Ch.2 – EP10 District Preliminaries

The last Saturday of June.

Each time the automatic doors of the community center in Suidōbashi, Tokyo opened, the muggy outside air and the chorus of cicadas flowed in for an instant, then were immediately swallowed and erased by the venue’s HVAC hum.

The grand hall was about the size of two basketball courts. Folding tables were packed in orthogonal ranks and files, and black-and-white boards were arranged in neat order. A hundred people—no, perhaps a hundred and fifty. The sound of chairs scraping, the click-clack of buttons on a chess clock, and the smell of pairing sheets being spat out by a printer. The floor was a bit slick with wax.

In front of the registration desk, uniforms from other schools in a rainbow of colors. Somewhere in the city, a girls’ school had coordinated with maroon ribbons; students from a technical high school had school-crest windbreakers slung over their shoulders.

A boy who apparently switched from shogi -Japanse style chess- showed up in Japanese dress for some reason and drew attention. A streamer kid had to hand over a selfie stick to the staff and wore a sour face. Their faces and clothes all differed, and yet they all shared the same temperature of nerves.

“Please deposit all smartwatches, smartphones, and any other internet-connected gadgets here. Power them off, please. Yes, earphones too—put them in the envelope with your name. Returns will be after all rounds are finished.”

At the end of the registration table, a referee projected their voice. Envelopes containing black smartwatches and Bluetooth gadgets dropped one after another into a transparent plastic bin. When that familiar bzzzt vibrator sound went off, Momoko furrowed her brows for a brief moment.

(The cheat bastard—Hayato’s “heh-heh” laugh flickers through my head… But today is a human-vs-human tournament. The board is the entire world.)

Sora, who didn’t carry a watch or a phone, was suspected by the staffer—“Do you really not have a phone?”—and turned his pockets inside out to show them. His wrist was, as always, bare. He looked spaced out as usual, and yet somehow it seemed like he was drinking in the venue’s pulse.

“Iori-senpai, the venue’s big.”

“The acoustics carry well. A stable HVAC helps.”

When Sora’s group cleared registration, there was a crowd around the posting board. Round 1 pairings weren’t out yet. In the corner of the hall, relay boards for the top two tables were being set up, and a referee was struggling to plug in the DGT cables. The spectator area was roped off, and adult volunteers stood holding panels that said, “Please be quiet.”

“Gather up.”

Iori beckoned the club members and guided them into an open space by the wall. The club president’s voice wasn’t loud, yet it carried clearly.

“Let’s confirm today’s district prelim rules. One-day event, five rounds, accelerated Swiss system. For Rounds 1 and 2, provisional +0.5 seeding points are added so that upper plays upper and lower plays lower. It’s designed so an early upset doesn’t crush the brackets. Time control is rapid 15 minutes + 10 seconds increment. Win 1 point, draw 0.5, loss 0.”

Sōma nodded. “Accelerated Swiss—quick sorting so the deeper you go, the tougher your opponents. OK.”

“So, the ticket to the national tournament is a Direct Qualifier (DQS). Once you reach 4.0/5, you’re locked in for nationals. After that, you may withdraw at your discretion. It’s allowed for the sake of flow, so for example, if you hit 4.0 after R4, you can play or skip R5.”

“Mhm, mhm,” Momoko counted on her fingers. “In other words—four straight wins and you’re out.”

“Right. Another important point is avoiding same-school pairings. This tournament avoids same-school pairings through R4. It’s not 100%—board numbers and scores can force it—but the principle is to avoid. So we won’t play each other until R5 today.”

“Thank goodness…” Akira rolled his shoulders. “Friendly-fire here wouldn’t be fun… I mean, it’s not like I can beat Iori-senpai or Momoko anyway.”

Iori continued. “Pairings place you by score → Buchholz. After your game, scoresheets are mandatory for top boards, optional otherwise. Late by 10 minutes is a forfeit loss. Bathroom breaks are with a referee escort. Devices are completely forbidden, including that smartwatch confiscation you saw—they’re strict. Any questions?”

Sora shook his head. Momoko added in a small voice, “Color balance (white/black distribution)?”

“Color preference is handled by the standard algorithm. Round 1 is random; after that, it tries to avoid bias. …That’s about it.”

Schedules from start to award ceremony were packed onto the bulletin board.

“R1 and R2 in the morning, R3, R4, R5 in the afternoon. We’ll be here till evening for awards.”

From the far side of the venue, a light mic howl.

“Players, Round 1 pairings are posted. Check your board number and be seated.”

The mass of people moved as one. Eyes searched for names in front of the postings, mouths silently repeated numbers to memorize them, fingers traced digits. Soft voices flew—“B23,” “A14.” At each table, clocks were zeroed, and referees made a quick circuit to check initial piece setups. The low HVAC drone, a bass like the heartbeat of the entire venue, came up through the soles of their feet.

Momoko lightly pinched Sora’s sleeve. “Nervous?”

“No,” Sora smiled faintly. “The pulse is lining up.”

“There it is—pulse.”

“When I play today, I want to make it 1:29.”

Momoko feigned exasperation, but only her eyes laughed.

“Masz odwagę (gutsy). Okay then, go win at 1:29.”

“Let’s go.”

Iori straightened his back. In the club president’s profile, textbook calm and a glint of quiet fighting spirit.

On the posted sheets, their names were aligned in order.

— Iori — Board A03 (White)

— Sōma — Board B20 (Black)

— Akira — Board C12 (White)

— Momoko — Board B21 (White)

— Sora — Board C13 (Black)

“C13—Sora-kun, that way,” Iori pointed.

Sora’s group headed to their respective tables. Outside the spectator ropes, parents and classmates gave small waves. Someone, looking at Iori, whispered, “That’s the favorite.” “I saw him at nationals last year—the kid on table A3.”

Sora pulled out his chair. The board’s wood grain, fluorescent white falling on the dark squares. His opponent sat, gave a small bow. Sora returned the bow and did not look at the clock. Instead, with his ears, he listened to the venue’s HVAC and someone’s breathing diagonally across.

At the center of the referee corps, the tournament director lifted a handbell.

“Now then, Round 1 begins. Start the clocks.”

—click.

All over the hall, tiny sounds rang in unison.

Sora closed his eyes and counted one set of five pulses.

1, 2, 1, 2, 3. Inhale, exhale. Even though his fingers hadn’t touched anything yet, they’d already started to move at the same speed as the venue’s pulse.