In the early morning, Thăng Long Citadel was still shrouded in mist, but its heart was already stirred by the sounds of hammers, pulleys, roaring elephants, neighing horses, and the urgent voices of people issuing commands. The citadel was unusually bustling this morning. Hundreds of Đại Việt soldiers and craftsmen, along with thousands of Champa slaves from the South—prisoners captured after last year's victorious Vijaya campaign under King Lý Thánh Tông—were gathered in the vast Dragon Courtyard before Thái Hòa Palace.
The Champa men, lean but strong slaves, stood bare and ready for the deadly game in which they were chosen as pawns. In the shadows of history, Human Chess had emerged not as a mere game but as a life-or-death battle, where the bodies of slaves became pieces on a chessboard.
From the highest level of the Báo Thiên Pagoda's bell tower, where the great bronze bell hung silently, Princess Chiêu Hoàng sat, deep in thought. She touched her chin as if stroking an imaginary beard, a gesture identical to her father's. Her legs dangled freely, swinging beyond the railing. Her wide, curious eyes gazed down at the expansive Dragon Courtyard before Thái Hòa Palace.
From the towering height of the pagoda's bell tower, considered the spiritual pillar of Thăng Long, she could clearly see the ironwood pillars being erected, the hurried crowds, and the naked forms of the Champa slaves being herded into position. The wind carried the scent of sweat, fresh wood, faint smoke from the tower's peak, and the metallic tang of impending bloodshed. A massive wooden grandstand was being constructed., ironwood, bulletwood, and goldheart wood, hauled in days earlier by the military camp's transport troops, were piled high in one corner. The citadel's finest carpenters, along with hundreds of slaves and dozens of laborers, were digging deep pits, planting pillars, tamping them down, securing beams, driving nails, and assembling a grandstand. The sound of hammers striking pillars echoed through the city like war drums. Crossbeams creaked as they were hoisted by thick ropes. Hundreds of man-sized pillars stood upright like a forest, forming the sturdy foundation for the grandstand encircling a Human Chess arena, marked with white lime lines stretched across the ground in front of Thái Hòa Palace. Preparations were underway for Human Chess, a royal game to be held for the first time under her father's reign.
This game, Human Chess, originated from traditional Chess, a noble game from ancient China. Chess, born centuries earlier, had reached Đại Việt during the Lý dynasty through Buddhist monks. It was not merely an intellectual pastime but a strategic duel of cunning and calculation, where pieces like the King, Minister, Knight, and Pawn mirrored battlefield generals. Every move required precision, as a single step could determine life or death.
However, Human Chess was a grotesque variation of traditional Chess, proposed by Grand Tutor cum Grand Marshal and Left Chancellor—Trần Thủ Độ. In Human Chess, captured Champa slaves were forced to embody the chess pieces. They ceased to be human, becoming mere pawns on a giant board. Unlike traditional Chess, where a captured piece was simply removed, in Human Chess, the loser was killed on the spot. Chiêu Hoàng rested her chin in her hand, lost in thought. The breeze swept over the mossy tiled roof, carrying the fresh scent of wood and the pungent, sweaty odor of soldiers, carpenters, and slaves. It formed a chaotic, sharp, indescribable, yet vibrant smell, like the very breath of life in the capital. In her heart, a tumult of emotions swirled. She felt a quiet pride in her father's grandeur, a king who not only expanded borders but turned war into art, victory into a display of power, and a noble game into a terror for enemies.
"This is a new game, an elevated version of traditional Chess," cum Grand Marshal and Left Chancellor Trần Thủ Độ had once told her father when proposing the celebration of the first anniversary of the great victory. After a traditional Chess match with the king ended, a model for a Human Chess game was immediately set up in Thái Hòa Palace one afternoon.
Trần Thủ Độ, born into the noble Trần clan of the Northeast coast, came from a line of ship captains, merchants, and generals. He entered the court young, recommended for his skill in archery on horseback and deep knowledge of Sun Tzu and Wu Qi's military strategies. When King Lý Thánh Tông ascended the throne, the court was chaotic with rivalries between the harem and external clans. Trần Thủ Độ was tasked with pacifying the interior and securing the borders.
He was the first in court to propose Human Chess, a form of strategic reenactment through gaming, demonstrating national dominance over enemies while reminding subjects and slaves: You are all pawns in the king's hands.
Her father often played Chess with Trần Thủ Độ in the afternoons, the two sitting face-to-face, silent as mountains. The small board held ivory pieces, inscribed with characters and painted by Grand Master cum Right Chancellor Lý Đạo Thành, who wrote delicate strokes on the pieces for their games. A wrong move could cost a Minister, an Elephant, a Chariot, or even the King. But the giant chessboard being marked and the grandstand being erected based on that afternoon's model had no ivory or ink. It would hold only flesh, blood, and screams of terror as death beckoned. To Chiêu Hoàng's young eyes, Human Chess was no longer a game. It was a stage of life, a microcosm where Champa slaves stepped into roles as pieces, and each move became their fate. Chiêu Hoàng still remembered that afternoon when Grand Master cum Right Chancellor Lý Đạo Thành, the erudite Confucian scholar who taught her the Analects, had opposed the Human Chess game. He was dismissed by her father for political reasons. The game was needed to intimidate Chế Củ, the defeated Champa king, who was captured and imprisoned in Thăng Long's dungeons.
Lý Đạo Thành had knelt, hands clasped at his chest, bowing low on the floor of Thái Hòa Palace. His grand court robe did not flutter as it did when he wrote elegant characters on ivory pieces, but his shadow stretched long beneath the dragon throne, carrying a storm of solemnity. King Lý Thánh Tông sat on his throne, holding a brush. His brow furrowed like a streak of charcoal ink. Before him, the model for the grandstand and Human Chess game spanned the length of Thái Hòa Palace. Each dot was a piece. Each piece was a person. Each person was a life. Before the model, Lý Đạo Thành knelt in submission.
"Grand Master," her father stood, not looking up, speaking absently as if naming a character in a book. "Do you oppose my organizing this game?"
Lý Đạo Thành did not answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the light filtering through the window.
"I dare not oppose," he said. "I only humbly submit that a game, however grand, should stop at making the enemy wary, not sowing fear."
"Enemies submit only when they fear," her father replied with a faint, chilling smile. "When the Champa see their people's blood spilled in the heart of Thăng Long, they may submit faster than to a thousand troops. I cannot be lenient forever.""I understand,"
Lý Đạo Thành nodded. "But fear does not come from spilled blood. Fear comes from intellect, from knowing one is defeated, not from watching a Human Chess piece slaughtered like a beast in the Dragon Courtyard."
The king's hand tightened slightly on the brush. A drop of ink fell onto the model, spreading like a drop of black blood.
"But enemies lack intellect, Grand Master. If they had it, they wouldn't invade our land time and again. They have only eyes. Their eyes will see that, in our capital, they are mere pawns in a spectacle for their conquerors. Their king, Chế Củ, sits in our dungeon, but his eyes still follow me. I want him to see: even as a southern king, he is but a small piece on my board."
Lý Đạo Thành bowed lower, his shoulders trembling slightly. "Your Majesty, that is why I fear. If this game wins, the Champa may submit. But if it sows seeds of hatred, a hundred years from now, Đại Việt's descendants will pay in blood for today's wounds."
The hall fell silent. Only the soft sound of a palace maid's broom sweeping the corridor echoed, light as the wind brushed away the dust of time. The king turned away. He raised his hand to stop Trần Thủ Độ, who was about to kneel, intended to speak. His voice was cold as ice.
"History does not remember the words of those who caution. It remembers only those who dare to wager and fight and then victory. You may teach me the Way of Tolerance, but I am the one writing the History."
Lý Đạo Thành did not reply. He remained kneeling, a stone pillar in the storm of politics. His eyes closed slightly. He knew he had lost this game. He did not know that the next game would fall into the hands of someone unexpected—a young princess sitting atop the Báo Thiên Pagoda's bell tower, watching blood about to spill under the guise of a game.