The reigning world champion just lost his third straight game at the Grand Swiss in Samarkand. And the defeats aren’t coming from the names you’d expect — not Caruana, not Nakamura, not any of the top-ranked fixtures of elite chess. They’re coming from teenagers.

Mishra, 16, struck first. Then Nikolas Theodorou, calm and methodical, converted an endgame. And now Ediz Gurel — also 16 — finished the run, punishing Gukesh for drifting in a slightly better position until it collapsed. By the end, the champion sat motionless, head in hands, as the cameras clicked.

Still, this stretch will stick. For a champion barely settling into his reign, the image of three kids in a row handing him defeats is more damaging than any single mistake on the board. The youngest champion in history suddenly looks like the most fragile player in the room.

Which raises a question Magnus Carlsen answered by walking away. Carlsen didn’t leave the world championship scene to avoid defeat — he remains the best player alive. But by refusing to defend his crown, he preserved his aura. He stayed untouchable while others risked being picked apart. In hindsight, the decision looks almost strategic: better to be absent and mythic than present and bleeding.

That’s the cost of the crown in 2025. The Grand Swiss is a gauntlet of ambitious players who no longer see “world champion” as a reason to back down. Once you’re the titleholder, every opponent wants your scalp. And when three teenagers succeed in consecutive rounds, the crown looks less like protection and more like a target.

He’ll recover — great players do. But chess has become a narrative sport, and the narrative out of Samarkand isn’t who’s leading. It’s who’s losing, and how suddenly human the new champion looks doing it.