Pair Go
Because the account had been registered under my father's name, the British flag fluttered beside the username 'fbtjdk0216'.
Ninety-nine wins. Zero losses.
It was the result of weeks of playing like a madwoman, accepting only blitz challenges to spare my stamina. After my game against Lee Jiah, whose account was verified as a professional's, my skill had been proven, and pros from various countries began streaming in to challenge me — but fortune was kind, and I managed to knock them all down.
Of course, even so, going unbeaten through ninety-nine games couldn't possibly have been managed on my strength alone.
"Just one more game until a hundred."
Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan sat beside me in front of the monitor, smiling faintly. More than half of those hundred games had been played with this man, grinning away at my side.
We'd played without exchanging a single word, simply taking turns at the mouse in order to practice for Pair Go. Internet Go might not serve as a true measure of strength, but it had been proven beyond doubt that the collaboration between Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan and me was nothing to sneeze at.
"Ooh, a fairly strong player has just challenged us. Let's see… it's Jiho-san 8-dan."
A pro ranked in the top twenty.
"What do you think? Refuse and chase an easy undefeated 100-win record? Or accept, even if it gets a little dangerous, and fight for it the hard way?"
Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan asked me.
"Let's take the challenge. The record doesn't matter enough to turn down such a fine practice opponent."
"Understood. I'll play first."
Where I excelled at opening frameworks and solidifying territory, Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan was a master of combat. If our teamwork clicked, we could generate synergy on both the attack and the defense — but conversely, we could just as easily end up half-baked at both.
The arrangement we'd tentatively agreed upon was this: Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan would take the leading role, and I would read his intentions as best I could and play in support.
Since neither of us could speak our minds aloud, reading each other was difficult — so rather than forcing moves to avoid a wanchak, that lukewarm, passive play that is neither resignation nor resistance, we'd promised each other simply to play what we each believed was the best move.
Our opponent, holding Black, placed a stone, and Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan answered with White's first move. In the opening, he laid out the board aggressively. His means were fierce and proactive, yet there was no hint of haste or anxiety in them — only ease and an unshakeable confidence.
When Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan struck at the vital point of the enemy's march along the lower side, I reinforced the stones across the battlefield in preparation for the battles to come.
Seize the strategic strongpoints — the territory points — and position your forces there preemptively, and the opponent is handed two choices. Sacrifice to retake the territory points, or turn their gaze elsewhere instead of the lower side and try to recoup the loss elsewhere.
Our opponent chose the latter. A reasonable choice. Even conceding the lower side, White had invested so boldly there that, if only Black played well from here on, it couldn't be called a loss outright.
Riding the momentum, Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan kept burrowing into Black's sphere of influence. A general principle of Go says you must never invade too deeply into enemy territory — if you set out to whittle down their strength and get captured in return, the invasion meant nothing.
"Hm…."
But apparently I had clung to a rather conservative principle when it came to invasion. As if mocking the boundary line I'd drawn, Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan pushed right past it, needling our opponent with precise pokes and somehow digging out a path to life.
Reading his sequences just to keep up was exhausting in itself.
Once we had solidified the gains along the lower side and successfully smothered the formation of the opponent's sphere of influence, the outcome was beyond dispute. With the resignation sound effect chiming, our opponent threw in the towel.
The game room flooded with chat messages of admiration and groans of despair.
"Congratulations on your hundredth win. You've caused more of a stir than tlsckdah1021 ever did, I'd say."
Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan offered his congratulations. I flinched — I couldn't exactly tell him that tlsckdah1021 was me.
"Thank you, Master Yu. It's all thanks to you."
"Haha, not at all. I only lent a hand. Anyway, I have a schedule now, so I should head off. I'll see you at the tournament, Master Ryu."
"Yes! Take care!"
The real thing was almost upon us. I replayed the game we'd just finished as a team, stone by stone.
The day of the tournament.
The first stage of the main bracket, to narrow the field down to the quarterfinal teams. Invitation-accepted teams and the teams that had come through the qualifiers gathered together — some fifty in all — and the venue hummed with bustling noise.
Most of the pairings were male pro–female pro combinations, but there were also male pro–female amateur pairs, and here and there, teams made up of married couples or sweethearts.
"Seoa."
A languid voice, thick with weariness, called out to me. It was Lee Na-ye 9-dan — she of the connection running from the Haehe Cup all the way to our winning streak.
"Oh, hello, Naye-unni!"
I called her by the title she'd forced on me and gave a little bow. It would certainly feel strange if one of Korea's strongest female players, Lee Na-ye 9-dan, weren't on this stage.
"You're competing with Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan? That's just cheating…"
"Haha, well, I still have so much to learn… uuum…"
"There she goes with the false modesty again. Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan is one thing, but you're a broken character yourself, you know."
She pinched and pulled my cheek in admonishment.
"N-no, I'm not."
"Not, my foot. Haah. One spot in the quarterfinals is as good as yours already. I suppose I should pray you take one of the remaining slots, for the rest of our sake — with a decent draw, that is."
"Who are you competing with, unni?"
"Lee Han-lim 6-dan. We came out of the same dojo, so we go way back."
Lee Han-lim 6-dan, if I remembered right, was a player whose temperament closely resembled Lee Na-ye 9-dan's.
In Pair Go, where teamwork is everything, pairing with someone who shares your principles and philosophy makes for a formidable team indeed.
"I hope we meet as late as possible."
"Phew, that's my line. Anyway, Seoa! It was great seeing you — let's meet in the finals, please!"
"Yes! See you then, unni!"
After waving to Lee Na-ye 9-dan, I headed toward the water purifier to fill my tumbler before the game.
"Seoa!"
Someone else called me from behind. A familiar voice. When I turned my head, there stood an unexpected figure — my disciple, Lee Jiah. I hadn't heard a word about her competing.
"Jiah-unni! Don't tell me you're competing too?"
"Yup! When I heard you were entering with Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan, I secretly prepared so I could give you a surprise! And this is Choi Geon-ha, amateur 5-dan! My cousin — a dark horse sweeping every national tournament there is! You're the same age, so introduce yourselves."
"…"
The moment my eyes turned to him, I wanted to throw up.
Choi Geon-ha. A man bound to me by fate.
And no wonder — he had been Shin Changmo's final opponent.
The memory of him toying with me through that terrible slump was still vivid. The eyes of a sharp-glinting predator, despite his youth.
His figure overlaps with the man he would grow into. He seemed to still be young enough to compete only in regional tournaments, but soon he would turn pro and rise as a monster among the new generation.
He was Lee Jiah's cousin?
"Nice to meet you! Seoa, was it? Sounds like my cousin's been leaning on you quite a bit. I'm really looking forward to seeing how good you actually are."
Choi Geon-ha, sizing me up like a specimen and grinning a sly, crooked smile, held out his hand.
"Y-yeah. Sure."
I accepted his offered handshake, but my stomach churned.
"Seoa, are you okay? You look pale."
"Jiah-unni, I'm just going to run to the restroom!"
I turned my back on him and fled, as if running for my life.