Ch.2 – EP15 The Queen of Suffocation Comes to Japan

The last week of July, one week before the National High School Chess Championship. Tokyo was humid from the morning, heat shimmering up off the asphalt.

In a municipal culture hall in the city, a small event space had ten white tables set in an even ring, boards and pieces waiting in silence. A banner read “International Chess Friendship Night.” Bilingual MC scripts in English and Japanese were posted on the wall, and student volunteers hurriedly lined up bottles of water.

Momoko reread the short message she’d received from Elena earlier that morning again and again.

—Monika, tonight is okay. Who is it you want me to meet?

(Sensei, truly “Short and sharp.” You’re the same as ever…)

A restless feeling fluttered in her chest. Momoko glanced at Sora’s face. He was standing by a pillar in the shadow of the entrance line, fiddling with his hoodie string, studying the hall layout. A thin sheen of sweat beaded at his temple; only his eyes were vividly awake.

“Actually I got a sudden message from Sensei Elena—she’s in Japan now, and apparently she’s appearing at an event today! Sora, what do you want to do?”

She remembered his face when she’d said that back at the station where they met up. Surprise, immediate decision, and the faintest trace of fear.

“I’ll go. —But don’t tell Elena about me.”

—Saying that, Sora gently released my hand.

(I won’t say it. I won’t, but… Sensei will probably sniff it out. Over the board.)

The lights dimmed, and the MC waved a hand toward the wing. The mixed-English emcee voice bounced with cheer.

“Thank you for waiting, everyone! Tonight’s special guest from Europe—‘The Queen of Suffocation,’ Grandmaster Helena (Elena) Kowalska!”

Applause spread like a wave.

In a black pantsuit and white shirt, back straight, she walked out.

Sora (…She has more presence—more pressure—than in photos…)

Elena looked toward Momoko and Sora—just for an instant. A chill slid through Momoko’s chest. As if wind had slipped in from beyond a windowpane.

“They say, Elena, your Japanese is very good.”

As the MC introduced Elena’s bio, they held the mic to her.

“Good evening. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Only her lips smiled softly; her eyes stayed sharp.

MC: “Tonight GM Elena will play a simul against ten challengers.”

She surveyed the ten boards in turn and gave a small nod.

“Now we’ll recruit challengers. Ten volunteers, please.”

Staff prompted raised hands. Chairs scraped, a soft buzz of voices. In a blink, nine seats filled, and a single empty spot glowed like a small lamp at the end.

Momoko gripped Sora’s hand. “Are you seriously going to play my Sensei—?”

“…I’m going.”

He gently loosened Momoko’s fingers and stepped forward.

Momoko (w-wait. My heart is not—ready!)

The last chair caught him with a small thump. The GM inclined her head and set her hand on the board. With that single gesture the air tightened. A signal: “From here, the board is the whole world.”

“Shall we begin?”

She walked to Board One and advanced the first white pawn to e4. A beautiful motion, as if drawn by a string. Board Two, Board Three—moving clockwise, opening piece-sounds dotted the hall.

She came to Sora’s board.

He drew a deep breath. Four beats to inhale, hold for four, four beats to exhale, and hold for four—twice.

(Calm down. Push the ringing in your ears outside. Look only at the board.)

“Black, then,”

Elena smiled.

A few circuits later, Sora reached forward and placed a knight. An improbable, offbeat early move—some in the audience tilted their heads with a small “eh?”

For some reason Sora felt certain about that line. Caïssa’s voice rang within him…

》 This is the game I remember with Elena.

A wordless question trembled through Sora’s chest cavity.

》 A line (a memory) only Mari and Elena knew.
》 Ordinarily the knight doesn’t hop here. But that night, it did.

His fingertip, touching the woodgrain of the piece, warmed slowly.

Elena’s eyelids paused for just a heartbeat.

(What…? This move is—)

In her mind, her room back home in Europe reappeared. Snow beyond the window, the red of wine, laughter.

—The game they played the night before Mari married, the last one.

Something rang, cold, in her chest.

“Interesting.”

Elena spoke in a voice that showed nothing, and glided on to the next board.

The rhythm of the simul began to circulate.

Tracing a circle of six minutes, she toured the ten boards. Each return, someone’s position thinned, and a smothering web knit itself. By the time they noticed, the knight and queen drew the mesh closed; one by one the king’s escapes were sealed.

Spectator: “N-no way…”

On the first finished board, White won by a smothered mate. The audience’s breath caught; scattered applause followed.

Next, and next again—clean smotherings. Like a soft silk scarf winding around the throat, the losers smiled wryly and stood.

(…Sensei, relentless.)

Momoko bit her tongue. Excitement and anxiety rose and fell in waves.

And then, only Sora’s board remained. Elena had staff bring a chair, and she sat across from him.

Sora kept steadying his breath in four beats; he wasted nothing. No needless glances up.

He only focused on the board.

Caïssa’s voice.

》 Are you afraid of Elena?
(A little. But I’ll go on.)
》 Good child. Elena is deploying Emotional Gambits. It’s all right—next is “there.”

The Caïssa within Sora laughed.

He lifted a piece and placed it.

Elena looked at the move and narrowed her eyes.

(What is he? He’s not afraid of my Emotional Gambits. This child is… who?)

A name pulsed in her chest. Mari.

Supposed to be dead—or rather, it would be more accurate to say lost—her daughter.

(Deep green eyes… a Japanese boy… at Monika’s side… could this child be SORA—)

She played on in silence, untying the trap on the board and reweaving it into another.

The spectators didn’t notice. But Sora could see.

(It’s here. Next is this.)

His left hand trembled faintly on his knee; his right hand moved precisely. His fingertips stroked wood, and the game returned to that time.

Across the board, their two memories spread like a carpet.

The hall clock in the corridor quietly marked fifteen minutes.

The audience’s murmur thinned and receded.

(Four beats… four beats…)

The dryness in his throat vanished.

Behind the sharpness, Elena’s gaze wavered.

(What is this? How can—he reconstruct it this far? Even I have gaps—)

Sora counted the beats of his final breath and gently placed the piece.

His mother Mari’s last move.

Silence descended on the board.

Elena stretched her right hand toward the pieces. She touched a piece—touched the king—and closed her eyes for the briefest instant.

(Mari… are you there?)

Then she tipped her king on its side. Wood met table with a single dry clack.

“…Heh. I resign.”

The air split.

A commotion burst from the audience: “Wait, did the GM just resign to that boy?”

The MC hurriedly raised the mic.

“U-uh… Grandmaster, was that just—”

Elena laughed. A public, plausible smile.

“Heh, instructional games… have their ways.”

She glanced lightly over the ten boards and signaled the staff. Applause spread, laced with bewilderment.

Under that applause, without letting her gaze wander, she spoke low in Polish.

“……Monika, jesteś tam, prawda?” (…Monika, you’re there, aren’t you?)

A shock like an electric chill raced down Momoko’s back.

(We’ve been found—or rather, she’d read us all along.)

Momoko timidly raised her hand. Elena’s eyes, unmistakably, pinned her.

Elena didn’t step down from the stage. In the same posture, in an even lower voice, she continued:

“Dzisiaj wieczorem przyprowadź to dziecko do hotelu.” (Bring the child to the hotel tonight.)

She didn’t drop the smile on her cheeks. But the sound was different. Like a soft knife, a voice that sliced only Momoko’s and Sora’s eardrums.

As the MC’s clapping prompt scattered the audience’s attention, Momoko ran over to Sora.

“A-are you okay? Your hands are shaking—”

“…I’m okay.”

He took one deep breath, then another. His fingertips still trembled faintly, yet the depths of his eyes were calm.

(That’s a face that says, “I did it.”)

Momoko nodded and opened Sora’s water bottle for him. The clickk of the cap sounded oddly loud.

In the stage wing, Elena gave the director brief instructions.

She didn’t turn her eyes toward them. Didn’t, and yet they felt watched.

(As expected of Sensei… her reading lines run outside the board, too.)

“She said to bring you to her hotel tonight… Are we going?”

“I’m going,” Sora answered at once. “If we run, she’ll probably chase us…”

“Correct. Sensei is someone who corners you with a smile…”

They shared a wry smile and fell silent.

The automatic door’s opening and closing, the presence of people, the smell of wooden pieces. Time returned to normal.

As they were leaving, Elena passed by. Momoko straightened reflexively.

Elena didn’t stop. Only, at a volume like dropping sound into an ear alone, she murmured:

“You’ve hidden it well until now, Monika.”

“…Since when did you notice?”

“From the very beginning. Before the board began, there was a scent in the air.”

(A scent—in the air.)

Momoko swallowed against her dry throat. Elena’s outer eye corners softened the tiniest bit.

“Don’t worry. I’m not angry. If anything, I’m grateful.”

“For what?”

“For saying you ‘had someone you wanted me to meet.’”

Then for the first time, she looked Momoko straight on.

(Whoa, that look—she’s not angry, but it’s the endgame look of someone who runs down her prey.)

Momoko nodded almost by reflex.

Elena looked at Sora once.

His deep green eyes met hers straight.

For an instant, an invisible line stretched between their gazes. Like a string, like a memory—something that would sound if plucked.

“Then tonight.”

“…Yes.”

She was gone.

The crowd flowed to the exits, staff cleared boards, and the hall gradually reverted to an ordinary conference room.

Momoko took a handkerchief from her bag and handed it to Sora. He wiped his sweat and let out a relieved breath.

“Hey, Momoko.”

“What?”

“I—almost cried in the middle.”

“Yeah, I know. It was bad… I almost cried too.”

As she said it, heat rose at the back of her throat.

(Because that last move—)

—His mother Mari’s last move.

That sound remained in their ears more distinctly than any of the hall’s bustle.