely, sealing all escape routes. And the two black Pawns, seemingly insignificant, now stood like towering walls, blocking all hope of Chế Củ.
He felt sweat beads on his forehead, not from the heat but from the pressure of the game. He searched desperately for an escape, moving his red King back and forth. But every move was anticipated and blocked by the seven black pieces. He imagined himself besieged on a battlefield, surrounded by enemies with no way out, as in the final battle of the Vijaya campaign. He refused to surrender, refused to admit defeat. In his heart, Champa's pride never wavered.
Finally, Lý Thánh Tông's black Cannon delivered the checkmate, like a radiant star of fate, ending the game.
The Dragon Courtyard shook with cheers from the grandstand.
Chế Củ looked up. He met the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's gaze. There was no arrogance, only the respect of a victor for the vanquished. He bowed his head, not in shame but in sincere admiration.
"You are truly a chess master," Chế Củ said softly, his voice low but filled with emotion. "What is this traditional chess formation called?"
The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông smiled. His eyes sparkled, reflecting the sunlight on the stone steps:
"This traditional chess formation is called the 'Seven Stars Converge' by the common traditional chess gamers. The seven Black pieces, like seven stars, determine the outcome of the game. But I call it the "North Star Constellation Guides the Way.'"
"The North Star Constellation Guides the Way?" Chế Củ murmured.
"The seven Black pieces, like the seven stars of the North Star Constellation, guide the lost to a path of light," the Đại Việt's Emperor said, his words not merely an explanation but a profound philosophical proclamation, imbued with Buddhist wisdom and tolerance, a clear yet subtle message for Chế Củ before the Game of Human Chess.
Chế Củ understood his words immediately. The Đại Việt's Emperor did not request him to surrender, knee down and vow to be a vassal anymore.
Suddenly, a spark of hope flashed in Chế Củ's mind.
He bowed his head, hiding the glint in his eyes illuminated by that hope. In his heart, a powerful emotion surged like the waves of Phan Rang crashing against the rocky shore. He whispered to himself a cryptic message he had once heard. That message from the beautiful girl now thundered in his ears. The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's words were not just an explanation but a confirmation of the mysterious maiden's earlier message.
The North Star Constellation Guides the Way—the path of light he sought. It was not on the chessboard but elsewhere. Now, he knew that, though he had lost this game, he still had a chance to escape in the Game of Human Chess—the arena of fate, of Champa, and of his own destiny.
Chế Củ stood up. He bowed slightly before the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, conceding defeat in the final traditional chess game, then slowly walked to the empty wooden chair placed among his fifteen loyal soldiers and warriors in the giant arena of the Game of Human Chess.
Under the radiant late spring afternoon sunlight, Chế Củ held his head high. He looked up at the roof of Thái Hòa Palace, where the broken ceramic pieces seemed arranged to form a path. They were outlining a path of light for him—a path to freedom. He walked confidently, carrying his newfound hope, like the eternal flame of Champa that would never be extinguished. As he walked, he murmured to himself:
"The Northern Gate."