"Are you serious?"
Griffith mutters under his breath, the words barely escaping his lips as he takes in the scene around him.
Although the purpose of this peculiar auction eludes him, a flicker of longing ignites within—he wishes to be seen, to be desired. For now, he resolves to navigate this strange affair, uncertain yet determined to play along.
"Perhaps this is the universe's way of telling me I still want to live?"
Griffith contemplates a flurry of thoughts spiraling in his mind.
Suddenly, like an explosion, a torrent of memories washes over him—fractured images of his reasons for standing on that balcony surge back, with the memory of Melissa hitting him the hardest. But amidst the chaos, the dark yearning for an end dissipates. He feels an unexpected spark of hope; he wants to live! A sharp clearing of the throat cuts through the air, and a man clad in resplendent gold strides forward, his presence commanding attention.
"Ahem! Does anyone wish to place an offer on the table?"
The man adorned in gold announces, his voice booming like a herald.
"I will!"
A voice pierces through the murmur of the crowd, filled with urgent enthusiasm. Pushing his way forward is a short, portly man with tousled dark brown hair and a mustache that twitches with excitement. His attire, while indeed neat, pales in comparison to the opulent garments worn by others around them. Scornful and pitying eyes pierce through the crowd, directed at him.
"I'll bid 500,000 zuries for this man right here,"
He declares, gesturing toward Griffith with fervor. The man in gold turns his gaze to Griffith, his voice dripping with authority.
"Do you accept Gilbert Blackwater as your sponsor?"
Though confusion mingles with trepidation, Griffith finds himself nodding.
"Sure?"
The response ignites a spark of jubilation in Gilbert's eyes.
"Thank you for accepting me!"
Gilbert exclaims, shaking Griffith's hand with enthusiasm that is both infectious and bewildering.
Leaning in closer, Griffith whispers, "Hey, do you have any idea what all this is? I'm feeling kind of lost and unsure of what to do here."
Gilbert's expression shifts from one of exuberance to one of understanding.
"It makes sense that you're out of the loop! You're a commoner, and you arrived too late to catch the explanation about The Crown's Gambit!" Griffith's brow furrows in confusion.
"Commoner? What do you even mean—?"
His question is abruptly cut short by the man in gold, who raises his voice to command the room once again.
"That concludes the sponsor selection! With everyone sorted and their endorsement money established."
He steps away from the center to the periphery of the circle.
"Dhak Laka Ruchie," he intones, and from the ground, a gleaming pillar ascends as if summoned by magic.
Crafted from metallic alloys, it glimmers in the ambient light, topped by a pulsating orb that radiates a soft, glowing light.
"State your name," a voice slips from the orb, devoid of emotion, sounding starkly robotic.
"Cornelius Stephanus Theophilus," the man in gold responds, his voice echoing in the stillness.
In an instant, chains burst forth from the orb, shooting out like serpents and latching onto the chest of every candidate present. Griffith flinches as the icy chains grip him, yet he feels no pain. Instead, a strange sense of immobility washes over him—every candidate seems frozen, their expressions a canvas of shock and confusion.
"Do you willingly accept your participation in The Crown's Gambit?"
A voice reverberates in Griffith's mind—a voice that resembles the robotic tone yet pulses with an eerie life of its own.
"What are you talking about? What is The Crown's Gambit?" he protests, panic surging in his heart.
"A tournament to decide the next ruler of Kiligrim," the voice clarifies, offering Griffith a fleeting glimpse into the gravity of his situation.
"The last one standing shall be deemed worthy of the Monarch Ascension and don the crown."
Griffith's thoughts spiral in a maelstrom of confusion and dread.
"What do you mean by the last one standing? Is this some battle royale?"
Though his body remains a captive audience, his mind races with frantic questions.
"Am I going to die again?"
"But I don't want to! I WANT TO LIVE!"
"Do you willingly accept your participation in The Crown's Gambit?" The voice prompts again, as if drawing him deeper into its web.
"What if I say no?"
Griffith ventures, a flicker of hope igniting at the idea of escape.
"Then your heart will be crushed, and you will perish on the spot."
"WHAT?!?"
"Do you willingly accept your participation in The Crown's Gambit?" The voice persists, unyielding.
"How can I make it out ALIVE?"
Griffith pleads, his heart pounding with desperate urgency.
"You must win The Crown's Gambit and become the King of Kiligrim," the voice retorts, firm yet devoid of compassion.
"Do you willingly accept your participation in The Crown's Gambit?" it presses once more.
"Would that mean I would have to kill? I'd have to fight to the death?" he stammers, the realization sinking like a stone in his gut.
"Yes."
"Is there another option?"
"No."
Griffith's mind plunges into an abyss of intense contemplation, memories flashing before his eyes like a reel of painful film. He recalls the image of Melissa, the echoes of childhood abuse, and the faces of friends who turned away. With each recollection, a dark realization settles in—the weight of despair feels crushing.
"Nothing ever works out for me. So what's the point? Maybe this time around, it'll be painless."
He muses, his thoughts a tangled mess of resignation.
"Are you refusing to accept your participation in The Crown's Gambit?" The voice slices through his rumination, sharper than before.
Griffith's mind drifts back to the moment he grappled with overwhelming despair —the dread of choices made, of lives lost, and the haunting presence of regret. The singular thought reverberates through his head, one that outshines all else: I WANT TO LIVE.
"No."
"Do you willingly accept your participation in The Crown's Gambit?" the voice asks again, an unrelenting challenge.
"Yes. I do accept,"
Griffith declares, his voice filled with newfound vigor and conviction, a light flickering back to life within him. The voice falls silent. In that pregnant pause, a sudden jolt of pain pierces through Griffith's chest, the sensation as sharp as lightning, setting into motion a chain of events that will irrevocably alter his fate.
The chains began to recede from each candidate's chest. It's moving a lot slower than before, but as they leave, the candidates' chests simultaneously. The atmosphere is thick with a sense of uncertainty as they begin to depart, their movements significantly slower than they were just moments ago, as if something is weighing them down. Chains, shimmering subtly under an unseen light, extend from the ground, clasping tightly around each candidate's chest. At the end of each chain, a heart pulses rhythmically, tethered to the orb at the center of the circle.
"That's my heart!"
Griffith exclaims, bewilderment lacing his voice, staring at the sight before him with wide eyes. Gilbert, standing composed beside him, tilts his head slightly, his gaze steady and reassuring.
"It'll be fine; during the duration of The Crown's Gambit, that pillar will contain your heart. You won't die, I assure you."
His tone is calm, yet Griffith cannot shake the lingering confusion and fear that etches itself deeper into his expression. As the chains pull the hearts toward the orb, they are absorbed in a swirl of ethereal light, their warmth seemingly snuffed out in an instant.
"The Crown's Gambit Begins!"
Rings out the orb in a booming announcement, echoing through the air. With a soft rumble, the pillar withers away, retracting into the earth without leaving a trace, as if it had never existed at all. Cornelius steps back into the center of the now-empty circle, commanding attention with the authority of his presence.
"Candidates,"
He begins, voice resonant and clear,
"The Crown's Gambit has just commenced. There are no rules governing how to win. You have the freedom to venture anywhere and do anything in pursuit of victory."
Griffith's heart races as he glances nervously at the other contestants, each one seemingly poised to pounce at any moment.
"We encourage you to utilize every resource at your disposal."
Cornelius adds, his tone taking on an undercurrent of challenge. He scans the group, his expression momentarily darkening as his gaze lands on Griffith. The young man's shoulders tense, and he instinctively looks away, a flush of shame creeping over his features.
"And with that, I will now invoke the spell."
With a steadying breath, Cornelius casts the incantation,
"Rhaka jsache."
Upon his command, every contestant radiates a brilliant glow, illuminating their surroundings in a cascade of colors. Yet, to Griffith's dismay, he realizes he isn't glowing. Panic begins to bubble within him as he witnesses the contestants slowly fade away one by one. The young boy among them casts a fleeting, terrified look back at Griffith, his eyes pleading for help before he too vanishes into thin air. To Griffith's astonishment, Contestants 3, 7, and 9 remain alongside him. Contestants 3 and 7 are strikingly identical: both boast mesmerizing, flowing blue hair styled neatly, adorned in less extravagant but still regal general uniforms, their crimson eyes gleaming like rubies against their caramel-colored skin.
In contrast, Contestant 9 is a young woman whose pallid complexion is complemented by her deep, midnight-black hair and bold lipstick. Dressed in a flowing ensemble of dark hues, her eyes exude a chilling emptiness, as if they harbor no emotion at all. Griffith suddenly becomes acutely aware of their collective gaze fixed intently upon him. His heart pounds louder in his chest.
"Why is everyone looking at me?" he stammers, a mixture of confusion and anxiety washing over him as the weight of the situation begins to sink in.