Kael let out a sigh.

  No complaint. No frustration.

  Not even a trace of wounded pride.

  Defeat no longer struck him the way it once did.

  The man broke the silence in an even voice:

  “You improve with every game.

  You are impressive.”

  Kael offered a faint smile, without irony.

  “I don’t think I made any obvious mistake this time.”

  He looked down at the chessboard, thoughtful.

  “It wasn’t a blunder that cost me the game.

  It was… something else.”

  He paused, then added more calmly:

  “It’s simply experience that I lack.”

  He leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting.

  “And I think that’s true for everything else as well.

  The trials. The decisions. The pain.”

  He thought back to all those days spent in survival training. Days of wandering. Days of suffering caused by his inexperience. That night beneath the stars.

  He lowered his eyes to his hands, resting on his knees.

  “But that wasn’t weakness…

  It was just the absence of experience.”

  He remembered Velara’s training. His clumsiness.

  He raised his head, meeting the man’s gaze.

  “You said that suffering is existence.

  I understand that now.”

  “Because it’s in that lack—in those defeats—that I truly began to see myself.”

  He drew a deep breath.

  “Just like in chess… you learn less by winning than by losing.”

  “And what I am… may begin there—

  in what I wasn’t able to do.”

  The man didn’t say a word.

  He studied Kael for a long moment, intently. Then, with unmistakable respect:

  “You are someone of remarkable insight.”

  He leaned forward, picked up a book from the stack resting on the table, and held it out to him.

  Kael took it delicately. He knew those books were no ordinary volumes.

  They contained something else.

  He studied the black cover in silence. Then:

  “Cogito ergo sum.

  This is the book you wanted me to read.

  And the one we were just talking about.”

  “Study it when you have the time,” the man replied simply.

  Then he began resetting the pieces on the chessboard, methodically.

  Their gazes met. No words were needed.

  Another game was already taking shape.

  Kael flipped quickly through the book, then closed it with care. He placed it respectfully beside him on the couch.

  Once the board was set, the man raised his head.

  “To answer the question you asked earlier…”

  He seemed to think for a moment, his eyes drifting, then said:

  “You may call me Mr. Dubium.”

  Kael straightened slightly, adjusted himself on the couch.

  Ready to play. Ready to understand more.

  “And… how do you know that I’m trapped in the same day, Mr. Dubium?” he asked.

  Then, without waiting any longer, he advanced his first pawn—

  a cautious, composed opening, almost ceremonial.

  Mr. Dubium replied:

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Do you remember our conversation about causes?”

  He slid his piece forward without hesitation—a fluid, direct movement, like an idea that no longer needs justification.

  Kael frowned. He’s not going to answer directly, he thought.

  He studied the board, reflected, then said:

  “Yes. I remember it very well.”

  He observed the position, then played a modest, restrained move, keeping his options open.

  “We established,” the man continued, “that causes and consequences do not form a straight line.

  But a circle.

  An ouroboros, if you prefer.”

  He moved his knight along a sharp diagonal—an advance that threatened, but did not yet strike. A warning.

  “An ouroboros?” Kael repeated, confused, as he moved his piece slowly.

  “The image of a serpent biting its own tail,” the man explained.

  It’s an interesting word, Kael thought. Ouroboros…

  The man continued, unperturbed:

  “If one man steals from another… it is legitimate for the one who was robbed to feel anger.

  And to develop an aversion toward thieves in general.”

  Kael nodded slowly.

  Dubium played a piece, folding back a line of defense—a controlled gesture, without aggression, yet heavy with meaning.

  “Now tell me…

  Which is the cause, and which is the consequence?”

  Kael remained thoughtful for a few seconds.

  He studied the chessboard, then advanced his piece—a move as precise as Dubium’s own.

  Nothing spectacular, but perfectly balanced. A silent answer.

  He reflected for another moment, eyes unfocused, then said:

  “Both… are causes.”

  He paused briefly.

  Dubium used that silence to move.

  He placed a piece with precision, and the board seemed to vibrate. A line opened. A new tension emerged.

  Kael understood that the equilibrium had just been put to the test.

  Dubium went on:

  “And both… are also consequences.”

  Kael did not allow himself to be unsettled.

  He took his time, adjusted his strategy, then played a clean move—a displacement that answered the threat perfectly.

  A controlled counter.

  Dubium froze. A piece in hand, suspended between two squares.

  Then, in what resembled a discreet smile—a fleeting glint at the corner of his lips—he said:

  “You are absolutely right.”

  He straightened slightly, still fully focused.

  “If the man who develops an aversion toward thieves eventually joins a militia…

  Or decides to fight alone, on principle…

  And one day, he catches a man he believes to be a thief…”

  He played his piece, tightening the vise around Kael.

  “But what if that thief… was stealing only to feed his family?”

  Kael nodded slowly, then played in turn. A thoughtful, fluid move.

  “What would happen… once he’s imprisoned?” he asked.

  Dubium fixed him with a satisfied gaze.

  “His family… would no longer have anything to eat,” he replied.

  He advanced a piece calmly, increasing the pressure on Kael even further.

  “It then becomes highly likely that a member of that family…

  will in turn develop an aversion.

  No longer toward thieves—but toward the militia.

  Or toward any form of power.”

  Kael played again. His piece slid into the mechanics of the game like a key into a lock.

  “More than likely, I’d say.”

  Dubium inclined his head slightly, then continued, advancing a piece with deliberate slowness:

  “All of this… would trigger an ouroboros of causes and consequences.

  A cycle of hatred.

  Without end.”

  He set the piece down. The soft sound of wood against the chessboard echoed like a full stop…

  or the beginning of another turn.

  Dubium resumed, his tone heavier:

  “So then… how does one break the cycle?

  This circle of causes and consequences?”

  Kael held a piece between his fingers, slowly turning it, eyes lost in the board.

  He hesitated, then said:

  “I’d say… by banishing all forms of hatred.”

  He stopped himself immediately. A crease of doubt crossed his brow.

  “No… not only that.”

  He lifted his head slightly, his thoughts rearranging themselves.

  “One must… understand a cause.

  In order to judge its consequences.”

  He placed his piece with confidence.

  A brilliant, unexpected move—one that destabilized an entire line of play.

  “Exactly,” Dubium replied, impressed.

  He played in turn, almost instinctively—a precise counter, without hesitation.

  “A consequence can only be judged…

  if one knows the cause that produced it.

  And above all… if one understands it.”

  Kael, focused, did not look up.

  He played a perfect move—almost surgical.

  Dubium smiled faintly, but this time, the words ceased.

  The game took over entirely.

  Their movements followed one another.

  Silent. Rapid. Precise.

  A dull tension vibrated between every piece moved.

  The pace quickened, carried by feverish concentration.

  Several dozen minutes passed.

  Then—

  “Checkmate,” Dubium announced.

  Kael straightened slightly, his gaze frozen on the board.

  “This time… I was so close,” he breathed, disappointed.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Dubium replied calmly.

  He slowly picked up a piece that had fallen to the side.

  “Your play is excellent. Few people play this well… with so little experience.”

  Kael remained silent for a moment.

  Then, his eyes still fixed on the chessboard, he asked:

  “So… how do you break the ouroboros?”

  Dubium did not answer immediately.

  He had already begun resetting the pieces.

  Each gesture was precise—almost ritualistic.

  The next game was taking shape…

  as if it had always been inevitable.

  When he placed the final piece, he slowly lifted his head.

  And replied, in a neutral tone heavy with meaning:

  “That is where… the Velasquez Limit comes into play.”