Arvidsson opened with . Victor didn’t blink. 1… Nf6. 2. c4 g6. 3. Nc3 Bg7. 4. e4 d6.
The hall grew quiet. Spectators drifted toward Board 4, expecting the usual marathon of the Mar del Plata variation. They expected a theoretical knife fight that had been mapped out to move thirty by supercomputers.
The fluorescent lights of the Reykjavik Open buzzed like a hornet’s nest, but inside Victor’s mind, there was only the rhythmic ticking of the DGT clock. Across from him sat Grandmaster Arvidsson—a man whose preparation was as rigid and cold as a Swedish winter.
Victor finally smiled, packing his pen. "The best stories never are."
"The King’s Indian is a religion," Victor’s mentor had once told him. "But even religions have cults that meet in the basement."
On move five, instead of the standard castle, Victor played .