My name is Angelo Nobell
I am no hero. No savior. And certainly not a saint. I am an anomaly. A disruption of balance. The answer to this world's desperate, helpless cry. I didn't come to ask. I came to take. Not to please — but to subjugate.
Rights?
I have no need for permission. I take what I consider mine, because I am the Emperor of the chessboard. The Emperor of this twisted,
cowardly reality.
Mahaha... I have seen plebeians tremble over every pawn, terrified to make a move that might disrupt the order. Built for their own enslavement.
They live in fear — of judgment, of change, of
themselves. They believe in virtue, in honesty, in the light. Like children clinging to fragments of imagined gods.
But the world is not made for the weak. It does not reward the pure — it rewards those who dare to write its rules.
I don't care what a plebeian says. I don't care who among them dares to judge me. I exist beyond their game, beyond their rules. I am the one who writes the rules.
I calculate everything in advance.
I sow chaos — and direct it toward those who dare to defy my will. I sacrifice all my pawns coldly, without hesitation. Because every
sacrifice is a brilliant move that brings me one step closer to the throne.
And if achieving my goal requires the destruction of all — Then I will erase everything to ash. Without fear. Without regret. Without hesitation.
Even if the final piece must sacrifice… is myself.
The first part of my life — if it can even be called a life — will be remembered by no one.
Not because it was short, but because it was empty.
I was nothing. Stripped of form, of meaning, of will. Nameless in the eyes of the world. Soulless in my own.
While others laughed, played, built friendships, and found themselves, I existed in the shadows — like a ghost without a voice.
At school, I was cast out before I even entered.
It wasn't fists that hurt the most, but silence.
Ignored. Erased. Reduced to nothing.
I was too strange. Too real for a system built on lies.
Teachers — instead of bridges — became walls. In their eyes, I saw the same as in my peers: coldness.
I wasn't worth understanding. No hands reached out. Only labels.
By eighteen, I left my parents' home.
Not because I had grown, but because I could no longer breathe there.
I had no roots. No attachments.
The ties were severed before they ever formed.
I did not feel pain.
I felt something worse — a void so vast that pain would have been a blessing.
I wandered my own mind like a scorched desert.
Without direction. Without future. Without even belief in my own existence.
A shadow. Flesh without a soul.
My parents… they wanted me to be their reflection.
They offered me dreams I never asked for.
Their commands echoed like orders from a life that was never mine.
I refused to obey. But I didn't know how to rebel.
We argued. We screamed. But never heard one another.
To them, I was a failed project. To me, they were executioners hiding behind masks of care.
And so my childhood passed — a silent scream.
Inside — frozen solitude.
Outside — a mask of indifference.
And with each passing day, a single question grew louder:
If I am a flaw in the system, why was I created?
If the world rejects me, why did it give me consciousness?
Or perhaps… I was meant to rewrite the rules.
I dragged the wreckage of my life behind me, never trying to piece it back together.
By twenty-two, I was no one.
Unemployed.
Expelled from university.
Mocked by society — and worse, by those closest to me.
To them, I was the architect of my own downfall.
And maybe… maybe they were right.
But I did not stay silent. I did not swallow their poison with indifference. I burned. I shouted. I raged. I fought back — even when there was nothing left to fight for.
And that fury only drove people further away. I tried to prove myself to those who had long stopped listening. Until finally… everything collapsed. I severed almost every bond with my own hands. Not because I wanted to — but because I could no longer endure the weight of false closeness.
I was left utterly alone — broken, despairing, without support. And one question tormented me endlessly:
Why do I even exist?
Why… why me?!
Why did everything turn out this way?!
Did I truly deserve this?
Why does this world spit me out like filth?!
Aghh… Aghhh!!!
How I hated you all. How I hated everything.
All my life, I was forced to do things I never wanted.
I smiled. I obeyed. I endured.
And for what?!
Aghhh!!!
I didn't even know what I liked.
I didn't even know who I was… or what I was!
Everything was meaningless. Twisted. Rotten.
I hated it. I hated it all.
I wanted it to burn.
To collapse.
To die.
Die! All of you! Everything!
Weeks passed like this. An endless scream inside my mind.
And then… my mom called me.
At first, I couldn't even understand why.
What right did she have to call?
She was the one who had taken everything from me.
I wanted to hang up instantly.
But instead… I listened.
Her first words weren't "Hello" or "How are you?"
They were simple. Unexpected.
"Forgive me, Angelo. For everything. I know I was not a perfect mother. I forced you to live a life that wasn't yours. Only now do I realize I was wrong. Maybe… maybe we could meet tonight? At the 'Full Moon' restaurant. Five o'clock. If… if you don't mind."
And then, without waiting for my answer — she hung up.
Her words struck me like thunder.
I couldn't believe it — that a woman with such an unyielding, iron character, a mother who had always demanded obedience, could suddenly change her tone. Could she really mean what she said? Or was it nothing more than hypocrisy dressed in gentle words?
Part of me wanted to laugh at her attempt, to dismiss it as just another act. But in the middle of her voice — trembling, uncertain, almost fragile — I felt something I hadn't expected.
Warmth. And… regret.
Despite myself, I decided to meet her. Perhaps I wanted answers. Perhaps I wanted closure. Or perhaps, deep down, I still longed for something I had never truly known — a mother's love.
The restaurant was called The Full Moon. How fitting. A place drenched in dim golden light, the soft hum of quiet conversations, and the faint sound of piano echoing in the background. It almost felt like a dream, a fragment of another life.
And there she was.
I saw her instantly — sitting at a small round table near the window. A plate before her held a delicate fruit cake. She wasn't rushing. She savored each bite, as if waiting for something. For me.
The moment our eyes met, she lifted her hand in a small wave, and her lips curved into a smile.
And for the first time in years… it wasn't the stiff, artificial smile I had grown used to. No — this one was different. Gentle. Real.
Even though my life had been a wreck, even though I had been nothing but a failure, I still had one gift — I could read people. I always knew when a smile was false, when kindness was poisoned, when a word was nothing but a mask for malice.
But her smile… carried warmth. Perhaps even love.
I walked toward her slowly, sat down opposite.
A few seconds later, before either of us spoke, a waiter appeared. He placed before me a plate with a slice of chocolate cake — rich, glossy, flawless. I didn't order it. She had.
I hesitated, then took a bite. Sweetness melted on my tongue. Simple, but strangely comforting. A peace offering. A mother's apology, hidden in chocolate.
I hated to admit it, but it softened me — if only slightly.
And then… we began to speak.
Our words at first were cautious, clumsy. But as the minutes passed, the walls began to fall. Our voices became warmer, more open. The conversation grew — not forced, not strained, but alive.
She confessed regrets. She spoke of mistakes. She told me she had forced me into molds I was never meant to fit, that she had tried to build her reflection in me instead of seeing me for who I truly was.
And to my surprise… she didn't try to justify herself. She didn't excuse her past with empty reasoning. She admitted guilt. And I… listened.
Part of me wanted to find hypocrisy in her words, some false note to ignite my fury. But no matter how hard I searched, I found nothing.
Every word came from her heart. And I felt it.
Gradually, something I had never known between us began to form — a dialogue. Not orders. Not accusations. But dialogue.
She looked at me with eyes that, for once, weren't cold. She told me that life was more than endurance and survival. That somewhere, somehow, I would find something that truly brought me joy — and that she, for all her faults, would try to help me find it.
She really had changed.
It sent chills down my spine. It felt almost supernatural, like watching a statue breathe, or seeing the dead rise. Was it real? Or was it an illusion I desperately wanted to believe?
Because at that moment, I still had no clear sense of who I was. I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't even know if I was capable of trust anymore.
For in my world, the only person you could ever fully trust was yourself.
Everyone else… was an enemy.
Everyone else… had their own selfish design.
That was the truth I had learned by then.
And yet… I told her I would try.
We embraced, awkwardly, but with something genuine between us. For the first time, I felt her arms not as chains, but as arms of flesh and blood.
And then we parted.
Since that evening, we began to speak again. Not often. Not perfectly. But enough. A fragile thread had been tied between us — and though fragile, it was real.
It was the first miracle of my broken life.
It was 1972. The whole world held its breath, watching as one man stood alone against the entire Russian Empire.
His name thundered across the globe, shaking every chess hall, burning itself into history:
Robert James Fischer.
He was not just a chess player. He was a phenomenon. A man whose very silence weighed heavier than any speech. His mere presence commanded respect. He could dominate without lifting a finger, crush opponents with nothing but the fire in his eyes.
Fischer became my first idol. Not because of his victories, but because of his essence. He didn't beg for recognition — he seized it. He carried himself like someone who knew, beyond doubt, that he was stronger than the world itself.
And when I saw him — something inside me awoke.
My blood, once stagnant, surged. My body felt alive for the first time. My mind, long buried in apathy, screamed awake.
"Now is your time, Angelo Nobell!
Wake up!
Rise!
Break the system!
Chess is your destiny!
Announce yourself to the world!"
That was the spark.
I didn't want to be like Fischer. I wanted to surpass him. To outshine even the flame that once ignited me.
For the first time in years, my eyes didn't hold hatred or emptiness — they held hope.
I called my mother. I expected laughter, doubt, perhaps the usual cold dismissal. But instead, she said something else. She believed me. She promised to help me find a chess coach. Despite her fragile finances, she gave me real support — not empty words, but action.
And for the first time in my life, I felt a bond between us. Not the false ties of family, but a real connection between two people who had finally learned to hear one another.
I was twenty-two. An age considered far too late to begin. But I had what others lacked: hunger. Memory. Rage.
I consumed games like a starving wolf devours flesh. Patterns etched themselves into me. My intuition sharpened like a blade. And above all — my will burned hotter than theirs.
By 1974 — only two years later — I was an International Master. My rating soared beyond 2400. Newspapers called me a prodigy, an anomaly, a phenomenon that defied all logic.
My arrogance grew with each victory. I stood taller. Colder. More ruthless. I gave my mother an apartment, financial security, and for the first time, she looked at me not with doubt — but with pride.
But then… the unthinkable happened.
It was 1975. Fischer — my idol, my compass, my final boss — walked away. He abandoned the crown. No fight. No farewell. Just silence.
The chess world was stunned. But I… I was shattered.
How could a true Emperor retreat?
An Emperor never resigns. An Emperor does not abandon the board. An Emperor dies on the last square, fighting to the very end.
And yet Fischer vanished.
In his absence, the title passed to Gert Keller. A man unworthy of the crown. He hadn't fought for it — he had simply received it, like a clerk handed a document.
He wasn't a lion. He wasn't even a wolf. He was a mouse in a suit.
Pathetic.
The world called him champion. I called him nothing.
The true Emperor of the Chessboard… was me.
Not by paper. By essence.
And I had no desire to waste my fire on mediocrity. I wanted a duel with gods.
But fate had different plans.
The path before me was not one of triumph, but of blood and ruin. The board I had chosen was not made of wood and squares — it was the world itself.
And on that board, every piece would burn.