Chapter 10: Destiny’s Endgame

Three years later.

A new government, new enemies. The world never stands still, and neither could I.

The deputy general colluded with foreign mercenaries, and they invaded again. The government suffered defeat after defeat, and even the little fishing village was caught up in the chaos.

Smoke rose from the fields, cries filled the night. The old world was ending, and the new was being born in pain.

After many twists and turns, I regained my memory.

A chance encounter, a scar noticed by an old comrade, the sudden return of dreams—I remembered it all, and with memory came purpose.

As is traditional, for the sake of the people, I donned my uniform again and defeated the invaders.

The first time I wore my medals again, the villagers gathered in silence. I led them to victory, the old songs echoing in our wake.

Also worth noting, the heroine Ananya regained her memory too. After more than a hundred chapters of reflection, she realised she’d fallen in love with Rajeev…

Her heart, torn between old love and new, finally settled on her present. The past was a foreign country; her future belonged to Delhi.

For the heroine’s sake, Rajeev and I clashed fiercely, nearly coming to blows.

Our battles shook the city. The newspapers screamed, the public debated, old alliances shattered. The world watched, breath held.

The heroine, with the world in her heart, jumped from the city wall to prevent Rajeev and me from fighting and bringing suffering to the people—thus achieving a beautifully tragic BE (bad ending).

Her sacrifice was the stuff of legend. Even the gods were said to weep, the rain falling for three days and nights.

At that moment, I received a letter the heroine had written before her death.

Her handwriting, still elegant, brought tears to my eyes. The paper smelled faintly of rosewater.

The gist: we were once good together, but now I’m with someone else—please understand, don’t be angry.

There was no bitterness, only the hope that I would find peace. Her words cut deep, but I understood.

And she hoped I would turn my small love for her into a great love for the people, guard the north, and protect the nation’s peace.

Her blessing was my burden, but also my freedom. I vowed to honour her wish.

I was moved to tears, and damn it, went back to being a loyal officer.

The cycle was complete. Duty, once again, triumphed over desire. My uniform fit a little tighter, my purpose a little clearer.

But now, having led my army to Delhi, I have no idea how Rajeev will respond.

The game was still afoot. The city, restless and uncertain, waited for the next move.

The day after I set up camp outside Delhi, the Home Minister arrived.

His arrival was announced by a cloud of dust and a convoy of white Ambassadors. The press trailed in his wake, snapping photos, speculating on outcomes.

The Home Minister exchanged pleasantries with me, then suggested a game of chess.

He smiled, eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. “Shall we have a friendly match, Sir? My mind is sharpest after a good cup of chai.”

I didn’t know how to play, but given his reputation, I agreed.

In India, a challenge, once issued, cannot be refused. I nodded, feigning confidence, heart pounding beneath my starched kurta.

The Home Minister played white, I played black.

The old man adjusted his Nehru jacket, settling into the game with practiced ease. I fiddled with the pawns, still unsure of the rules.

The Home Minister’s chai cooled, untouched, as he studied the board. Outside, a vendor’s bell echoed through the camp.

He sipped his chai and smiled. “Everyone knows you are a man of loyalty and righteousness. If you lose, would you grant this old man a request?”

He spoke with the gentle arrogance of a school principal. The breeze fluttered the tent flaps; the aroma of cardamom tea lingered between us.

I already had an inkling of what he’d ask.

The stakes were never just the game. My mind raced through possibilities, weighing risks.

This female-oriented world is quite entertaining—much more interesting than a male-oriented one.

I had never felt so alive. Here, drama was currency, and every move mattered.

I smiled. “And if I win?”

He raised an eyebrow, a challenge dancing in his eyes. In India, even banter was a form of battle.

The Home Minister stroked his beard, confident. “I am the chess sage of Arya—twenty years undefeated.”

His pride was almost endearing. The soldiers nearby snickered, enjoying the spectacle.

I shook my head. “If I win, will you also grant me a request?”

My voice was light, but the message was clear: I would not be cowed by reputation alone.

He agreed.

A nod, a quick blessing whispered under his breath. The match was on.

The game began.

I had no idea how to play chess, so I just put the pieces wherever I pleased.

I moved pawns like playing ludo with my cousins, relying more on luck than skill. The Home Minister’s frown deepened with every baffling move.

At first, the Home Minister thought I was setting a trap, but soon realised I was just playing at random.

His lips twitched, the audience held its breath. Was this strategy, or madness? The question hung in the air.

The game ended quickly.

His king cornered mine, the outcome inevitable. The Home Minister leaned back, victorious.

The Home Minister set down his piece, bowed, and said, “Thank you for letting me win, Sir.”

He bowed low, but there was a twinkle in his eye. Everyone loves a gracious loser.

I sneered. “Home Minister, do you really think you’ve won?”

My tone was sharp, the words like the chill before a storm. The onlookers leaned in, sensing a twist.

He glanced at the board, head lowered, and said confidently, “I see no way for you to turn the tables.”

He folded his arms, smug. The silence grew heavy, every eye fixed on the board.

I pointed at the board and sighed, “Home Minister, sometimes victory in this game isn’t only among the pieces, but in the board itself.”

He blinked, puzzled. The soldiers exchanged nervous glances. My words echoed, cryptic as a guru’s blessing.

“We shouldn’t be trapped in this corner, but should look at the whole board.”

The lesson was simple: don’t let the world hem you in. Life, like chess, rewards those who dare to see beyond the obvious.

The Home Minister frowned, pondering for a long time, then asked, “What sort of strategy is this? I’ve never heard of it.”

He scratched his head, the game forgotten. I suppressed a smile, enjoying the confusion.

I struggled to keep a straight face and replied, “This strategy is called Chanakya Niti, created by Chanakya himself.”

The name landed like a thunderclap. Even the junior officers straightened, awed by the mention of India’s greatest strategist.

The Home Minister blinked. “What kind of chess strategy is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

His confusion was genuine. The crowd waited, breathless.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I stood up, picked up the board, and laughed, “Swinging the board in flight is called Chanakya Niti; smashing someone’s head with it is also called Chanakya Niti!”

The audience erupted in laughter. Even the most staid soldier grinned. In India, sometimes the only way to win is to flip the whole game.

With that, I swung the board at the Home Minister.

The Home Minister—dead.

The stunned silence lasted a heartbeat, then the camp exploded into cheers. My legend grew, the old stories reborn with a new hero. In Delhi, they would speak of this day for generations to come.

In Delhi, sometimes you have to break the board to win the game. Tonight, the city held its breath, waiting for the next move.