The next tournament wasn't supposed to be legendary.
Held in a modest hall in Lyon, it was merely a prelude to the Grandmaster Invitational—a qualifier, a warm-up. No one expected Alexei Mirov, the quiet, promising prodigy from Novosibirsk, to set the world on fire.
And yet, game after game, something stirred.
It wasn't just his results—though they were pristine. It was the way he played. Opponents spoke in hushed tones afterward, confused. His games appeared chaotic at first—nonsensical even. In one match, he sacrificed a bishop in the opening, launched his rook into no-man's land by move 12, and let his king walk to the center like a ghost drawn toward death.
Everyone thought he was losing.
Then, twenty moves later, it all made sense.
Pieces once thought aimless revealed a network—like threads in a spider's web suddenly snapping into focus. Commentators sat in stunned silence. One even dropped their headset mid-broadcast.
"Have we…" another whispered, "Have we just witnessed the return of Tal?"
The name echoed in the halls of online forums. Analysts tore apart the PGNs. Nothing added up until it did—and then it was genius. An unnamable pattern. Beauty hidden beneath madness.
But Alexei never claimed credit. He gave no press interviews. He simply sat, calmly, next to Elena—who, in her own games, played with quiet elegance. If Alexei was thunder, she was moonlight. Where he struck like lightning, she wrapped her opponents in silken traps until they fell without knowing how.
And yet, even she watched him now with wide eyes.
At night, in the hotel room, Elena flipped through a printout of one of his games.
"This one," she whispered, tapping the page, "You didn't find this over the board."
Alexei looked up from his notebook. "What do you mean?"
"I've known you long enough. You felt this. Like it came from somewhere else."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
They both knew where the line had come from.
Flashback. The night of the shadow match still haunted his dreams.
Six boards. Six opponents. The shadows of the past had moved like poetry and storm. Tal's laughter still rang in Alexei's ears, even in waking hours.
"You're no longer just playing chess, Alexei," Tal had said between moves. "You're becoming chess."
Anya's voice to Elena: "He's transforming. You're guiding him. And we—we are memory. You two… are future."
Even now, in daylight, Alexei sometimes felt like he was seeing more. As if every board was alive with invisible lines.
He called them echoes.
The chess world, meanwhile, wasn't silent.
After Alexei's fifth consecutive win, a sudden wave of media erupted. Articles emerged titled The Chaos Knight, Resurrecting Tal?, and The Russian Boy Who Doesn't Blink. Grandmasters weighed in. Most were in awe. Some were skeptical.
GM Laroque: "I've never seen such insane order from such illogical beginnings."
GM Havel: "He's either possessed or destined."
Others were harsher.
GM Jun: "He's just lucky. These stunts won't work against real calculation."
But those who played Alexei knew the truth. It wasn't luck. It was art—twisted, breathing art.
The final game of the event ended with a queen sacrifice so audacious that the audience gasped before erupting in applause. The entire hall stood. Even the arbiter whispered something to himself in disbelief.
Then came the press conference.
Alexei and Elena sat side by side, facing a room packed with flashing cameras and murmuring voices.
The moderator raised a hand. "Alexei, your Queen sacrifice in Round 9—it looked suicidal. And yet it forced a mate-in-ten. Did you calculate all of that?"
Alexei hesitated, then spoke softly. "No."
Gasps.
Elena smiled faintly, as if already knowing what was coming.
"I felt it," he continued. "The position… spoke."
A reporter laughed, unsure if it was a joke. "Spoke?"
Alexei's gaze turned steady. "There's logic. Then there's language. Sometimes the pieces arrange themselves into something beyond lines and numbers. It's like… music. Or memory."
Another journalist asked, "Are you saying your moves are… inspired?"
He looked at Elena. She gave the slightest nod.
"Yes," he said. "Inspired."
The questions kept coming, but Alexei said little else. He didn't need to. The games spoke louder than words.
That night, as they rode the train back to Paris, Elena rested her head on Alexei's shoulder.
"You've changed," she whispered.
"I know."
"Does it scare you?"
Alexei turned to the window, watching the night blur past.
"Not when you're here."
She smiled.
Then, as if pulled by something ancient, Alexei reached into his bag and pulled out a folded note—one written years ago by his grandfather Nikolai. On it was a sequence of moves—an opening never published, never played in competition.
He placed it on the tray between them.
"What is that?" Elena asked.
"A gift," Alexei said. "But I think it's time I understand where it really came from."
The pieces were moving again.
The next phase was calling.
And this time, the shadows were not waiting in silence.
They were stepping into the light.