From the very first moves of the chess game, Chế Củ sensed something unusual. Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, who once commanded his armies as calmly as the Mount of Tản Viên, opened his chess move with bold and relentless actions. He started to attack immediately like an arrow flew dỉectly into the target.
The Black pieces of Chế Củ were gradually forced into a defensive stance, a stark contrast to the slow, calculated strategy style of Lý Thánh Tông that Chế Củ had witnessed during the Vijaya campaign. Those battles, where Đại Việt's armies moved like a meandering river, always holding a defensive posture before striking a decisive blow, now seemed like distant memories. On the gold-inlaid chessboard, the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông attacked like a ravenous tiger, without a hint of hesitation. Chế Củ understood that the playing style of traditional chess gamers could reveal not only their military strategy during the war but also their very raw characters and instincts in normal life.
As the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông was an important enemy on the battlefield, Chế Củ had to study the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông through every scout's report, every battlefield, and every decision. He gave a faint smile, recalling Sun Tzu's ancient lesson:
"Know yourself, know your enemy, and in a hundred battles, you will never be defeated."
But, in some ridiculous ways, he lost in the real game of actual fighting with this Emperor. Chế Củ's gaze swept over the chessboard, where Red and Black pieces faced off like two real rival armies. How could he not recognize the hallmarks and characters of his opponent's strategy and command? But today, something was different, as if the emperor were hiding a sharp blade behind his serene smile.
Chế Củ's spies had once reported that the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, in a moment of frustration, ordered a retreat from Vijaya, leaving behind a battlefield engulfed in smoke and fire. Yet, halfway back to the Thăng Long Citadel, the Emperor abruptly turned his army around, leading them back to the battlefield with ferocious momentum. None of his Chief of Staff and generals understood what had prompted such a composed Emperor to reverse such a monumental decision.
Only when imprisoned in Đại Việt's camp did Chế Củ hear the tale of a woman—Consort Ỷ Lan. According to a Champa slave's words, during a pilgrimage to pray for an heir, the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông met a young girl in Thổ Lỗi village, where exquisite silks were woven, shimmering like the full moon reflected under the two royal parasols above him. She was not only beautiful but possessed a sharp intellect, like a gem hidden in stone. The Emperor Lý Thánh Tông brought her to the royal palace, named her Consort, and entrusted her with regency at Thăng Long Citadel when the Emperor was absent during his southern military campaigns against Champa
While the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông waged war in the south, Ỷ Lan governed the realm with an iron hand cloaked in velvet. One day, a letter from the Citadel reached the southern expeditionary force as it marched homeward. The letter stated that the regent Consort had quelled a band of northern mountain rebels, winning the people's loyalty and earning the court's awe.
After reading it, the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông fell silent, his gaze pensive. It was said that the letter ignited the Emperor's pride. He could not allow a young woman to outshine him in bringing glory to Đại Việt. That burning pride spurred him to turn his army around, launching a full assault on Champa, leading to Chế Củ's defeat and capture.
Now, seated before the chessboard, Chế Củ recognized that same fire, concealed within the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's cunning moves.
As the game reached its middle phase, he focused on countering his opponent's perilous strategies. The Emperor's Red pieces moved like a true army, coordinated seamlessly, leaving no gaps. Though at a disadvantage, Chế Củ remained composed. He knew each move was not just a test of intellect but a battle of honor. His hand brushed the Black pieces, his cold eyes tracking his opponent's every move.
As the game neared its end phase, with the outcome almost decided, a sudden glint startled Chế Củ. He was bent over, studying the gold-inlaid board—where had that light come from? Above him, a royal parasol blocked the sun, letting no rays through. He frowned, looking closer. A faint beam, thin as a silver thread, struck a Red piece, reflecting off the gilded board and then into his eyes.
Chế Củ froze, a sense of unease rising. That ray of light was no accident. He looked up, his gaze sliding to the royal parasol above the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông. At its peak, a tiny hole, no larger than a fingertip, let light slip through. His heart chilled. An Emperor's parasol, a symbol of throne authority—how could it be pierced? Unless… it was a ploy.
Chế Củ observed more closely. The Eunuch behind Emperor Lý Thánh Tông, holding the royal parasol's handle, occasionally rotated it with subtle, seemingly careless movements. Each turn shifted the light from the hole to a different spot on the board, as if signaling the Emperor.
A master player of chess, disguised as an Eunuch was secretly guiding the chess game. The scheme was both small and bold, yet riddled with flaws. Chế Củ gave a bitter smile, gripping a piece tightly. Did they think a defeated king would fall for such a childish trick?
As a seasoned military strategist, Chế Củ knew the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông wasn't an ordinary man. The Emperor's battlefield tactics and his command of troops had proven his brilliance. Such a man wouldn't need cheap tricks to win a chess game. Or… was it intentional, meant for Chế Củ to notice?
Chế Củ frowned, his mind swirling with possibilities. Perhaps the Đại Việt court had overcalculated, becoming clumsy. They wanted to ensure victory on the chessboard but forgot that he, though a prisoner, was still a king with unyielding pride.
Chế Củ knew the Đại Việt court was preparing a "Human Chess" spectacle—a humiliating slaughter where his Champa people would be used as living pieces to shame his nation. If he had lost the first two chess games, that atrocity would have been avoided. He had prepared himself to lose those games. But to win through base trickery—did they think he'd accept defeat so easily?
Chế Củ took a deep breath, his eyes flashing with resolve. The pride was overflowing his mind. He recalled the glorious days when the Champa's armies swept the battlefield, when his people knelt before his throne, chanting his name. That pride no enemy could extinguish. In this game, the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông had to lose and he could still win the next game. The "Human Chess" wouldn't have happened.
He slammed a Black piece onto the board. The sharp clack rang out like a challenge. He waited for the trick by the Eunuch and the rival Emperor.
Then he raised his hand, blocking the deceitful light from the parasol's hole. Though his life hung by a thread, Chế Củ was still Champa's king.
"They want to play a villain's game," he thought. "I'll show them a fallen king can still teach them a lesson."
He raised his head as his gaze was as sharp as a blade he swung on the battlefield. The intangible blade cut into the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's eyes, then went through to the hole in the parasol that the Eunuch was holding, and back to the Emperor's face.
A wordless challenge was issued. That silent defiance, unspoken, was a powerful yet delicate strike, preserving the dignity of the Đại Việt Emperor.
Emperor Lý Thánh Tông shuddered at the invisible blade. He tilted his head. His eyes flashed with humiliation, shame, and anger. The revealed feelings of a thief caught red-handed. He slowly stood up, brushed off his royal robe, and slowly walked into Thai Hoa Palace, leaving behind a heavy silence before the chessboard.
Suddenly.
A loud crash from the wooden stands broke the silent atmosphere. Trần Thủ Độ rushed forward, prostrating himself before the steps of Thái Hoà Palace, his head striking the stone. Blood stained his silver hair. The crowd on the stands held their breath, their eyes fixed on the steps where Trần Thủ Độ's blood mingled with the cold blue stone of the Thanh region.
Chế Củ gave a cold smile. He knew this cunning yet shortsighted man was behind it all. Though the game wasn't over, he, a prisoner, had planted a seed of doubt in his enemy's heart. And he would not let them have their victory so easily.