Kaelen pulled the straw hat off his face and stared at the afternoon sky with profound irritation.
The autumn breeze had just reached the perfect temperature for a three-hour nap.
“An array-chess grandmaster,” Kaelen repeated, his voice flat and unenthusiastic. “From the Censorate.”
“Censorate Elder Wu,” Deacon Vane whispered, leaning over the hammock. “He is famous across the Central Continent. They call him the Soul-Grid Weaver. He has defeated seventy-two sect patriarchs without drawing a weapon.”
Old Barnaby shuffled out of the kitchen shed, wiping a bronze ladle on his greasy apron.
“That old vulture does not play normal board games,” Barnaby warned, his bushy grey eyebrows furrowing. “Heaven-Calculating Dao Chess uses soul-resonant slate. Every move forces your sea of consciousness to calculate forty thousand tactical permutations. Once you engage, your spirit gets sucked into a recursive logic loop.”
“The thirty patriarchs are trembling on the pavilion lawn,” Vane added. “They believe Chancellor Vaelen sent Wu to assassinate your mind. If you enter a three-day comprehension trance, your formation abstinence streak will shatter.”
Kaelen sat up slowly and swung his slippered feet onto the porch floorboards.
