A strange silence settled over the garden.
Everyone was waiting.
Waiting for the results.
Waiting to see whether the strange gift was a joke—or something more.
Silas turned his attention to PK and smiled faintly.
"While we wait," he said casually, "why don't we play a game of chess?"
PK didn't hesitate for even a second.
"Sure."
The two of them took their seats across the chessboard.
The moment they sat down, the expressions of the other old men shifted.
Chess.
This was Silas Blackwell's domain.
Among their circle, Silas was undefeated. Decades of experience, ruthless calculation, and a mind sharpened by power and politics. None of them could beat him—not even on his worst day.
They glanced at PK with thinly veiled amusement.
This kid is about to embarrass himself.
Silas, for his part, said nothing. He had not told anyone about his loss at the gambling hall. Pride wouldn't allow it.
The game began.
At first, the old men watched lazily, half-engaged, already convinced of the outcome.
Then—slowly—their expressions changed.
PK's moves were calm. Clean. Precise.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
Silas's smile faded into focus.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
The board grew tense.
Pieces vanished in calculated exchanges. Traps layered within traps. The atmosphere thickened as even the servants unconsciously slowed their steps.
At the twenty-minute mark, PK leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the board.
"Checkmate," he said calmly.
The garden froze.
One of the old men stiffened.
Another leaned forward, eyes wide.
A third stared at the board as if it had betrayed him.
Silas Blackwell—had lost.
To a college student.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then an old man forced a laugh.
"Heh… you're letting him win because he's a guest, Silas?"
Silas didn't respond.
He simply stared at the board.
That silence alone was answer enough.
Another old man turned sharply toward PK, irritation flashing in his eyes.
"Boy," he said coldly, "why don't you play with me next?"
PK didn't even look at him.
He stood, straightened his jacket, and turned toward Silas.
"I only agreed to play with you," PK said flatly.
"Not with irrelevant people."
The words landed like a slap.
The old man's face darkened instantly.
Silas, however, let out a quiet chuckle.
He understood perfectly.
This wasn't arrogance born of ignorance.
This was deliberate.
PK was returning every ounce of disrespect—cleanly, precisely, and without raising his voice.
The chessboard remained between them.
And for the first time, the elders around Silas realized something unsettling.
This young man didn't seek approval.
He didn't crave recognition.
And most dangerously—
He didn't give face to anyone who hadn't earned it.