The nights had grown quieter. After the heartbreak, after the confession, after Tal's solemn words of encouragement, Alexei didn't return immediately to the board. Days passed, each carrying the weight of reflection. He walked through his city's alleys with a lowered head, avoiding the gazes of fans who once cheered his name. Commentators spoke his name with disappointment now—a flame that burned too hot, too fast.
But something was changing inside him. Beneath the layers of sorrow and shame, there was a flicker—a spark that refused to die.
And one night, it called to him.
The antique chessboard waited patiently in his room. It was past midnight. The house was silent, the world outside lost in slumber. Moonlight seeped through the curtains like silver threads, brushing the edges of the chessboard in ghostly glints. Alexei sat cross-legged before it, his fingers hovering over the polished squares.
He didn't set up the board right away. He closed his eyes instead.
And in the darkness behind his lids, a battlefield awakened.
He stepped into the memory of the variation—the forbidden line. The one Tal had whispered about in the visions. The one that had carried him to glory… and then to collapse. But now, it no longer felt cursed.
It felt… unfinished.
The line unfolded in his mind, the first fifteen moves like echoes of games long past. But where others stopped, fearing traps and positional collapse, Alexei leaned in. He felt a strange clarity, like light pouring through a cracked mirror. The chaos of the position didn't terrify him anymore—it invited him.
And then… Tal appeared.
Not in shadow this time, but in brilliant light. His eyes held a wary curiosity, like a magician watching a new apprentice about to pull off a trick even he didn't dare try.
Alexei didn't bow or speak. He was too deep in the flow. He pushed the knight forward in the imaginary board—an untested route, bold and dangerous. Tal raised an eyebrow.
Then a rook lift—unorthodox, early, but filled with unseen menace. A bishop retreat that would seem like retreat to most, but in Alexei's line, it was the fuse to a hidden bomb. The air in the dream realm vibrated.
Tal stepped closer, his voice low, reverent.
"No one has seen that idea before."
Alexei moved again. The queen spun like a dagger across the center, shifting from defense to offense in a heartbeat. The pawns danced forward—not as shields, but as bait. Alexei was painting with fire.
He looked up at Tal, who was now watching with wide eyes, speechless.
"You called it cursed," Alexei whispered. "But maybe… it was waiting to be understood."
Tal slowly nodded. "Or waiting for someone foolish enough to step beyond the fear."
The board in the dreamscape began to shimmer. The pieces glowed faintly, like they were absorbing the brilliance of the new lines. Variations branched out like veins of gold—tactical storms no one had prepared for. Alexei saw positions where his pieces stood on the edge of chaos, but always with a thread of control.
It was madness. But controlled madness. Tal's kind of madness.
Tal chuckled—softly, almost in disbelief. "You've taken the cursed line and made it your own. Not just that… you've forged new possibilities. Things even I never imagined."
Alexei's heart pounded. For the first time in weeks, the weight in his chest lifted. He wasn't just redeeming the line—he was transforming it. Elevating it.
He spoke again. "They said it was reckless. That I abused it. Maybe I did. But now… I see what it could be."
Tal leaned in, his expression unreadable. "You're not following my path anymore, Alexei. You're cutting your own through the darkness."
The board pulsed with light as dozens of new variations splintered into being. Tal reached out and gently touched one of the phantom pieces, smiling.
"Play them."
The next tournament came quietly.
There were no trumpets, no flashing cameras. The buzz around Alexei had dimmed—replaced by skeptical murmurs. He burned too fast. He got lucky with a wild line. He can't hold under pressure.
Alexei entered with his head down, carrying the same old wooden board. But behind his calm gaze, storms brewed.
The moment came in Round 4. He faced a young grandmaster, prepped to the teeth, determined to punish him for the very line he'd once used to dazzle the world.
The game began quietly—e4, c5. Sicilian.
And then Alexei steered into the forbidden line.
The audience shifted. The commentators murmured. "He's doing it again," one whispered. "Has he learned nothing?"
But then came the twist.
Move 17. A knight sacrifice—not in Tal's line, but in a brand new variation no one had seen.
Move 21. A rook lift—early, unorthodox, insane.
Move 25. A queen maneuver so deep, the engines stuttered to understand it.
Commentators leaned in, confused. Then awed. Then silent.
The board on-screen was a battlefield of fire and smoke, but Alexei moved like a man who had already seen the ending. His opponent faltered, then blundered. In under forty moves, the game was over.
The hall erupted.
Grandmasters studied the replay in disbelief. Analysts scrambled to understand the lines. Commentators stared, slack-jawed, at the screen.
"He's not just playing the line," one said finally. "He's reinventing it."
That night, Alexei sat before his board again.
The Shadow Man emerged from the corners of the room. Tal appeared in the dreamspace, smiling.
"You've done it," Tal said. "You took the ashes of my fire and built a new flame."
Alexei smiled faintly, his voice calm.
"And I'm just getting started."