Chapter 8
The First Vertigo

Time now seemed to flow with an insidious slowness, like honey stiffened by the cold. The pieces on the board, once so familiar to Takeshi, took on strangely shifting outlines under his exhausted gaze. His mind, despite the fatigue seeping into his thoughts, went on calculating, anticipating, weaving ever more complex strategies.

Victory was taking shape in the meanders of the game, a promise as tangible as it was elusive. Some fifteen moves still separated him from checkmate, a distance that should have seemed trifling to a champion of his calibre. Yet each move now demanded an effort that seemed to draw on reserves of energy he had not suspected he possessed.

His fingers, trembling slightly, handled the pieces with stubborn precision, as if the perfection of the gesture could make up for the fog gradually invading his mind. The contrast between the clarity of his strategic vision and the growing darkness that threatened his consciousness created a troubling dissonance.

The light in the carriage seemed to have changed, taking on a more diffuse, more unreal tint. Or perhaps it was his perception that was changing. The ōgiban before him wavered between crystalline sharpness and a disturbing blur, as if reality itself refused to settle into a definite form.