Volume One: The First Night – Sonata

Chapter 1: The One You Want to Wait For

　　2022, autumn.

　　A light drizzle fell from the gray sky, softly landing on the city streets.

　　It was autumn, and every now and then you could see pedestrians without umbrellas, raising their hands above their heads as they hurried by.

　　In the narrow Junmin Alley, a seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy sat across from an old man under the awning of a small supermarket.

　　The world outside the awning was gray and dim, the ground soaked black by the rain. Only the patch of ground beneath the awning remained dry, as if this was the last pure land left in the world.

　　The boy’s face was clean, his eyes clear, dressed simply in a school uniform as he sat there.

　　In front of them was a worn wooden Chinese chessboard, and above their heads hung a red sign: ‘Fulai Supermarket’.

　　“Check,” the boy Brian Brooks said, then stood up, leaving the balding old man sitting there in a daze.

　　“I could still…” the old man protested unwillingly, “It’s only the thirteenth move…”

　　The boy Brian Brooks glanced at him and said calmly, “No need to struggle.”

　　The chessboard was already filled with killing intent; it was the final moment when the dagger is revealed.

　　The old man tossed the piece he was holding onto the board, conceding defeat.

　　Brian Brooks nonchalantly walked behind the supermarket counter, took 20 yuan from the change basket under the counter, and put it in his pocket.

　　The old man grumbled at Brian Brooks, “I lose 20 yuan to you every day! I just won 20 yuan from Old Li and Old Zhang this morning, and now I’ve lost it all to you! The fortune teller said I’d live to seventy-eight, but I’m only fifty now. If I lose 20 yuan to you every day, how much will I lose in total?”

　　“But I also teach you chess so you can win your pride back from them,” Brian Brooks replied calmly as he pocketed the money and sat back down by the chessboard. “So, in the end, you’re not really losing out.”

　　The old man muttered, “But the things you’ve taught me these past two days are useless.”

　　Brian Brooks glanced at him, “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

　　Old man: “???”

　　The old man, annoyed, reset the chessboard and urged, “Alright, alright, let’s review the game.”

　　At that moment, Brian Brooks suddenly lowered his head.

　　The time that had just passed seemed to replay in his mind.

　　The cannon’s opening attack, the fierce pawn crossing the river—all echoed in his mind.

　　Not just those.

　　There was also the uncle who passed by as they played, carrying four freshly bought sesame flatbreads. The steam from the hot bread fogged up the clear plastic bag.

　　A little girl in a white dress walked by with an umbrella, two beautiful butterflies on the toes of her little leather shoes.

　　Above, the rain drifted down into the alley, crystal clear.

　　At the end of the alley, the No. 103 bus flashed past the narrow entrance, and a woman in a beige trench coat hurried toward the bus stop with her umbrella.

　　The sound of footsteps, the water flowing into the roadside manhole cover—these noisy sounds only made the world seem even more silent.

　　Brian Brooks remembered it all.

　　This strange memory was a gift Brian Brooks was born with, as if he could pluck a save file from the river of time and read the images stored on that magnetic strip.

　　Brian Brooks picked up a chess piece from the board.

　　The old man stared intently at the board. This post-game review was part of their gambling agreement: Brian Brooks taught chess, and the old man learned after losing.

　　It was a strange scene—the boy showed none of the humility or shyness one should have before an elder, but instead seemed more like a teacher.

　　“Red cannon from 2 to 5, black cannon from 8 to 5, red horse from 2 to 3, black horse from 8 to 7…” Brian Brooks moved the pieces step by step.

　　The old man didn’t even blink. The opening moves were all standard, but he couldn’t figure out how, by the sixth move, after he’d captured the opponent’s horse, he suddenly fell into a losing position.

　　“The essence of the Thirteen-Move Sacrificial Horse is the sixth move, where you advance the chariot and sacrifice the horse. That’s the killer move that breaks open the defense,” Brian Brooks said quietly. “I saw the game you played with Old Li in Wangcheng Park the other day. He likes to open with a smooth run. Use this Thirteen-Move Sacrificial Horse against him and you’ll have no problem.”

　　The old man fell into deep thought, then asked in a low voice, “Will I really be able to beat him?”

　　“If you master the Thirteen-Move Sacrificial Horse I’m teaching you within a week, you’ll get your pride back,” Brian Brooks said. “After all… he’s not that good either.”

　　A hint of joy appeared on the old man’s face.

　　But then he suddenly asked, “If I can beat him in a week, how long will it take for me to beat you?”

　　Under the awning, Brian Brooks thought seriously, “The fortune teller said you’ll live to seventy-eight… then there’s not enough time.”