A Wagered Game
A betting game.
Nickname: tlsckdah1021.
Twenty-nine games. Twenty-nine wins.
Apparently the account had appeared out of nowhere on the online Go servers and was now the talk of the community, racing through one opponent after another without a single loss. Every time I logged into the game room, whispers would flood in until I had no choice but to block them all. And with this match, tlsckdah1021's record would stand at thirty games, thirty wins.
"Haah."
I let out a light breath and set the mouse down. It didn't mean much. The username, cobbled together from my name and birthday as if to prove how bankrupt my creativity was, had just notched a thirty-game win streak — and all that proved was that I'd recovered Shin Changmo's old skill to a certain level.
The professional world was a realm permitted to barely two hundred or so Go players in the entire country, and at its very summit stood the professional 9-dan, the rank spoken of as Ipshin — the state of entering the divine. Even granting that I had run aground in that world, there was no way a player like that could lose disgracefully in some corner of the internet. The thirty who had fallen to me were, at minimum, academy trainees or low-dan professionals.
To the opponents who interrogated me with barely concealed resentment, I simply typed a polite "You played well," and closed the game window without a trace of regret. I only hoped the game I'd just played might become a stepping stone for their growth.
Unless I resolved to play exactly as I had in my past life, there was no reason for Shin Changmo's Go to ever see the light of day — and for that same reason, there was no meaning or obligation in answering the questions swirling around tlsckdah1021. Now that I was starting Go anew, the Go I had played in my past life was an obstacle to overcome, not a destination.
The Go of my past self — of Shin Changmo — was, to put it kindly, classical and solid; to put it bluntly, hidebound and formulaic.
Unlike chess and other games, Go had long been considered humanity's last bastion — until artificial intelligence conquered it, and much changed overnight. The players who had once sneered at and dismissed the machine's incomprehensible moves promptly reversed course, began worshipping AI, and set about imitating it. In the end, as with everything else in this world, the strongest was right, and whatever he did became truth.
The result: some of the old established josekis were reevaluated while others were consigned to oblivion, and Shin Changmo plummeted. The dense, spiderweb-fine network of connections he had spent his life weaving came apart at the seams, and his Go degraded from "knowing exactly how to play, yet being unable to win" to "utterly predictable Go."
It was obvious that walking Shin Changmo's road again would only smash me against the same wall and leave me stranded all over again.
And so I — Ryu Seoa — would play a different Go from Shin Changmo's.
I wasn't asking for anything grand. I was one imperfect human being, and I had no arrogance about playing some complete and perfect Go. Just one step further than Shin Changmo. If I could take even a single step further, that would be enough. Wanting to leave a meaningful footprint in the thousands of years of Go's history — that could hardly be my wish alone.
I shut down the computer and sat before the Go board Grandfather had bought specially for me.
My opponent: myself. Black was "Ryu Seoa." White was "Shin Changmo."
Splitting one player's Go into two distinct methods of playing was, naturally, no easy task. Breaking free of habit, inertia, and familiarity would demand grim resolve and relentless effort.
I placed Black's first move, then shifted around to the other side of the board and picked up the white stones. It was inefficient and cumbersome, but without at least this much, I knew I'd never play with a different mindset or a different eye. When I held White, I placed my stones conservatively; when I took up Black, I ventured out aggressively. Two different styles of Go — but both bound by the same principle: find the best move available.
Spending two, three times the usual time, I played Black, switched seats, and took up White — and Black's play was neither sharp nor fresh. It had the unmistakable air of something forcibly wrung out by an obsession with novelty alone. Before long, White's superiority became obvious, and I swept the board clean.
Black had stacked up rock-solid shapes and tried to provoke an all-out brawl, but White dodged every engagement to an almost suffocating degree, secured territory, then rescued the drifting group in the center without serious damage and settled the game.
"Good."
I hadn't expected things to go smoothly from the start. I steadied my heart and picked up the black stones once more.
For the past several days, my routine had settled into a rhythm: mornings and evenings at Grandfather's house, playing alone or on the internet; afternoons at the Go parlor, where I showed up like clockwork to play.
Retired or not, Grandfather still had his own days and his own life. Leaving me alone at the house while he went out would only worry him — but if I was at the parlor under the eyes of people he knew, he could go about his business with an easy mind.
Thanks to the director's consideration, there was no cost involved, which was a blessing in itself. The men I played against would even treat me to snacks or lunch after our games. With every won I could scrape together needing to go toward Father's treatment bills, this was something to be deeply grateful for. One day, I would repay this debt in full.
Beyond the financial relief, playing against the regulars at the parlor had helped my game enormously. Compared to professionals they blundered far more often, and their Go lacked consistency and system — but that never meant they couldn't play good moves. There is genuinely something to learn even from weaker players. The reason one ideally studies under a superior is that a student who cannot distinguish good moves from bad risks absorbing bad habits instead — but with my level of discernment, that danger didn't apply to me. Besides, unless I was going to enter some professional's tutelage or make academy trainee, this place was, within the range of what I could access, where the highest-quality Go was being played.
"Aaah, I lost. Even three stones won't cut it anymore, eh?"
The self-employed uncle who ran a fried chicken place somewhere in the neighborhood began clearing the stones.
"You played very well."
This was the man I'd once given two stones to and only barely edged out. My strength was climbing, steadily and surely.
"Aigoo, look at the time already. Seoa, I've got to run!"
Glancing at his wristwatch, he hastily gathered his things and hurried off.
"Miss Seoa."
Someone called out to me as I cleared the board for game review, tracing the moves back from the very first stone.
"Oh — hello."
It was Chairman Jung Woon-il, the opponent I'd once beaten only after giving him a two-stone handicap. He must have been swamped with work, because I hadn't seen him once since that day.
"Could you spare me a little of your time?"
He seemed to have something on his mind. When I nodded, he steered me out toward the corridor outside the parlor.
"Here, now — this."
The moment we stepped out, he handed me a flyer for a tournament. The WY Cup National Women's Amateur Go Tournament — a major event with a championship prize of six million won out of a total purse of ten million.
"It's a tournament my company sponsors. They allot seven seeds straight into the main bracket, and one of those goes to the sponsor. The event is coming up and I still hadn't decided who to give it to — and then it struck me: you, Miss Seoa."
If seven seeded players bypassed the preliminaries entirely, the remaining slots would be filled from the top of the amateur rankings or the trainee rankings. An unknown with no tournament record whatsoever marching straight into the main bracket — there would surely be talk, and none of it favorable.
"...Are you certain it should be me?"
I'd been planning to look into tournament qualifiers myself once my strength stabilized, so being handed the single seed was a gift. But I worried it might breed ill will toward his company.
"Hahaha, Miss Seoa. I don't do business that loses money. Among the players entered this time is a girl who's already secured pro status as the youngest professional ever certified in Japan. There's still time before her official 1-dan induction, so she's competing as an amateur, but you might as well consider her a professional. And as it happens, she's the very same age as you."
Japan's youngest newly-minted pro would be a magnet for media attention. A head-to-head clash between ten-year-olds. Korea versus Japan. Sensational material just dripping off the page.
If we ever drew each other in the bracket, I'd be swept up in the spotlight alongside her — and once that made headlines, Chairman Jung Woon-il, who sponsored the tournament and handed me the seed, would reap the publicity all for himself. That was the arithmetic.
"What do you say, Miss Seoa? I've confirmed your strength with these two eyes of mine, so the only thing you need is courage. Ah — of course, at your age we'd need your guardian's consent as well, hahaha."
Then there was nothing to hesitate over.
"Yes. Please let me enter."
Steeled by resolve, I nodded.