The Etymology of Proof
The day had arrived for the first game of the best-of-three semifinal, scheduled with a month's gap after the quarterfinals of the Yangjangchi Cup.
And somehow, my parents were far more frazzled about it than I was—the one actually playing.
Yesterday, without so much as asking my opinion, they had bought out half a department store's worth of clothes for me, and now they were busily deliberating over my outfit for the day. If this was how it was going to be, I should have just come alone.
"Is, isn't this enough?"
Hair that had been primped for well over an hour, and a black dress with a soft, fresh charm to it. By any reasonable standard I was dressed to excess, but my parents still didn't seem satisfied.
"Seoa, dear, smile for me."
My father thrust the camera lens of his phone into my face, snapping photos.
"This one's too pretty—I need to keep it all to myself. Let's change once more. Something a little more modest."
"Excuse me, sir, stop tormenting the girl who's supposed to be preparing for her match."
Thankfully, my mother stepped in to restrain him, and I let out a sigh of relief. It was good of her to remember I had a game today.
"Let me just fix your hair one more time, Seoa. That's all, okay?"
I take that back. Apparently, it wasn't over.
Mother undid the braid she had so painstakingly made.
"Seoa, fighting!"
"We'll be cheering for you!"
"Hah."
Only after enduring an eternity of this did I finally leave the hotel room, my parents' cheers ringing behind me. As I headed toward the event hall inside the hotel where the match would be held, the reporters were already out in force.
I shot a resentful glare at the plush white rabbit-shaped handbag clutched in my hand. My mother had forcibly pressed it into my grasp, claiming it would offset the black outfit with a touch of cuteness. Left to my own devices, I would have hurled it into the nearest trash can on the spot.
Between my parents, the camera flashes, and the barrage of questions, my energy was already draining away before the game had even begun.
"Ahhh…"
Since this was a match between Korean professionals, a substantial contingent of Korean press had turned out. There was even a camera bearing the logo of a British broadcaster trained on me—had they really flown in from a country with no Go scene to speak of?
"You look especially lovely today, Coach Ryu. You've grown so much since I last saw you."
Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan smiled warmly and offered the compliment.
"Thank youu. Honestly, I wanted to come in something comfortable, but my parents were being so enthusiastic about it…"
"Haha, if I had a daughter like you, Coach Ryu, I wouldn't have acted any differently."
Was wanting to dress up one's daughter simply a universal instinct of parenthood?
"I look forward to learning from you."
This was my chance to prove my potential against the strongest player in Korea. I could only hope the ghost haunting my body would be satisfied with what it saw.
The English word for proving something—testify—derives from the Latin testis, meaning witness.
From that same root comes testicle—the most irrefutable "proof" of manhood. And I no longer had any.
Claiming manhood without testicles to show for it was a joke in itself. There was not a single visible masculine feature left about me.
And it wouldn't stop at the body. Under the influence of these hormones, my very mind was steadily reshaping itself into something feminine. Once puberty took hold in earnest, my inner self would change just as drastically, just as steeply.
As my masculinity drained away, the sole point of contact remaining between "Ryu Seoa" and "Shin Chang-mo" was Go.
In truth, perhaps I was nothing more than a ghost refusing to accept my own death.
Because if Go vanished too, everything that had once constituted "Shin Chang-mo" would dissolve into the vast, distant dark of oblivion.
"Let us hope this becomes a match neither of us will regret."
At Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan's words, I nodded and reached into the bowl to draw my stones.
White.
In this tournament, which applied the Korean komi of 6.5 points, White was the preferred color. But Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan was a player whose destructive attacking power grew even fiercer when he held Black.
I couldn't let myself be pushed around from the opening. If I devoted myself solely to defense, I would surrender the initiative—so I, too, would need to aggressively probe for weaknesses.
Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan's first move landed on the 4-4 point in the upper right. When I claimed the 4-4 point in the upper left, he took the 3-4 point in the lower right, and I filled the last remaining corner with a 4-4 stone.
He extended one space to tighten his grip on the lower right, and I invaded the upper right immediately with a 3-3 point stone.
After the joseki had played out, Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan countered by stabbing back at the lower left corner with a 3-3 invasion of his own.
Having crossed swords with him many times over the years, this had become a trick he reached for without hesitation.
Once Korea's strongest player took a liking to it, the other professionals were sure to start studying it as well.
I provoked a confrontation in the upper right. The fighting spilled across the right side, and then spread to the top as well.
A life-and-death struggle broke out on the right side. The capturing race stayed on a knife's edge before finally cascading into a ko fight.
The ko threats favored me.
After an excruciating weighing of the balance, the scale tipped decisively to one side.
Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan declared his resignation on the spot.
The second game was scheduled two days after my victory in the first.
I lost it, scattering blunders all across the endgame.
My chronic lack of stamina in the late game. I made far more mistakes than usual.
And now, what lay before me was the final game of the three-match series.
My heart pounded fast, squeezed beneath a heavy weight.
It wasn't the prestige of the tournament doing it.
Three wins in the main bracket, and one more against Yu Jeon-hun 9-dan, the strongest in the nation. I had already surpassed what I'd set out to achieve, and fortune had smiled on me besides.
Even if I fell in the semifinals, there was nothing to regret.
What set my heart racing was something purer—a hunger for the contest itself.
I wanted to throw myself into the uncertainty, into that void where no outcome could be guaranteed, and burn.
The process had always mattered more to me than the result… but if a good result born of a good process could carve the name "Ryu Seoa" into the minds of Go fans everywhere, that wouldn't be so bad either.
To settle the outcome of the final game, I reached into the stone bowl, feeling for the cool touch of the stones against my fingers.