Pair Go
"Freaking lunatic of a girl..."
I spit out the curse at the frightened girl reflected in the bathroom mirror.
Young Choi Geonha. He and the me of my past life are bound by a bitter history, but so far he hasn't done a single thing to me.
More than that, blaming Choi Geonha for Shin Changmo's death was unfair and cowardly to begin with.
In the end, the one who threw her life away was me, and all Choi Geonha did was provide a very minor trigger.
Of course, he's the very man who kicked me down at my most desperate moment and shoved me off the cliff's edge, so it's hard to feel anything warm toward him — but that's my own private grievance, nothing more.
From Choi Geonha's perspective, I'm nothing but an unfamiliar little girl with some connection to his older cousin, and he knows absolutely nothing.
I should have kept my emotions in check.
I'd bolted out of there like I was running for my life, so he must have been flustered — and no doubt Lee Jiah too.
If I tried to rationalize my behavior, it came down to the sheer shock of the encounter — unexpected, early, and in a way I'd never imagined. If I'd merely spotted his name on this year's list of newly admitted professionals, it wouldn't have rattled me at all. His real surge onto the professional stage was still years away, after all.
But who could have guessed that as an amateur he'd team up with Lee Jiah and, as the tournament's one and only amateur-male-and-female-pro duo, battle his way through the preliminaries into the main bracket.
"Whew."
I take a light breath.
I don't want to be tossed around by old grudges.
I've already died once. I am one of the departed.
I dipped my toes, however briefly, into an abyss — into a void where nothing existed at all.
Negative emotions crashing over me like violent waves are something I can endure.
If I'd wanted to avoid painful memories, I never should have set foot on this road again in the first place.
A road I walked back down knowing full well it would wound me, torment me, and finally bring ruin.
So I must accept this swirling torrent of feeling for exactly what it is.
It's about time to go find Yu Jeonhun 9-dan.
I force a smile, but all I manage is the sinister leer of a cheap B-movie villain.
"Quite the opposite effect, then."
Left with no other choice, I lightly rinse my mouth with cold water and head back out to the tournament hall.
The first day of the main bracket, held in a space carved out of the exhibition hall entirely for the occasion. Refreshments and drinks prepared by the organizers line one corner, and not just the paired competitors but officials and staff drift freely about, trading conversation — it almost feels like an informal cocktail party.
Teams have come from China, Taiwan, Japan, and elsewhere, so foreign languages drift by now and then.
In my past life I competed in overseas tournaments, so I know the basics of Japanese and Chinese well enough.
Some of the Japanese and Chinese players, apparently assuming I can't possibly understand them, talk about me right in front of my face.
Whether they're badmouthing me or not, I don't much care, and I make my way toward the table with the drinks.
I reach for an iced coffee. But another hand gets there first, picks up the cup, and offers it to me.
"Found you, Master Ryu."
Yu Jeonhun 9-dan, immaculately dressed in a suit, looking positively solemn.
"Thank you. Good morning, Master Yu."
"Indeed. Did you rest well? You seem different today — some kind of shift in the air around you."
My expression must have darkened enough to notice at a glance.
"I had a rough night's sleep."
I fabricate a suitable excuse and let it be.
"Ah, that's a shame. There's still some time before the morning game, so sit down and rest a while."
With that, he gestures toward a spot in the corner.
We sit side by side, and silence follows. Master Yu, perhaps reluctant to disturb my rest, meditates quietly and doesn't speak.
The first day of the tournament runs on a somewhat punishing schedule — two games in the morning, one in the afternoon.
Yu Jeonhun 9-dan received an invited seed, so he and I go straight to the second round: Korea in the morning, Korea again in the afternoon — a relatively relaxed draw.
During tournament play, all discussion and exchange of opinions between partners is strictly forbidden, and with no main clock, each move must be placed within one minute.
The byo-yomi — the one-minute overtime allowance that lets you exceed that limit — is granted ten times per team.
Time more precious than gold, to be spent only at the most decisive moments.
"Shall we?"
Just as we're settling into our rest, the announcement rings out declaring the end of round one and the start of round two. Yu Jeonhun 9-dan and I take our assigned seats.
Our opponents are a Chinese 8-dan pair.
Cheng Huo 8-dan and Wang Fei 8-dan — a promising young male pro in his mid-twenties and a female pro in her early thirties.
A demanding matchup right out of the gate.
Apparently a couple, they take their seats before us with their arms linked affectionately.
The playing order runs: female (Black) — female (White) — male (Black) — male (White).
Given that female professionals are, on the whole, weaker than their male counterparts, White is judged the advantage — the male player answers his counterpart directly.
With Black, the comparatively weaker female player has to handle the opposing man's moves.
The nigiri.
Our opponents, taking White, make no effort to hide their delight.
Being underestimated is old hat to me.
Their reaction stirs no particular feeling in me at all.
What I want, simply, is to overcome the trauma of the past.
I can't predict how far Choi Geonha and Lee Jiah, or Master Yu and I, will climb in this tournament — but if it's possible, I'd like to face them head-on.
Partly as a teacher curious how much her student has grown, and partly because I want to gauge just how vast Choi Geonha's still-unbloomed potential really is.
The moment the sixty seconds set on the clock begin to tick away, I place my first stone. The 3-3 point on the right side of the upper right corner.
Wang Fei 8-dan answers — the star point in the upper left corner.
Yu Jeonhun 9-dan plays the low 3-3 point on the lower right side.
Our opponents respond with the 4-4 point facing us.
I extend two spaces to solidify the upper right corner, and they approach the lower right territory we've claimed.
Master Yu cedes the left side and extends along the bottom.
Our opponents then try to expand their sphere of influence along the right side, but I ignore it and invade the upper left corner at the 3-3 point immediately.
For a long time, the 3-3 invasion was sneered at in professional-level Go.
Master Yu likely harbored the same prejudice, but playing internet Go alongside me, he accepted it without bias, and we've been putting it to use together.
The optimal answer artificial intelligence offered against the 4-4 point was the 3-3 invasion — but how to follow up afterward to actually secure profit is still a question this era has yet to study in earnest.
Still, Master Yu has picked up a rough feel for it through our games together.
White, giving up the corner, aims to take the left side instead.
So this is where it truly begins. I steal a glance at Master Yu.
No human being possesses the power to read another's mind.
That, I suppose, is why language was invented.
But with that convenient tool now forbidden, the only means of conversation left to us is the Go stones themselves.
A little over sixty seconds. Short, and yet impossibly long.
Intentions, objectives, reasoning — enough content to fill a full page if written out on paper — all of it compressed into a single stone and sent across the board.
The reply arrives one move later, relayed through the opponent's play.
Another single stone, every bit as lucid and succinct.
I feel a smile spread, unbidden, across my lips.