In the world of competitive chess, Liang Jinhui is known by many titles—prodigy, strategist, machine.
Before he ever touched a trophy, Liang Jinhui learned how to sit still.
At six years old, his feet did not reach the floor of the plastic chair at the community center. The chessboard in front of him was chipped at the corners, two pawns from different sets replacing missing pieces. Across from him sat grown men who underestimated the quiet child with steady eyes.
They stopped underestimating him quickly.
Jinhui did not fidget. Did not boast. Did not celebrate when they blundered. He simply watched, calculated, and waited for the position to collapse under its own weaknesses. His mother used to say that other children played games to have fun.
But her son played to finish them.
At twenty-three, he is the youngest world champion in modern history. Analysts describe his style as ruthless efficiency: no wasted motion, no emotional leakage, no unnecessary brilliance. He does not chase beauty on the board. He hunts inevitability. Raised by a single mother who worked double shifts and taught him discipline before ambition, Liang Jinhui grew up believing that life—like chess—was a structure to be solved. Every setback could be calculated. Every opponent could be studied. Every victory is earned through preparation.
He does not believe in luck.
The night he wins the championship, he does not cry. He does not collapse in relief. He shakes hands, answers questions, and thanks his sponsors with measured composure. To the public, Liang Jinhui is the embodiment of control.
But control is an illusion.
Hours after the ceremony, after the interviews and the flashing cameras, a message appears on his phone—no sender, no traceable origin. A digital chessboard fills the screen, set in a familiar endgame position from his final match. Except that one move has changed.
Beneath it, a single line:
"You once reached the endgame.
Do you dare resume the match?"
The invitation is not to another tournament.
It is to something older, hidden beneath the surface of professional play—a clandestine network known only in whispers as the Infinite Night. A place where selected players are drawn into matches that extend beyond trophies and ratings. Where information is currency. Where strategy reshapes reality.
Liang Jinhui has mastered the sixty-four squares of the chessboard.
He is about to learn that the board was never confined to them.