Volume One.
The First Chapter of Night: Sonata.
Autumn, 2022.
A drizzling rain fell from the gray sky, lightly soaking the city streets.
It was autumn, and from time to time, pedestrians without umbrellas could still be seen hurrying past with their hands over their heads.
In the narrow Junmin Alley, a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old boy sat across from an old man beneath the awning beside a small supermarket.
Beyond the awning, the whole world was dim. Rainwater had soaked the ground a pale black, while only the patch beneath the awning remained dry, as though it were the last clean land in the entire world.
A battered wooden Chinese chessboard lay between them, and above their heads hung the red sign of "Fulai Supermarket."
"Checkmate," Qing Chen said, then rose to his feet, leaving the thin-haired old man sitting there in a daze.
Qing Chen glanced at him and said calmly, "There's no point struggling."
"I can still..." the old man said unwillingly. "It's only been thirteen moves..."
His words carried a hint of embarrassment at having been utterly defeated in just thirteen moves.
Qing Chen did not explain. The chessboard was already brimming with killing intent; this was the final moment when the dagger was revealed.
The boy had a clean face and clear eyes. Sitting there in his plain school uniform, he seemed to make the world around him a little more transparent and pure.
The old man tossed the piece in his raised hand onto the board, conceding defeat.
Ignoring everyone around him, Qing Chen walked behind the counter of the supermarket next door, took twenty yuan from the change basket beneath it, and slipped it into his pocket.
The old man watched Qing Chen with a stream of curses. "I lose twenty yuan to you every day! I just won twenty yuan from Old Li and Old Zhang this morning, and now I've lost all of it to you!"
After pocketing the money, Qing Chen returned to the chessboard and began reviewing the game. "If they hadn't already refused to play chess with me, I wouldn't have to use you to make money. You need to save face, and I need money. It's fair and reasonable."
"So you've got me all figured out, huh?" the old man muttered. "A fortune teller said I'd live to seventy-eight. I'm only fifty now. If I lose twenty yuan to you every day, how much money will I end up losing?"
"But I'm teaching you Chinese chess so you can win back your pride," Qing Chen replied calmly. "By that calculation, you're not losing out."
The old man muttered, "But the things you've taught me these past two days have all been useless."
Qing Chen looked at him. "Don't talk about yourself like that."
The old man: "???"
The old man impatiently reset the chessboard, then urged him, "All right, all right, review the game."
At that moment, Qing Chen suddenly lowered his head.
The time that had just passed replayed in his mind.
The cannon that had charged straight at him, the fierce pawn standing across the Chu River and Han Border—they echoed through his thoughts one by one.
And not only those.
There was also the middle-aged man who had passed by them during the game, carrying four freshly bought sesame flatbreads. Steam from the hot flatbreads had spread through the transparent plastic bag, coating it with a layer of white mist.
A little girl in a white dress walked past under an umbrella. Two pretty butterflies decorated the uppers of her little leather shoes.
Above them, the drifting rain fell into the alley, crystal clear.
At the far end of the alley, Bus No. 103 flashed past the narrow entrance. A woman in a beige trench coat ran toward the bus stop beneath her umbrella.
Footsteps, the sound of rainwater flowing into the roadside storm drain—these noisy sounds instead made the world seem especially quiet.
Qing Chen had never forgotten any of it, though recalling it took some effort.
But difficult did not mean impossible.
This strange memory was a gift Qing Chen had possessed since birth. It was as if he could casually pull out a saved file from the river of time, then load the images stored on its magnetic tape.
Suppressing the dizziness in his mind, Qing Chen picked up a chess piece.
The old man immediately fell silent, staring intently at the board. Reviewing each game afterward was also part of the terms of their wager.
Qing Chen was responsible for teaching chess, while the old man learned after losing money.
The scene was rather strange. Qing Chen displayed none of the humility or shyness a young person ought to have before an elder; instead, he seemed more like a teacher.
The other man did not find anything strange about it.
"Red moves cannon two to five. Black moves cannon eight to five. Red advances horse two to three. Black advances horse eight to seven. Red advances chariot one by one. Black moves chariot nine to eight..." Qing Chen shifted the pieces one by one.
The old man did not blink. Everything before that had been a standard opening, but he could not understand how, by the sixth move, he had clearly captured the opponent's horse yet suddenly fallen into a disadvantage.
"The essence of the Thirteen-Move Horse Sacrifice lies in advancing the chariot and sacrificing the horse on the sixth move. That's the trump card for tearing open the defense," Qing Chen explained quietly. "I watched the game you played against that old man in Wangcheng Park the day before yesterday. He likes the Follow-the-Runner Opening. You'll have no problem using the Thirteen-Move Horse Sacrifice against him."
The old man across from him sank into deep thought, then asked softly, "Can I really beat him?"
"Learn the Thirteen-Move Horse Sacrifice I'm teaching you within a week, and you'll be able to win back your pride," Qing Chen said. "After all... he isn't very good either."
A trace of delight appeared on the old man's face.
But then he suddenly asked, "If I can beat him after studying for a week, how long would I need to study before I could beat you?"
Beneath the awning, Qing Chen considered seriously. "The fortune teller said you'd live to seventy-eight... Then there isn't enough time."
The old man's expression froze. "If you said less, I might live to seventy-nine... Huh, shouldn't you be in evening self-study right now? Why did school let out so early today?"
He knew Qing Chen was a second-year high school student. It was Tuesday, so No. 13 Middle School, two streets away, should have been holding evening self-study at this hour.
After thinking for a moment, Qing Chen answered, "I'm waiting for someone."
"Waiting for someone?" The old man paused.
Qing Chen rose and looked out at the fine rain beyond the awning, his gaze drifting through the curtain of rain.
The old man said, "Qing Chen, you're so good at chess. Why don't you enter a Chinese chess tournament? Didn't you say you needed money? You'd get prize money if you won the championship."
Qing Chen shook his head. "I've only memorized a lot of chess manuals. It's not that I'm especially good at playing chess. Good memory doesn't equal analytical ability. I can handle games against people like you, but I'd show my weakness against a real expert. My path isn't here. Chess is only temporary."
"You memorized all of them..." The old man sighed. "I used to think photographic memory was something people just made up."
The rain gradually stopped.
Just then, the old man suddenly noticed Qing Chen freeze. Following the boy's gaze toward the end of Junmin Alley, he happened to see a couple walking over with a little boy between them.
The middle-aged woman wore an exquisite trench coat and carried a cake box tied with a beautiful purple ribbon.
Even the gloomy world could not conceal the joy on the three of them. Qing Chen turned and left, leaving the old man beneath the awning at the entrance of Fulai Supermarket, softly sighing.
The middle-aged woman saw Qing Chen's back and called his name, but Qing Chen vanished through the exit at the other end of the alley without looking back.
The walls on both sides of the alley were old. Where the white paint had peeled away, patches of mottled red brick showed through.
The people Qing Chen had wanted to wait for had arrived, but he no longer wanted to wait.
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