We pressed on. Mira had completely withdrawn into herself, contemplating the nature of the Fear Demons. It was understandable: killing them was like trying to empty the ocean with a leaky bucket. They die, respawn in Hell, work up an appetite, and return a week later. Prison wasn't an option either—sooner or later, the walls would crumble.

  Moreover, these creatures were mutating right before our eyes. Their human vessels were adapting to their power, turning into something between a nightmare and a biological weapon.

  Mira was driving us toward the City of Alchemists—whether it was a micro-nation or just a very large factory, I didn't care. It wasn't a short trip, and my sister flatly forbade me from using teleportation. She claimed it had a "bad effect" on me. I had to trudge on foot like an ordinary mortal. Humiliating.

  The Demon of War had changed the most over the past week. She’d grown a long tail, like a high-born beastman’s, but the moment she got angry, bone needles would shoot out from it in every direction. Her gaze had become heavier, more deliberate. They were getting smarter. It was unnerving.

  During an evening break, the Demon of War suddenly piped up: "Hey, Zenhald. You humans have a game called 'chess.' They say it’s a way to judge an opponent's intellect and will. Let’s play."

  I shrugged. Why not? I drew a checkered grid on the ground and quickly molded some clay into pieces. I made the first move with a pawn.

  The demoness froze, staring at the board. "So?" she asked. "Why did this tiny human move while the rest are standing still?"

  I sighed. "Got it. Listen to the rules." I pointed to the pieces:

  

  
• 
  
    The King: "This important fellow with the crown is the King. He’s the most important, but almost useless. If he gets backed into a corner—you lose."
  
    


  
• 
  
    The Queen: "The one next to him is the Queen. She’s a personal army in one body. She moves however she wants and kills whatever she sees. The most dangerous thing on the board."
  
    


  
• 
  
    The Bishops and Knights: "These guys are for maneuvers. Bishops strike diagonally; Knights... well, Knights just jump over heads."
  
    


  
• 
  
    The Rooks: "These are your towers. They charge straight ahead."
  
    


  

  I poked a row of smaller figures.

  

  
• 
  
    The Pawns: "And these are pawns. Your cannon fodder. They only go forward and only strike sideways. Step by step, slow and tedious. But if one of them reaches the end of the enemy's field, she can turn into a Queen. From dirt to royalty, you get it?"
  
    


  

  "I get it," War smiled predatorily. "The pawns are fear. They move forward until they become death."

  "Sure, something like that. Your move."

  Suddenly, the Demon of War dropped a thought that made my brain stall for a second. "So," she drawled, examining a clay figure, "that means every pawn is already a Queen. It just needs time to reveal itself. What an ironic metaphor for life, Zenhald."

  I opened my mouth, not knowing how to respond. Thirty minutes ago, she was asking if she could eat the Knight, and now she’s dropping philosophical concepts.

  I won the first three games effortlessly. I kept swatting her hands and shouting: "A KNIGHT DOESN'T MOVE LIKE THAT! Where are you putting him? That’s a Bishop, he only knows diagonals!"

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  But then, something shifted. With every game, the match became increasingly grueling. Every mistake I made—even the tiniest—instantly became my last. The demoness was absorbing tactics like a sponge.

  The Demon of Poverty sat down next to me, hugging his knees. Apparently, it wounded his pride too that "War" was making us look like idiots. We started holding a council over every move.

  "NO, NOT THAT!" Poverty hissed into my ear. "Move the Knight, block her Rook!" "I THINK WE SHOULD SACRIFICE THE ROOK!" I argued, feverishly shifting pieces in my mind. "It’s a gambit, she won't see it coming!"

  The Demon of War watched our helplessness and just laughed, baring her sharp fangs. It was the tenth game. And we were losing again. Totally. Ignominiously.

  "How?!" I clutched my hair. "How are you doing this?!"

  "I’m just thinking three steps ahead now," she said lazily, moving a Bishop and putting us in another check.

  "Three steps?! Do you realize the variability there? That’s millions of combinations!"

  "It’s just that you’re dumb and I’m smart," she patted me mockingly on the shoulder. "You’re small, and I’m big. Deal with it, kid. That’s all there is to it."

  "WHY YOU—!"

  Rage surged through me. Play fair? Forget it. I flicked my hand, and mana altered the structure of my pieces. "Right," I placed fifteen Knights on the board. "Now try to withstand the onslaught of my cavalry guard! Only the King and Knights. Attack!"

  She laughed so loudly that Mira actually opened one eye. "Zen, you really are stupid. Quantity does not replace quality."

  The game started over, but now it was a lecture on tactical superiority. She moved her pawns so efficiently that my Knights literally tripped over their own feet.

  "Right now, the pawns are my main weapon," she lectured, methodically slaughtering my steeds. "You know, every piece has a value. A pawn is one point, a Queen is nine. But numbers lie. Sometimes a pawn with one point is more useful than a Queen with nine, because no one takes her seriously. Their mistake."

  Her intellectual growth was terrifying. Yesterday she was a piece of meat on a tree; today she was explaining the mathematical value of battlefield objects to me—a being with a millennium of experience.

  Eventually, my King was cornered. "Checkmate," the demoness flicked my clay King off the board.

  I sat there, staring blankly at the ground. Defeated. By a child. A demon. At chess. "Fine," I muttered, my skin itching with humiliation. "Tomorrow, we play cards."

  The next evening. I created a deck of cards. "Right," I slammed the cards onto the ground. "Chess was a fluke. Now we’re playing Durak. This is about luck and memory."

  An hour passed. "OH, COME ON, HOW?!" I roared, throwing my cards into the fire. The Demon of War had won ten times in a row. Ten! She discarded her cards with a face that suggested she was reading my thoughts through the back of my head. The Demon of Poverty sat nearby, quietly snickering at my fiasco.

  "Fine," I took a deep breath, trying to stop my hands from shaking. "Durak is too predictable for your demonic luck. We're changing the game."

  I pulled all the Black Queens out of the deck except one—the Queen of Spades. "The rules are simple," I explained, shuffling the deck. "We deal them out equally. If you have a pair—two Kings, two sixes—you discard them. The goal is to get rid of all your cards. But there’s a catch. Every turn, we pull one card from the neighbor. Whoever is left with that single Black Queen at the very end—loses. Got it?"

  They both nodded in sync. "Let’s go."

  I dealt the cards. In this game, math was secondary. Here, psychology ruled the day. Reading emotions, micro-movements, the rhythm of breathing. And in that, I am a master. Over hundreds of cycles, I’ve learned to see a lie before it even forms in the brain.

  "Pick," I said to the Demon of War, fanning my cards out before her.

  She froze. Her gaze darted from one card-back to another. She was trying to figure it out: Do I have the Queen? Or am I specifically acting like I don't?

  I relaxed my face. The void inside me became my shield. I felt nothing but boredom, and that was my primary weapon. Go on, I thought, watching her tail twitch. Try to read someone who doesn't even know what he’ll do in the next second.

  The demoness reached for the far-left card. Then she changed her mind and touched the center one. I lifted an eyebrow ever so slightly. She instantly yanked her fingers back.

  "Aha!" she smirked predatorily. "Trying to confuse me?"

  She pulled the card from the far-right edge. The Five of Diamonds. She snorted in disappointment and discarded her pair. Then it was the Demon of Poverty’s turn. He was so nervous his third hand was convulsively clutching the hem of his cloak. He pulled a card from War, and his face instantly fell.

  "Oh no..." he whispered.

  I smiled. The game of reading emotions had begun. And this time, I wasn't about to hand the victory to some "generation of fears." This was my home turf.