As the saying went, don't play chess with people who had terrible sportsmanship. It was better for both sides.
Of course, "terrible sportsmanship" was a fairly broad concept. Some people were fiercely competitive, but not to the point where they couldn't accept defeat. In fact, most people like that only brooded for a while—what else could they do after they'd already lost? At most, they would redouble their efforts afterward, practice hard, and win it back.
Some people were hopeless at chess, but that didn't mean they would fly into a rage, flip the board, smash the pieces into their opponent's face, then lunge over and beat them with a folding chair in full view of everyone.
As for the Mage—well, he didn't actually play chess at all. And the table he wanted to flip wasn't the one holding the chessboard, either. If one had to put it that way, this was a game of chess that could not be lost.
And he had had enough.
Looking back over all these years since he'd completed his apprenticeship, when had He Shenyan ever swallowed this kind of insult? Burning himself was one thing. That was necessary. The Astral Beacon could not be allowed to go out. But Tzeentch from a parallel world actually dared to pull something like this right under his nose. It was practically a slap in his face.
The Iron Warriors going insane and running around performing sacrifices because they had lost their father was within expectations. But what the fuck was an Evil God from a parallel world doing joining the fun?
Those three local bastards hadn't even responded to them. And you just had to come over and join in? What was this, cross-border law enforcement? International police?
He Shenyan sighed, snapped his fingers, and instantly