Seating in the front row, at the right hand side - following the traditional Đại Việt principle of "civil official on the left, military on the right" - on a newly built ironwood platform built in just one day, Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor Trần Thủ Độ, leaned slightly forward. His sharp, cold eyes fixed intently on Chế Củ below.
The thunderous sound of war drums echoed from the Human Chess arena, where the harsh midday sun poured down, casting stark shadows of both Đại Việt and Champa soldiers and warriors like statues onto the parched greenstone floor from the Thanh region of the Thái Hoà Palace's courtyard. Trần Thủ Độ couldn't help but silently admire the demeanor of the man seated there. His head remained high, even amidst the enemy's court. Chế Củ, the southern monarch, was indeed worthy of his reputation.
The angular face of Chế Củ paled slightly as Đại Việt's formidable army, clad in gleaming armor, marched into the arena amid the roaring cheers of the crowd. His piercing, sword-like gaze faltered momentarily. Trần Thủ Độ noticed a flicker of pain cross his face as the Champa prisoners—warriors who had once sworn loyalty to him—were led into the Human Chess arena. They trudged forward, heads bowed, yet their eyes still gleamed with the unyielding pride of the Champa people.
Trần Thủ Độ saw Chế Củ clench his fists tightly, his nails digging into his palms, leaving deep marks as if he were suppressing rage and sorrow while witnessing his people's fate reduced to pawns in this cruel game. Trần Thủ Độ was startled when he realized that Chế Củ was not merely a valiant general on the battlefield but also a king who mourned the perilous fate of his people and soldiers, those about to charge into mortal combat out of loyalty.
"Sometimes," Trần Thủ Độ mused to himself, his brows furrowing, "I should just kill him to prevent future trouble."
But that thought was quickly extinguished. Killing Chế Củ, Trần Thủ Độ knew well, would be digging Đại Việt's own grave shortly. The land of Champa was not easily conquered, and its people were even harder to subdue—they were fierce, untamable. Despite Đại Việt's recent victory in the Vijaya campaign and Chế Củ's capture, Đại Việt still lacked the financial and military resources to spread their forces thin to hold the southern lands.
Moreover, a greater threat loomed from the North. According to recent intelligence delivered by carrier pigeons, Emperor Shenzong of Song, the young ruler of the Song dynasty, had recalled Wang Anshi—the brilliant statesman—back to the capital, Bianjing, appointing him as a scholar of the Hanlin Academy.
Last year, when Đại Việt defeated Champa, Wang Anshi was promoted to Deputy Director of Political Affairs, becoming a key strategic advisor. This year, he was reappointed as Grand Chancellor for the second time. Wang Anshi's policies troubled Trần Thủ Độ: "Bao Jia," the mass production and stockpiling of armor; "Bao Ma," the breeding and conditioning of warhorses. No nation in peacetime would pour such effort into amassing weapons and warhorses. Horses, in the warfare of that era, were the near-exclusive four-legged war machines, far surpassing oxen or elephants, which the Chinese rarely favored.
Trần Thủ Độ had always ordered his intelligence operatives to infiltrate the royal horse farms and grazing steppes deep within Chinese territory. The pigeons from Bianjing brought the intelligent information, and then, as summarized by his Chancellor's Chief of Staff, revealed that the Song dynasty was quietly preparing for war. Wang Anshi, with his talent for statecraft, was enriching the Song treasury, alleviating the Chinese people's suffering, and strengthening their military. Their ambitions extended beyond merely countering the Liao and Xia in the North and Northwest. Once those nations were subdued—or even if they weren't—the Song would always set their sights southward, on Đại Việt, to expand their territory.
Trần Thủ Độ gripped the armrest tightly, a flicker of unease in his eyes. The people of Đại Việt, from kings to normal people, were not so foolishly naive as to believe in fanciful notions of friendship with those who had ruled their land for over a thousand years.
In this context, Chế Củ was more than a mere prisoner. He was a critical piece on Trần Thủ Độ's grand Human Chessboard—a board millions of times larger than the arena before them, where Champa prisoners were forming ranks, ready to fight to the death to prove their loyalty or win their freedom. If Chế Củ surrendered, pledged allegiance, and became a vassal, Đại Việt could not only neutralize the southern threat but also sever the link between Champa and the Song dynasty. The Chinese would lose the chance to use Chế Củ to stab Đại Việt in the back.
Trần Thủ Độ's lips curled slightly. His gaze swept over Chế Củ, who sat motionless, though his shoulders trembled faintly as fifteen Champa prisoners picked up weapons and stood like statues on the black side of the giant chessboard, amid deafening cheers from the wooden stands. In the arena's dust and smoke, they would defend an empty wooden throne. In just two games of traditional chess, the prisoner Chế Củ would be brought to sit there.
"A mere prisoner holds such importance for Đại Việt," Trần Thủ Độ murmured to himself, stroking his beard. "To protect Đại Việt's fragile 131-year peace, to preserve the tranquility of a Thăng Long capital settled just 60 years ago, I cannot kill Chế Củ. Not now. He must live, must become a pivotal piece, so Đại Việt can stand firm on the edge of life and death."
Below, sunlight glinted off the gilded chessboard like fire. The Chess Master, holding a big royal parasol, twirled it to cast faint beams through the finest Thổ Lỗi silk, a gift from the land where the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông had come to pray for an heir and brought back a breathtakingly beautiful consort. The Chess Master stood behind the king, ready to offer silent strategic whispers. The gilded chessboard clattered as ivory chess pieces struck its surface and collided with one another.
When the first clack of the opening move—the Cannon's Advance—by the Red side, led by the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, rang out, the entire stands and the Human Chess arena fell silent. The air grew thick, almost tangible. Every official and people in the wooden stands, every red and black soldier and warrior in the arena, every person and animal, every horse, and elephant stood utterly still. All knew that a single sound from their side would be deemed treason against not only one king but two, punishable by death.
Trần Thủ Độ smiled.
A game of chess always has three phases: Opening, Middlegame, and Endgame. The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông had opened with unmatched strength. The Cannon's Advance, Thăng Long's artillery striking straight at the enemy's center, was the Emperor's signature style.
Chế Củ countered with the Screen Horse Defense like Champa's sturdy bastion. The Emperor advanced his Horse, then brought the Chariot to the river, soaring like a dragon. Chế Củ, more cautious, fortified his king's position with a raised Minister and pushed his Cannon forward. The golden board gleamed, guiding each move, maintaining balance for the Emperor.
In the Middlegame, Chế Củ eagerly pushed his black Chariot to attack the red left flank, like Champa's war chariots rolling forward. But the Chess Master, deftly manipulating the ray of light from his royal parasol, guided the Emperor to send the red Cannon deep, coordinating with a red Pawn at the center. The Emperor sacrificed a red Horse, like a general falling for the cause, to clear the path for the Cannon and Pawn to advance.
Chế Củ, thinking he had gained an advantage by capturing the red Horse, fell into a trap. The red Cannon, like a divine dragon, threatened the black King's palace, forcing Chế Củ to retreat in defense.
In the final Endgame, under the blazing ray of sunlight, the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông had a red Cannon and a red Pawn against Chế Củ's black King, guarded by a Minister and an Elephant. The board became a poetic tableau:
The red Cannon, like a gleaming golden hook, targeted the black King, like a full moon hanging in the sky. The red Pawn advanced, trapping the black King in a corner, like a jade wall. Chế Củ tried to escape, but every move of the black King was met by the red Cannon's check, like a cold moon relentlessly pursuing.
Finally, the red Cannon, in concert with the red Pawn, delivered a checkmate, like a golden hook striking the moon. This position, called "Golden Hook Facing the Moon," was a poetic victory crafted by just two Red pieces.
The stands erupted in thunderous cheers.
Trần Thủ Độ nodded in satisfaction as Chế Củ bowed his head.
Suddenly, a chill ran through him as he saw Chế Củ raise his palm, catching the ray of light streaming from the royal parasol. Chế Củ looked up to the top of the royal parasol where the hole was sending the sunlight down. Chế Củ looked at the Chess Master who was frantically twirling the parasol covering by Thổ Lỗi silk. And then Chế Củ stared directly into the eyes of the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông.
A defiant spark flashed in Chế Củ's gaze, as if he had seen through the ruse of Đại Việt's court. His cold smile seemed to freeze the air. The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông tightened his grip. His eyes darkened. He silently shook his dragon robe and retreated into Thái Hoà Palace. The Chess Master trembled, slowing the twirl of the Thổ Lỗi silk parasol, as if realizing Chế Củ's gaze had pierced their secret.
Trần Thủ Độ leapt to his feet. His heart pounded like war drums. He rushed down the wooden stairs, moving with astonishing speed for a man with silver hair. He felt an invisible blade at Đại Việt's throat, as if Chế Củ's gaze had exposed a fatal flaw in his plan. Before the steps of Thái Hoà Palace, Trần Thủ Độ prostrated himself. He struck his head against the greenstone floor made from the stone of the Thanh region, pounding like splitting the rock.
Blood flowed like a stream from his white-haired forehead, a desperate plea for forgiveness for the miscalculation he had not foreseen.