Chess is more than a game. It is a mirror of our world: struggle and strategy, order and chaos, intuition and calculation. Every game is a life in miniature — filled with decisions, risks, mistakes, and victories.
On the chessboard, as in life, one must always see several moves ahead. Endure when everything is against you. Find an unexpected path when no way seems open. Admit mistakes, learn from defeats, and rise stronger.
Chess opens doors — to self-discovery, to freedom of thought, to endless growth. It allows you to look within and see who you truly are — and who you can become. And if you can triumph on 64 squares, you can triumph in life as well.
It had been four years since Fischer abandoned the board. I was twenty-eight now. The year was 1979.
How quickly time flies, I thought with a smile.
In those years, I had grown far stronger. Tournaments? I won them with ease. But really — what else could anyone expect from me?
I am Emperor of the Chessboard.
As I have said, this game opens all the doors of the world. With each passing year, I widened my reach, forged more connections, and expanded my influence.
Even Grey Mole — the most feared criminal authority on the planet — turned his gaze upon me.
At first, we spoke out of curiosity. But over time, he became my first true ally.
He opened for me the gates to the most dangerous and secretive organization in existence — Mangulat.
He was its leader. Seeing my talents — not only in chess but in the real games of power and domination — he made me his Co-leader.
And now I stand as the second most powerful figure in the world's most wanted criminal empire. Of course, no one knew. Not even my dear mother. If she ever learned the truth, she would be devastated… and I wouldn't want that.
Mahaha! How absurd… I now stand above this pathetic world.
Just six years ago, I was nothing. Empty. Without a goal. Without ambition. Without even a will of my own.
Gert Keller, the so-called "World Champion," had not played a single official match in four years.
But honestly, who is surprised? Mediocrity always fears the light. The title was handed to him — and he vanished, hiding from disgrace.
But now… In two days, we will face each other.
For the very first time across the board. The Emperor versus the plebeian who defiled the crown with silence for four long years.
At last, the world will see what I have always known: he is nothing. And I am everything.
I will crush him — like a god crushes the turtle.
I stepped out of the building where I had just won the final qualifying match.
My opponent was William Schwarz of Germany.
A true prodigy — only sixteen, yet already a rising star. Had it not been for me, he might have become the next World Champion, breaking every record in the process.
But fate chose otherwise. That crown was never meant to be his.
It belongs to me — Angelo Nobell.
Mahaha! Nothing brings me greater pleasure than watching the ego of a prodigy shatter.
Outside awaited a sea of flashing lights and microphones.
Voices, faces, tension — all converging on me.
A young journalist pushed her way through the crowd — confident, alluring, with fire blazing in her eyes.
Her statuesque figure, ruby-red gaze, and flowing black hair drew admiring stares from every direction.
She wore a sleek black dress that clung to her, accentuating each seductive curve.
She carried herself like the undisputed queen of the press.
And of course, she came for only one thing:
to interview the future World Champion.
Her voice reached me, polished yet eager:
"Excuse me, sir, could you spare us a moment of your time?" she asked.
At that moment, I had no desire to waste myself on the banal chatter of journalists.
"Very well. I'll answer only one question," I replied with a cold smile.
Hopefully she'd ask something worthy of me — something that could at least justify this interruption.
Perhaps about today's match with Mr. Schwarz. That would have been worth my time.
Instead:
"Mr. Nobell, could you share a few words about your upcoming match with Mr. Keller?"
Expectation and reality — how far they always drift apart. Her question was proof enough.
Hearing it, I let no change show on my face, though inside a spark of irritation flickered.
What is the point of asking something so utterly meaningless, when the whole world already knows the answer?
Only a hermit in the mountains could be unaware of my hatred for him.
A complete waste of breath.
I looked at her, a slow, deliberate smile curling at my lips.
She handed me the microphone.
The crowd hushed instantly, every gaze fixed on me.
"Good evening, my dear chess fans! My name is Angelo Nobell. In the chess world, they call me the Emperor of the Chessboard. And in just a few days, my match for the crown begins. To be honest, I wouldn't call it a contest at all — more like child's play. The entire world already knows who the next champion will be…"
Silence. Perfect, absolute silence. My words had caught them.
I smirked, savoring the moment, and continued:
"Let me make it plain, without further explanation: a plebeian can never be the equal of an Emperor."
A murmur cuts through the crowd — then a voice, loud, emotional, from somewhere behind the cameras:
"You're full of yourself!!! Talent or not, you have no right to speak about him with such disrespect!"
I spotted a crawling insect in the crowd — some drunkard who dared to bark at me. His voice cut through the silence like a rusty blade.
"Hey, you arrogant bastard!" he shouted, staggering a bit but loud enough for everyone to hear. "You think you're better than us? Better than Keller? You're nothing but a loudmouth! You fuckin' wunderkind!"
I raised an eyebrow, amused. "Pathetic worm… Who are you to interrupt my speech? A worthless player breeds worthless fans."
The crowd stirred, watching us. His face flushed crimson with rage, and he jabbed his finger at me.
"One day… your arrogance will be your downfall!" he spat, his words dripping with drunken fury.
I smirked, my voice cold and sharp.
"Oh really? How amusing… Countless pawns have barked the same threat. Yet here I stand — on top. And you, pitiful plebeian, can only crawl beneath me."
His jaw clenched. He took a step forward, his voice breaking with anger.
"You arrogant brat! No one ever taught you respect, huh?! Maybe it's time someone did!"
The crowd gasped. Some pressed forward, eager for a fight, others whispered nervously. I tilted my head slightly, savoring the tension.
"Mahaha! Then try it, if you dare — if you have the balls," I declared, my voice echoing above the crowd.
He clenched his fist, trembling with drunken courage. For a moment, he actually looked ready to strike me. His face twisted in rage, his eyes bloodshot, like a rabid dog cornered and desperate.
"Go ahead," I whispered, lowering the microphone and letting my words drip with venom.
"Touch me, and I'll grind you into dust beneath my heel. I wouldn't mind beating you half to death. Consequences? I couldn't care less. This world is my slave, and I am its Emperor — free to do whatever I desire."
The crowd exploded — some cheered my words with laughter and shouts of approval, others booed in disgust. The drunkard froze, torn between his rage and the realization that the entire world was now watching. His friend tugged at his arm, whispering desperately.
"Andrew! Stop it! You've had too much to drink! Don't do this, not here, not now!"
But Andrew shook him off, glaring at me like a madman. "I don't care! I'll teach him respect right here, right now!"
"Then step forward," I said with a theatrical bow, spreading my arms as if inviting him into a duel.
"Let's see how long a pawn lasts before the Emperor crushes it."
The crowd roared again, the air boiling with tension. He tried to move, but his friend grabbed his shoulder with all his strength, dragging him back.
"You idiot! Forget it! Do you want to get arrested on live broadcast? Look around — the press, the cameras, everyone's here! He's baiting you, don't you see?!"
Andrew grumbled, swore, and spat on the ground, his fury barely contained. But in the end, his friend pulled him back into the sea of faces, and he disappeared from my sight, swallowed by the crowd.
I raised the microphone again, my smirk widening.
"That, ladies and gentlemen, is the kind of fan Keller inspires. Pathetic. Pitiful. Drunk. Just like their champion."
The crowd erupted — half in laughter, half in outrage. The storm was mine to command.
The queen of the press stepped forward. Her voice carried confidence and cold superiority:
"That was uncalled for, Mr. Nobell. Do you really think insulting and disrespecting your fans — and the game itself — makes you look stronger?"
I smirked and made a slight pause, letting her words hang in the air.
"Stronger? Hah... Strength does not need the approval of the weak."
The crowd rumbled. She didn't falter and struck again:
"Fans are not weak, Mr. Nobell. Without them, chess would be nothing but a lonely board in an empty room. Don't you fear that by scorning them, you isolate yourself?"
I raised the microphone closer to my lips and spoke coldly, as if from afar:
"Chess existed long before them, and it will exist long after. Fans are like shadows — they follow power, they do not create it. I am the light, and shadows merely crawl after me."
A spark of challenge flashed in her eyes. She added more fire:
"Or maybe you are blinded by your own arrogance? Champions are remembered not only for victories, but for dignity."
I laughed. Theatrically, loudly, so everyone could hear:
"Dignity? That's a word for those who have nothing else left! A true Emperor has no need to please peasants. Respect is not given — it is taken. And I've taken it already, on 64 squares!"
So that's how she thanked me for giving her my precious time.
She managed to turn the crowd against me. To make me yield to emotions. A cunning bitch.
She stepped in at the perfect moment — poured oil into the fire and skillfully twisted the crowd's already unstable mood against me.
I have never feared standing alone — against the crowd, against the world.
My name is Angelo Nobell.
My whole life has been nothing but war — against everything, against everyone.
Now it was time to show her exactly where she and her press truly belonged.
"There is no one who can drag me — the Emperor of the Chessboard — down to earth. I am a man who values freedom of speech, and I will always speak as I please about anyone. I merely answered your question with honesty, you fools — and I know very well that almost every one of you expected precisely this reply. I do not care whether you respect me or spit upon me, whether you recognize me as an authority or not. In this world, there will always be those who loves you and those who hates you. Even Jesus Christ was no exception."
My words split the crowd in half, and the atmosphere seethed like a raging sea.
Then I turned my gaze back to that ridiculous queen of the press, and spoke more quietly — so that only she could hear:
"Filthy slut… do not dare to stand in my way. I'll grind you and your precious press company into the dirt — of that you can be certain."
At those words, I saw her eyes blaze with fury — as though she might rip me apart on the spot.
"You'll regret this, Mr. Nobell. I swear it," she hissed, her voice trembling with rage, all politeness forgotten.
Women — impulsive creatures. Their logic escapes me.
She provoked me herself, and yet now she dares to be offended.
As my dear mother used to say: people lash out, they hate, they blame others — always for their own weakness.
I raised my voice again, so that the whole crowd could hear me:
"Ladies and gentlemen, listen carefully — I will say this one last time! The only man who could have truly challenged me was Robert James Fischer. But alas, he abandoned the chess arena. Aside from him, the only one with the strength to compete against me is William Schwarz — the opponent I faced today — and he alone I deem worthy. Of course, I intended to share my thoughts with you about our match. But I lost all interest the moment this foolish woman asked me such a banal question, the answer to which everyone already knew! I have repeated more than once that Keller is unworthy of the crown. There is no point in even speaking of our so-called upcoming game. I will simply arrive, play, and crush him — like a god smashing the turtle."
And just as the storm of voices rose again, I suddenly heard her voice cut through it — sharp, trembling with indignation:
"You are a vile man! I always knew of your arrogance and contempt for others, but never did I think you would sink this low — insulting a weak woman so brazenly. I regret ever approaching you!"
Regret? Hah… She regrets approaching me?
She doesn't realize how much more I regret wasting even a moment on her.
I leaned in, whispering with icy venom:
"Listen well. I believe in equality. I'm not only capable of rudeness… I can inflict something far worse."
She shoved me back with sudden fury, as if I were some loathsome beast.
"In all my life, no one has ever dared address me with such contempt… until you." Her nails dug into her palms, knuckles white, as though only sheer will kept her from striking me down.
Pathetic. A naive little girl who still believes the world bends around her.
Then let me be the first to teach you a lesson.
I raised my voice, theatrical and cutting:
"Get used to it. This is reality. Not everyone will bow before you just because of your pretty eyes."
She spat back instantly:
"No wonder an idiot like you has no girlfriend. No woman could ever love you. And if one does… I pity her."
That was her attempt to wound me?
Laughable.
In all my years, no one has ever dared show me such disrespect. She has the courage of a bull… and the brains of one as well.
I smirked, my voice sharp as a blade:
"A girlfriend? Why would I need one? I'd rather live in solitude, in peace… and in pleasure, than waste my life on someone like you — a slut with breasts instead of brains. No woman in this world is worthy of me."
Her face turned crimson, twisting with fury.
"Stop calling me slut! My name is Rachel! Your shameless words are ruining my image!" she snapped.
I sneered, savoring the crack in her mask:
"Hah… So the slut doesn't like her true name?"
And as expected, the explosion followed.
"You… bastard! You're dead! I'll kill you!" she hissed, and her hand slashed toward my face in a furious strike.
Her palm was already close, but a middle-aged man caught her wrist in midair — stopping the blow an inch from my cheek.
So close. That could've been my first slap from a woman.
"Miss Gartner, you're a journalist!" he scolded sharply. "Don't act like a fool. His words aren't empty — this man has power. If he wants, he can crush you and our press. Step back."
Ah… Rachel Gartner. So that's her name. I'll remember it.
"No, Mr. Kluger! I can't let this go!" she snapped.
"Rachel," he pressed coldly, "the whole crowd is watching. Continue like this, and you'll ruin your career yourself."
Her anger cracked. She clenched her fists, then spat out:
"Hmph. Fine. I'll let this cockroach go."
She pointed her finger at me, as if granting mercy.
"Enough, Miss Gartner! One more word, and you're finished!" he barked.
The silly queen fell silent.
Cockroach? How amusing. A new nickname.
Some in the crowd laughed — I wasn't sure whether at her childish loss of control, or at the name itself.
Her eyes still burned, but she obeyed. Pawns don't defy their king.
Whether she stopped or not no longer mattered — she would pay the price anyway.
The man stepped forward, lowered his head, and spoke politely:
"Good evening. My name is Peter Kluger, her superior. Mr. Nobell, please accept my apologies on behalf of my subordinate and the press."
Hypocrite. If he truly felt sorry, he would have stopped her earlier. Instead, he watched, waiting for a show.
That's what people like him are: deceitful, selfish, cowardly. Not guided by principle — only fear.
Not a bad performance.
I smirked at his hollow apology.
Without another word, the crowd parted before me like the sea before Moses.
I stepped into my car and left.