A Line of Writing

"It's late at night. Playing chess at a time like this?"

Lu Zhichun frowned, puzzled. How had he let this old man into his room?

"In Mi Village, I have played no one knows how many games of chess with others. I grew weary of it long ago. Now that I have happened upon you, my craving for chess is unbearable. I hope you will indulge me."

The old man wore a broad smile. He had already set up the board and was waiting for Lu Zhichun to take a seat.

"I am somewhat tired today. I fear I lack the energy to play chess with you."

Lu Zhichun looked at the old man, then glanced at the chessboard. He could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. He did not know where that feeling came from, but he decided to follow his instincts.

"Not late, not late. Nothing is too late."

The old man chuckled softly, picked up a chess piece, and placed it upon the board before him.

Lu Zhichun stared at the board, and his vision blurred. He could not help closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself already seated opposite the old man, his right hand just lifting from the board. A piece had already been placed.

Aside from cultivation, chess was Lu Zhichun's one major pastime. Seeing that he had already made a move, he immediately cast all other emotions aside and began to play in earnest.

Yet Lu Zhichun did not notice that with every piece he placed, his essence, qi, and spirit weakened by a fraction. Each fraction seemed insignificant, but grains of sand could pile into a tower, and scraps of fur could gather into a cloak.

Many things could not withstand such gradual depletion. Even the