The Winning Streak
"Meow."
I wave my fingers in front of the kitten, flexing them one by one.
A young Siamese that Mother brought into the house for Father, who now spends most of his days alone at home since being let go from work. How is it that such a tiny creature can be this adorable?
"Oh…."
The little cat seems to have decent social skills; it rubs its body against my hand. But its interest soon fades, and it toddles off, drifting away from me on wobbly legs.
"Seoa, were you playing with Aine?"
Mother asks as she ruffles my hair. Aine is the cat's name — apparently the goddess of love and summer from Celtic mythology.
"Yes. She's really so cute!"
"Well, I think our Seoa is cuter."
"Mmph…."
Mother nuzzles my cheek and wraps me in a hug. My sexual orientation still points firmly toward women, so every one of these moments of contact leaves me quietly flustered.
"Come now, let's eat. Our 'national champion.'"
Mother insists on calling me the guksu — the national title holder. The Women's Guksu Tournament had its closing ceremony just last week. From the quarterfinals all the way through the best-of-three final, I won every single match by resignation.
Knowledge from an era these people had never touched, and experience accumulated over an entire professional career — I was, in truth, only half a women's player at all, hardly a woman's peer. A victory seized under unequal conditions. Because it wasn't something earned on fair terms, it wasn't an achievement I could feel proud of, no matter the prestige of the title.
After a brief rest, the Janggwanjang Cup winning-streak tournament resumes today. If the last remaining Korean player loses, the match will move on to the world's elite women's players. It will be a test — a second verification of whether I'm ready to step onto a bigger stage.
A final warm-up. If I'm prepared to shoulder greater weight, I need to throw myself onto that larger stage without delay. Hesitate to challenge, and I'll only stagnate.
"Nyaa…."
But there's no match on today's schedule, and even my participation in the streak tournament isn't guaranteed. After all, Lee Hyena, the last woman standing, could close out the entire event on a perfect run, couldn't she?
I scoop up the tiny cat — mewing adorably, patting at my feet with its little paws — and hug it tight. My time is stretched thin enough just tracking down the game records of every potential opponent, but a small indulgence should be fine.
I carry the darling little thing out to the living room and roll around with her on the bed for a while before sitting down to eat.
Fujisawa Natsuyo, 9-dan — holder of two of Japan's three great titles, the Women's Kisei and the Women's Judan. A seasoned veteran of thirty-four and the pride of Japanese women's Go, her form climbing steadily of late.
She had felled China's fearsome Lin Feng, 9-dan, who came in on a five-game winning streak, then crushed Korea's joker, Lee Hyena 6-dan, making it two straight wins. A crisp start to the second stage of the streak tournament. Two Japanese players and three Chinese players remain — if the momentum held, this could yet become an evenly matched fight.
Her opponent on the third day was Korea's final runner: Ryu Seoa, 2-dan.
The monster rookie who had claimed the Women's Guksu title at the most recent tournament, and who had taken the White River Cup in her very first professional event — her first appearance at a world women's tournament, no less. A Welsh-Korean whose overwhelming strength made even Hozumi Asana, the celebrated genius of the century, look diminished.
That the buzz surrounded her looks as much as her skill was a tragedy — both for the Nihon Ki-in and for Hozumi Asana personally. Word was that even in Japan, more people were rooting for Ryu Seoa than for Asana herself. Korea and China didn't even bear mentioning.
The second stage, third match, unfolding in the conference room of a brand-new luxury hotel in Seoul. The Korean reporters, apparently unwilling yet to abandon hope, are waging an impassioned contest for coverage.
A young girl, cradling a tiny cat, flanked by her parents. Lovely enough to have stepped straight out of a fairy tale.
It's easy to be disarmed by the girl's appearance, but Ryu Seoa is something closer to a meteor fallen into women's Go. Every opponent caught in her path has been shattered.
Fujisawa Natsuyo, 9-dan. Japan's strongest woman player. If she herself were caught in the meteor's blast, there would be no Japanese woman left standing who could withstand Ryu Seoa.
One hour each. Byo-yomi of three 40-second periods. A fast game. If she leaned on her cunning and experience, she had a chance.
She runs through her opening strategy one last time, steadies her resolve — and the girl takes the seat across from her.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
Fujisawa Natsuyo waves at the girl with the halting Korean greeting she'd managed to pick up.
"@#**@&!"
The girl answers in Korean. Natsuyo can't understand a word of it, but the girl's bright smile leaves her feeling warm all the same.
She nods and gathers up a fistful of white stones. Ryu Seoa sets down a single black stone to indicate her color. Fourteen white stones in Natsuyo's hand — an even number. Fujisawa Natsuyo takes Black.
With Black, I always win.
Fujisawa Natsuyo is currently riding a twenty-game winning streak holding Black. It feels good.
The game begins.
Black stones have a lower luster, making them look smaller — which is why they're manufactured just slightly larger than the white. And that, in turn, is why the feel of a black stone against the fingers is subtly different. Fujisawa Natsuyo has always preferred the touch of the black stones.
With Black in hand, her mind settles.
The opening flows along familiar joseki. Like so many women professionals, Fujisawa Natsuyo favors a combative style, and a skirmish breaks out along the upper side. She drives in with her characteristically sharp attacks, prying at Ryu Seoa 2-dan's sore spots. Locally, an overwhelming victory.
But the aftertaste is bad. She cut deep, yet landed no killing blow.
She presses the offensive, riding her momentum — but Ryu Seoa 2-dan declines to counter aggressively, simply folding her front line back. The deeper Natsuyo pushes, the more it feels like wading into a quagmire. The fierce momentum of her charge into enemy territory stalled long ago. She tries to regroup, but there's no retreating now.
Front lines have formed on every side. Reading the position is hard. Priorities collide — how much force to commit where, she cannot say with any clarity.
Ryu Seoa counterattacks. From every front, she aims only at the weak points Natsuyo failed to reinforce in time. And yet her methods are passive rather than aggressive: she takes slightly less profit than she could, then withdraws.
But because of it, Ryu Seoa's lines never collapse — and even as she keeps attacking, her destructive power never wanes. She shows no gaps, leaving no opening to seize back the initiative.
Systematic. Thorough. Abandoning unnecessary fronts without hesitation, replenishing personnel and material exactly where they're needed as she presses in — that is Ryu Seoa 2-dan. Natsuyo knows that facing her head-on means certain defeat, and yet she cannot refuse the fights.
Because she senses, instinctively, that this girl is too seasoned, too strong — that without taking aggressive measures, there is no winning at all.
A few clumsy cuts. Fujisawa Natsuyo's black groups are swatted aside, hopelessly.
For a loser stripped completely of her weapons, the only virtue left is the grace to accept the result. Fujisawa Natsuyo lays her stones down.