The Perfect Game

I took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of frustration and resignation that was hard to contain. The situation I found myself in was surreal, almost impossible to believe, as if I were trapped in a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

I was losing. No, that would be an understatement. I was being crushed. The scoreboard, a humiliating 6-0 against us, was a devastating blow to my pride. Never in my life had I experienced such an absolute defeat. It was as if every event was a sentence, each loss a deeper stab at my already faltering confidence.

Although my class had dropped from A to B, I had managed to stay on the sidelines during direct confrontations in special exams. There had always been external factors that allowed me to justify my lack of involvement or minimize my personal failures. But now, there were no excuses. This end-of-year exam was different. It was a pure test, a direct battle between classes that left no room for mitigating circumstances. Here, there were no shadows to hide behind, no external factors to blame. This was my moment to face another class head-on.

And yet... this. A disaster. A collapse.

Class A had torn us apart mercilessly, winning six of the seven events with an ease that almost felt insulting. Each loss was a brutal reminder of our helplessness, an echo reverberating in every defeated face of my classmates.

Only one event remained. Chess.

I had confidence in my skills. I always had. But what did that mean now? I had also believed we could win at least some of the earlier events, and that confidence had been trampled as if it were worthless. It was impossible to ignore the weight of doubt now suffocating me.

The chessboard—this battlefield where every move is a declaration of strategy and will—would become my only chance to change the narrative. But would it be enough? Could a single victory erase the bitter taste of six consecutive defeats? The pressure was overwhelming, but it wasn't just the scoreboard tormenting me. It was the gaze of my classmates, the responsibility of carrying their expectations.

I clenched my fists tightly, feeling my nails dig into my palms. I couldn't afford to fail here, not when everything I'd built depended on this one event. Yet as I approached the board, a single question spun in my mind, over and over again:

"Is this what it means to lose? Is this the weight I must bear?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, I realized something strange about myself: I wasn't worried about what my classmates thought. Sure, I couldn't entirely ignore the inevitable looks of disappointment directed at me, but that wasn't what ate away at me. It wasn't their judgment or their shattered confidence. It was my own pride, my own expectation of what I should have achieved.

I couldn't help but wonder if I had misunderstood the meaning of this competition. Maybe I had overestimated my abilities or underestimated my opponents, but what truly stung was the fact that I had been given the chance to prove myself and failed—failed catastrophically.

And yet, even with the scoreboard showing this cruel truth, something within me refused to yield completely. Pride, stubbornness, ego... maybe a mix of all three. But what truly kept me standing was a simple and obstinate determination: if I was going to lose, I wouldn't do so without fighting until the very last moment.

Chess was my last chance, and though it pained me to admit it, it probably wouldn't change the overall outcome. Even if I won this event, we wouldn't close the points gap Class A had already created. But that didn't matter. To me, winning here wasn't about redemption or proving something to others. It was personal.

All this internal torment, this storm of emotions eating away at me, had a single source: one person. Behind the screen, seated calmly at a small table, he moved the pieces on the board with the composure of someone who already knew the outcome. His face was adorned with a serene, almost mocking smile, as if he were completely certain of the result before the game had even begun. That was Kayden Osawa.

A singular existence, almost inhuman, who had stormed into Class B like a whirlwind, transforming it into Class A in astonishingly little time. But his ascent didn't stop there: he won every single special exam, closing the gap in class points until opening an unassailable lead.

His intelligence and cunning were unmatched. No, maybe I shouldn't say unmatched. Perhaps there was someone else who could be on his level: Ayanokouji-kun, the so-called masterpiece. But setting that aside, Osawa-kun was, in simple terms, a genius. Not one forged through effort or circumstances, but the kind of genius you're simply born with. That innate spark that places you above the rest, one you can't acquire no matter how hard you try.

And during this exam, he had shown me what it meant to face a true genius. He didn't just take advantage of the rules—he saw beyond them, exploiting every loophole with terrifying precision. At first, I struggled to understand it, but over time, the pieces fell into place.

Osawa-kun had used the cycle reset, a rule that allowed him to participate in events again if certain conditions were met. I had considered it too, though as a backup plan. But he didn't just use it—he went further, substituting for an ill teammate and managing to participate in three different events.

Participating twice was already complicated, as it required all students to take their turns, excluding the commander. But he not only achieved that; he manipulated the situation to justify his third participation, using his teammate's condition as an excuse. It was brilliant, almost Machiavellian. And then I wondered: had he planned all of this from the beginning, or did he improvise along the way?

"Sakayanagi-san, please select your participant," Sakagami-sensei's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

I had gotten lost in my mind, completely absorbed in trying to understand Osawa-kun, and had forgotten that I needed to choose who would represent the class in this final event. Without much time to deliberate, I selected Hashimoto-kun.

It wasn't a choice based on skill. In reality, it was a practical decision: Hashimoto-kun was one of the people who spent the most time around me. I knew that, on his own, he wouldn't stand a chance against someone like Osawa-kun. But from the first second of the event, I would use my authority as commander to interfere directly.

The problem was that this authority was limited: I could only use it for five minutes. Five minutes that could decide the fate of this event. I looked at Osawa-kun's face once more. His expression radiated confidence—the kind that comes from someone who is always one step ahead.

If I left Hashimoto-kun alone, we'd lose in the blink of an eye.

That certainty hit me like an inescapable truth. This was my last battlefield, and I couldn't let it all end without putting up the fiercest fight I could muster.

....

The start of the game was calculated, almost cold. From the command room, I watched the board projected on the screen in front of me while Hashimoto-kun executed my moves. Every order I gave was precise, delivered calmly through the communicator.

"Pawn to e4," I said, opening with a classic move.

Osawa-kun quickly responded, moving his pawn to e5 with that characteristic tranquility that seemed to mock my efforts. Nonetheless, I maintained my composure. This wasn't the first time I faced a strong opponent, and I wasn't about to let his confidence destabilize me.

Hashimoto moved his pieces as instructed: knight to f3, attacking the central pawn, followed by bishop to c4, developing my pieces optimally. The initial game seemed balanced. Each move was met with a precise response from Osawa-kun, who remained relaxed, as if he were playing a casual match instead of a decisive one.

In the first two minutes, it seemed the difference between us wasn't so pronounced. I managed to force a pawn exchange in the center of the board, opening lines and creating space to maneuver. I even compelled Osawa to momentarily retreat his knight, gaining a slight development advantage.

But then, as if deciding the warm-up was over, everything changed.

Osawa-kun made a seemingly simple move: knight to g4. At first, it didn't seem dangerous, but the moment I studied the board more closely, I realized his intent. He was threatening both my queen and a key piece in the center.

"Hashimoto, move the queen to e2, protect the pawn," I ordered quickly, adjusting my strategy.

osawa didn't miss a beat. Instead of attacking directly, he castled short, ensuring the safety of his king while maintaining constant pressure. His style was calculated, as if every move not only responded to mine but was also planned ten steps ahead.

I tried to stay calm. I moved my rook to d1, aiming to align pieces for a potential central attack. But before I could execute my plan, Osawa launched an unexpected sacrifice: his bishop took my pawn on h2, offering the piece as bait.

"Ignore it. Move the knight to d5, threaten his queen," I said, trying to destabilize him.

Hashimoto obeyed, but Kayden showed no sign of surprise. Instead of retreating his queen, he moved his other rook to f8, preparing a devastating attack on the king's side.

And then I saw it. His sacrifice wasn't reckless or impulsive; it was the prelude to a strategy he'd been building from the beginning. My position, which had seemed solid until that moment, began to crumble piece by piece.

By the fourth minute, his queen broke into my defense like a dagger. He managed to put me in double check with a rook and a knight. I tried to defend, moving my king to g1 to escape, but every move I made was met with surgical precision.

Finally, in the fifth minute, the final blow came.

"Checkmate," Osawa-kun declared, with a calm smile as he placed his rook on g3, sealing my defeat.

The screen displayed the final board, where my king, trapped with no escape, was surrounded by his perfectly positioned pieces.

Hashimoto sighed in relief, but I remained silent. I had done everything I could, using every resource available, and yet, the difference between us was insurmountable.

"So, this is the difference between us," I thought as I watched Osawa rise from the board with the same calm demeanor he had when the game began.