I said nothing as I walked through the corridor, my expression stiff enough to earn some hesitant glare from the other tournament participants. Even the people I had played before looked at me with a mixture of distaste and hostility.

All due to my intimidating appearance.

I wasn't annoyed by their hostility and fear. Why should I, when I had carefully curated my appearance and reputation in the chess circle carefully to maximize the emotional effect? After all, even with all the time I sank into playing chess, I was only a decent player in terms of competition.

And while I doubted the intimidation effect would help against the real professionals, college chess players were much less stable emotionally, especially in a state in the middle of America, where chess was hardly the most favorable target.

The tactic worked even better with my focus. I exclusively competed on Blitz, meaning rather than each game lasting hours, they were restricted to five minutes to each side. With the time restriction, my opponents rarely had the time to adapt to my tricks before they made a mistake, maybe a knight advantage, or a couple of extra pawns in the mid-game.

After that, it was easy to sweep the game.

Of course, that hardly helped my reputation in the chess circles, not that I cared much. I was here not for the love of the game, but for my scholarship. Nothing more.

However, this time, it was much harder to keep my expression stiff, thanks to my mysterious guide. "What's a nerd?" she asked as she floated next to me. Pity that she was invisible, because I had a feeling that half of the room would have been too interested in her curves to put a decent game, allowing me to win easily.

"It's an insult for the scholars, by more physically inclined people," I murmured from under my breath, trying to look like I was trying to psyche myself before the tournament rather than talking to an imaginary friend.

"But why?" she asked, shocked. "A warrior requires both the body and the mind to achieve excellence. Even that brute Ares was smart enough to understand combat is not about muscles and shouting despite his abysmal reputation."

"People are weird," I said with a shrug, once again ignoring her casual name dropping off another Greek god.

It was not the time to delve into it.

I sat on the corner, deliberately grunting to anyone that dared to sit next to me. The black muscle shirt I put on, revealing the flame tattoos covered my right forearm perfectly, making their hesitancy even higher.

"What kind of game is this?" my guide asked a while later, however, ruining my plan to focus on my intimidating visage. I tried to ignore her, but she proved her inability to catch subtext by repeating the question twice, with increasing loudness, which made me abandon that plan.

Instead, I stood up, walking around while whispering under my breath, quickly explaining the rules.

"I see, it's like shatranj, like the game famous in Antioch," she said in enthusiasm. "Though the rules are quite a bit different. Do you want me to help you? I'm quite good," she said.

"It wouldn't be fair," I said, though my response was less about the fairness, and more about the cute sexiness she displayed as she declared her competency. I could easily imagine someone intentionally losing her to keep that smile on.

"You're right," she said with a blush.

"I need to focus on the game. Please try to be silent," I asked her, and earned a nod in response.

I returned to the main area with ample time, giving me enough time to examine the tournament schedule, identifying my opponents, just enough time to 'accidentally' walk around them, maybe even accidental collision or two if I could squeeze in.

All was fairly in love and war, after all.

I took my seat five minutes before the match, sitting on my chair with a stiff, stony expression. My opponent came a minute before the match, but hesitated before sitting, his eyes already looking for a referee.

Unfortunately for him, looking naturally scary was not one of the rules.

Everyone took their seats, before the announcer made a quick speech, declaring that the Blitz portion of the second chess tournament of Sunset College — my dear, aptly named college — had begun.

I was black, so I waited until my opponent moved his kingside pawn two steps, taking e4, a classical, safe approach. I would have moved my queenside pawn in the response under normal conditions, an aggressive yet conventional move.

Unfortunately, he wasn't able to hide the tremble on his finger.

Smelling blood in the water, I immediately moved my pawn from the wings, and when he responded by adding another point to the center, I smirked even as I moved my knight to the side, committing deeper into a side attack.

He moved his knight behind the defensive line he had established, staking the control of the center. Admittedly, it wasn't a bad strategy. Holding the center was almost always the best choice, giving the best defensive position without curtailing offensive options.

Too bad for him that I had pushed my knight forward in aggression that would have been pointless under the normal circumstances, exchanging for equal value, but leaving his position better. Since he played white for this turn, starting him with the advantage, it was a considerable difference.

All he needed was to push his queen forward, leveraging his positional advantage. To his credit, despite his surprise at my over-aggressive play, he reached toward his queen, ready to launch that exact movement.

Unfortunately for him, I was just opening my bag of tricks. Just as he was about to touch the queen, I hit him with a vicious smirk, the kind that actually managed to intimidate junkies looking for a soft target back in the street.

A little soft nerd trying to make his mark through a chess tournament had no chance.

Instinctively, he reached for his bishop, shifting to a defensive play. I moved my bishop upwards, ignoring his attempts to set up a defensive territory, directly into his main area, unsettling his efforts to set up a defense.

He pulled his knight, reflexively trying to reinforce the same area I had forcibly weakened, giving me the mistake I was searching for.

My queen dashed forward, checking his king. He retreated, but not without a cost, losing a knight in response. It wasn't an unrecoverable position. On the contrary, if we were playing classical chess, he would have ample time to find a solution to punish my excessive aggression. Unfortunately for him, he had neither the time nor the composure needed to do so, losing the first game after three more moves.

"Shall we start the second one?" I asked. The tournament was best of six to allow each side to start equal amounts, moving to tie-break games in case of a draw.

After every game, players could take a five minutes break, but when I asked the question, my voice was more of a growl, threatening him more.

"S-sure," he stammered, which was clearly the worse choice. We started the second game, and this time, I pushed my king-side pawn forward, a much more balanced move.

His response was telling. He pushed his knight forward immediately, one of the more defensive variations he could use, trying to defend himself against my aggression.

Unfortunately for him, there was no aggression coming. I used his hesitancy to casually expand into the mid-game, establishing board control before he could realize what happened. After twenty moves, we only exchanged four pawns, and one knight to a bishop, but he was squeezed into his side of the board.

With the strategic advantage on me, I could have pushed for another quick victory, but why would I do so, when I could grind my opponent's mind. The game lasted more than eighty moves, costing each of us almost all of our stones, but when the game ended, I was smirking viciously like an assassin, while my opponent was breathing hard, trembling.

"The third game?" I asked.

"N-no need," he said as he stood up, trembling, unbalanced enough for his chair to tumble back, earning a warning from the referee. "I give up."

"As you wish," I said as I stood back, raising my hand to squeeze his, only to earn a nasty glare. Not that I blamed him. He was shaking badly. I started walking away, enjoying the sudden whisper exploding around the viewer area.

"The assassin struck again," said one of them.

"The assassin?" whispered his friend. "What kind of nickname is that?"

"He joined the scene the last year," said the first one. "I don't know where they found the monster, but he's a menace."

"Is he that good?"

"Not really. He mostly reached the quarterfinals. He only has one semifinal, and it was mostly luck."

"Why the nickname then?"

"He literally kills the weaker players. I heard that four players actually stopped attending tournaments after losing to him-" he explained.

I missed the rest of his whispering explanation, but not because he stopped suddenly. No, a sudden line of writing appeared on my line of sight.

[Pattern Recognition I, acquired]

[Intimidation I, acquired]

I looked to my right, but I didn't need to see the proud expression of my guide to guess the source of it.

I dashed toward the bathroom, not from a need, but to ask for an explanation. And I needed somewhere silent.

Because I didn't trust myself to keep my voice low.