The Empty Jar
The rise of artificial intelligence stripped away the veil of mystery that had shrouded Go. The ambiguity and subjectivity the game had always carried were diluted away, and the prevailing conviction became that Go was, in the end, nothing more than a war of probabilities.
Go was no longer art. Every original move produced by a professional player was no longer judged by its vigor or its impression, but sorted by the AI's win-rate evaluation into a 'good move' that raised the percentage — or a 'bad move' that lowered it.
Professionals who harbored a fundamental doubt about the game grew more and more numerous, and I was no exception.
Truthfully, even now, the skepticism that has taken root in my heart has never been fully shaken loose.
And yet I have already run too far to simply stop, hollowed out by nihilism and doubt.
I could stop at any moment. No one would chide me for it. The only one who holds the whip is myself.
A journey that rejects mediocrity and chases greatness and excellence instead.
I kept doubting. Kept denying. Believing that the only true proposition was that I was always wrong, I pared 'Shin Changmo' away little by little.
'Ryu Seoa's' Go may well be an empty jar.
And yet why does it feel full rather than hollow?
Perhaps it is the freedom of it — that anything new can be poured in, and that whatever it holds can be emptied out again at will.
At the very least, I will never again be like 'Shin Changmo,' forcing the jar to overflowing until it shattered in my hands.
The Yangjangchi Cup, round of 24.
My first appearance in the open division of a major international tournament. I am probably being rated as the weakest player in the field.
Not only by the media — by the other competitors too, no doubt.
I feel no urge to prove anything to them. In my past life I experienced firsthand how easily cheers turn into jeers. The more fervent the applause, the more vicious the sneers and contempt it may one day return as.
I simply want to verify whether I am moving in the right direction.
I exchange a brief, courteous bow with my opponent, Qian 7-dan.
MVP of the Chinese Jia League, was it? A league of such caliber that it gave even Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan — hired as a mercenary for a regional team — genuine trouble in the early game. An opponent without equal for checking my bearings.
I twist up the hair I left untrimmed all winter, falling to the small of my back, and bind it high.
The nigiri has given me black.
My preparation is not perfect, but it is sufficient. Better a little lacking than overflowing.
I feel the cool weight of the stones as I deliberate over my first move.
The impatient one is always the weaker side. The strong have no reason to hurry — time is on their side, and all they need do is endure and keep their composure.
Which is why Qian 7-dan could not understand the restlessness rising in him now.
He was being led about completely by the nose. Not even a hundred moves in, and the gap had already opened into a chasm.
A one-sided game against a girl whose only titles were women's titles, playing her first major international open tournament? It defied belief.
His throat burned. As though a cord had cinched tight around his neck, every breath felt stifled.
He felt like a dog on a leash.
No — worse than that. At least a leashed dog can cower, or bite back.
Yes. Like a condemned man on the eve of his execution. He knows full well he is being dragged to the gallows, yet the cold pressure at his nape leaves him no choice but to keep walking.
There is nothing to do but march down a straight line that ends, unmistakably, in ruin. Stop, and he dies. Turn his head, and he dies.
He had prepared for this match in earnest only after studying Ryu Seoa 2-dan's game records. Her skill had seemed inferior to his, yes — but respectable enough to merit respect.
Even that had been an illusion.
She was someone else entirely. A being of a different order altogether.
Either she had hidden her strength, or she had grown in the intervening months. No achievement possible in a mere handful of months — so almost certainly the former.
And worse, her style of play was chillingly, unspeakably vicious.
She abandons stones without mercy. Without pity or anguish, she slices away her own flesh without a flicker of hesitation.
She is a commander who, if the need arises, drives her soldiers into death without a moment's pause.
Knowing full well a pit bristles with traps, she shoves her infantry into it anyway — to clear the way for a cavalry charge.
She lets her own men be impaled on the long pikes, if that is what it takes to render the pikes useless.
This is not command as common sense understands it. She violates what is held inviolable as if it were nothing, and realizes what is held impossible with disturbing ease.
He has been struck in the vitals again and again, and still he cannot predict her next movement.
And the most unforgivable part of it all: she works with dead stones more aggressively than any player he has ever known.
In Go, even stones that have died leave their corpses on the board until they are captured.
Her soldiers are never freed from her — not even in death.
The girl hauls their corpses upright and bends them to her will... until nothing remains but bare bone, she makes them clutch at the enemy's ankles with a weapon — or, if there is no weapon left, with their bare hands.
A vicious girl who keeps them in service even when they are crushed, their flesh stripped away, their bodies bleached white.
Only when they are smashed entirely to dust are they finally released.
For the soldiers under her command, it must be an unspeakable horror — but her sovereign, surely, is well pleased.
Because in the end, the only thing that matters is victory.
"Ugh…"
When you walk with a blade pressed to your throat, eyes fixed on nothing, mile after mile, a certain feeling begins to creep over you.
The road ends here.
The girl brings him to his knees — and then, without ceremony, swings a keen-edged blade down at the back of his neck.