This Place is the Martial World
This place is the martial world, isn't it? Nineteen lines horizontal and vertical. Three hundred sixty-one houses. A square space where black and white sit facing each other to build a world—the standard Go board.
Most people easily count the square intersections, but in Go, stones are placed not in the squares but at the crossing points of the lines. To balance that narrow yet vast space, nine points are boldly marked. They are called star points. The single one in the exact center is called the Tianyuan, meaning the pinnacle of heaven.
However, the world contained in this small wooden board is a bit wider than its three hundred sixty-one points. With each stone placed, the world branches. "Empty," "black," and "white." Applying these three possibilities to each of the three hundred sixty-one points yields an unimaginable number: 3361. Even combining all the atoms in the observable universe only reaches about 1080, and even after trimming for practical constraints like ko fights and superko rules, the actual number of possible Go games exceeds 10170. One could say the possibilities of Go outnumber all the atoms in the universe by a bit.
And on this board lived a young man holding the title of National Hand of Korea—Choi Yeonhun, 9-dan.
"Last countdown. One, two, three."
The referee's low, clear voice echoed through the playing hall. If you didn't play before that impassive voice finished counting, you lost. That was the rule.
"—Ten. White loses. Black wins."
Even as those words concluded, Choi Yeonhun 9-dan's opponent only frowned. He couldn't place the stone clutched in his hand on the board.
Choi Yeonhun 9-dan bowed his head to the man he had just defeated.
"Good game."
"...Good game. Was it that block at 16-15 earlier that was the problem?"
The defeated player, Kim Jin-o 9-dan, casually asked for advice from Choi Yeonhun 9-dan, who had just snatched the Cheongryong Go-seong Cup title from him.
"Ah. In my opinion—"
Choi Yeonhun 9-dan freely showed his moves and dissected the reasons for his opponent's loss, one by one. Yet there was no shame on the loser's face, nor mockery on the winner's. Perhaps this was the essence of the world of Go.
Choi Yeonhun rose from his seat and bowed once more with his head.
"Thank you for the fine match."
"Thank you."
Even after adding yet another national tournament victory to his record, Choi Yeonhun showed no particular joy, which the media would no doubt call the gravitas of the National Hand.
National Hand (Guksu). "Guk" for country, "su" for hand. Literally, the one with the finest skill in the land—and in modern Go, the title awarded to the winner of the National Hand match.
With such a title, it was only natural that the sudden news decorating a newspaper corner the next morning spread a touch more sorrow across the world.
What was the final move...? The futile endgame of the young National Hand
'Youngest National Hand' Choi Yeonhun 9-dan passes away in traffic accident on way home after national tournament win
Drunk driving on crosswalk. A star of the Go world falls.
Go world in mourning amid waves of condolences. Age 23.
Too futile an end for a talented youth who had conquered not just Korea but the world at such a young age. And at the same time, too sudden a beginning.
# The entire jianghu was abuzz with the rare major event.
The Beggar Clan's leader, Chuhon Singae Jeong Chunho, had reached the divine realm of Shen and achieved hwan-gol-tal-tae. An unbelievable rumor.
Everyone in the martial world already knew that Chuhon Singae had perfectly refined Jing and Qi, making him the supreme warrior. But it was also widely known that, frustrated at failing to open Shen and commune with heaven, he had wasted his days drowning in drink and playing Go.
Then one day, he appeared rejuvenated, young from hwan-gol-tal-tae, declaring he had achieved Shen and Cheon-tong. The martial world was stunned.
The great elders gathered to celebrate and voice their curiosity.
"How on earth did you do it? Did you break through the wall at the end of martial arts?"
To the question, Chuhon Singae laughed and replied.
"Manryu-gwijong. The enlightenment of martial arts and Go converge at their pinnacle. Hundreds, thousands of days pondering the Go board, which holds all things in the world. At its end, I glimpsed the path to Cheon-tong."
Leaving those words, he vanished like a ghost. The elders stared blankly at his receding figure, then belatedly began learning Go themselves—and teaching it alongside martial arts to their descendants. An inevitable progression.
Five years after this unprecedented Go craze swept the martial world, a child who had lost consciousness opened her eyes in a shabby straw hut.
'I wanted to play just a bit more...'
'Just a little longer...'
Choi Yeonhun, who had repeated those thoughts even in his final moments, awoke in a completely different world.
Regaining his senses in the ramshackle hut of straw, he was startled to see grubby children staring at him wide-eyed—but no voice came out.
Unaware, the children shouted excitedly toward the outside at the sight of his opened eyes.
"Hey! She's awake! Eyes open!"
"Wangcho! She's awake!"
The ragged clothes on the children were utterly unlike those from Choi Yeonhun's world, and their words were strange too—yet somehow, he understood every one perfectly.
'Where is this? I was crossing the crosswalk when the dump truck—'
Recalling the final scene before blacking out, Choi Yeonhun shuddered. The terror of that moment still clawed at his body. Judging by the truck's speed, it was incomprehensible that he had survived the impact.
'Am I dead after all? Reincarnation? Possession?'
Unbelievable, but no other explanation fit. His body, glimpsed by barely lifting his head, was tiny and delicate. Seven years old, perhaps.
Rustle—
Then the crude straw door opened, and a boy around ten entered, frowning.
"You're conscious?"
"Yeah! Wangcho! But she's just opened her eyes and isn't talking. Maybe she's hurt somewh—"
"Shut it, you brat."
Pushing aside the excited chatterbox, Wangcho prodded Choi Yeonhun's body with his foot, his face fierce.
"Stop faking it and get up. We saved your life, so go earn some money."
"……."
"...Not faking?"
Wangcho scratched his head in confusion as the pale-faced Choi Yeonhun closed her eyes and fell back asleep. The surrounding children raised a clamor.
"Wangcho kicked her and she passed out!"
"What? N-no... I just nudged her gently!"
"Waaah. She's gonna die. Wangcho killed her."
"I didn't, you little shits!"
Amid the small uproar, Choi Yeonhun slept another three days before rising. The place she awoke was the small beggar village under a culvert in Anhwi Province of the Daemyeong Empire.
Waking to a changed world was one issue; waking in a beggar village, another. But a bigger problem loomed.
The tiny body of roughly seven years that housed Choi Yeonhun was now that of a girl.
Upon first rising and checking her body, she panicked greatly—but there was nothing else to do.
The beggar village where she awoke housed four capable(?) beggar kids with their own survival methods. As soon as she recovered, Yeon—her new name for this world—had to learn all sorts of things from them and live busy days.
"Yeon! Come here! They're coming out now!"
'Yeon' was a name she'd made up for this world. Naming oneself was rare in her previous life but common here, they said.
Grabbing brooms as tall as herself, the kids swept vigorously, and Yeon joined in beside them. To her eyes, it only stirred dust without much cleaning, but it didn't matter.
The ground they swept was before the Damuk Family Estate, one of Anhwi's top five martial clans. Sweeping wasn't the goal—it was the means.
A pretext for lowly beggar brats to loiter before the Damuk estate.
Creeeak—
The massive gate opened, spilling out dozens of warriors with stern eyes and formidable auras.
"We see the Taesang Gajoo!"
Spotting the elderly man at the front, Wangcho, leader of the beggar gang, swiftly performed a po-gwon and bowed. The other kids and Yeon awkwardly followed suit.
"We see the Taesang Gajoo!"
"……."
Despite the clear voices, the elder—Damuk Un, Taesang Gajoo of the Damuk Family—didn't even glance their way as he strode on. Even to Yeon's ignorant eyes, his presence felt extraordinary.
Though the Taesang Gajoo ignored them, not everyone did. A beautiful woman at the rear paused, smiled at the children, and handed over a few coins from her bosom.
"Such polite greetings again today."
"Thank you, Lady Damuk Yeongryeong!"
Wangcho snatched the coins and bowed deeply again; the others followed.
Damuk Yeongryeong chuckled softly and finally moved on.
"Alright. Be careful now."
"Yes!"
The children's eyes sparkled with life as they scampered back to the alley. More coins than usual.
"Fifty mun! We can each buy a bowl of noodles now!"
Wangcho whooped, answered by even more excited voices.
"Wow! Thank you so much!"
"……."
The problem was that the voice came not from Yeon's gang but from the opposite alley.
Two boy beggars, heads taller than Wangcho, appeared. Wangcho hurriedly hid his coin pouch and shouted.
"This is our money!"
"You're not even Beggar Clan—why beg in our territory? It's our turf, our money."
The boys cracked their knuckles and advanced, but Wangcho didn't back down.
"Begging has no territories, you damn bastards."
"Then join the Beggar Clan, you punk."
Thwack—Crash—
No sooner said than a fist flew into Wangcho's jaw. The boy looked three or four years older; tumbling to the ground in one hit was inevitable.
"Urgh."
"Hand it over, punk."
Meanwhile, Yeon was lost in thought. Fifty mun received, noodles ten mun each. Five in the gang including her. Wangcho, newly joined and barely active, had included even her share as a given—even knowing they might starve tomorrow.
Realizing this ten-year-old beggar kid had looked out for her despite his own hunger, Yeon couldn't stand by.
"Stop it."
"What's this? Some girl? Hah!"
"Hey, hey, don't hit her. She's too young. She'll die."
"Scram."
The seven-year-old Yeon stood firm, blocking Wangcho. The Beggar Clan boys scoffed but couldn't bring themselves to punch her outright—they shoved instead.
"Eek."
Unable to withstand the push, Yeon fell, her mind filled with regret.
'Why didn't I learn boxing or jiu-jitsu in my last life?'
Even if she had, this child body couldn't beat fifteen-ish boys, but the injustice stung.
Seeing Yeon fall, her beggar gang flew into a rage and charged the Beggar Clan boys.
"Hey! Don't touch Yeon!"
"You jerks!"
"Hah. Look at these punks."
Yeon and her gang resisted fiercely, but the outcome didn't change. They were all thoroughly beaten and left groaning in the alley as the two Beggar Clan boys snatched the fifty mun from Wangcho and sauntered off.
Yeon stared blankly at the sky, worried the kids would cry in disappointment.
But her worry proved unfounded.
Wangcho, grumbling on the ground, sprang up and extended a hand to Yeon.
"Yeon! You were awesome!"
"……."
"Yeah! You stepping up gave us courage too!"
"Just wait. Once we're a few years older, those guys are nothing."
"Idiot. They'll be older too by then."
Despite facing hunger that night, the kids dusted themselves off, comforting each other—kids who had thrown tiny fists to protect one another.
Watching them quietly, Yeon thought: The tiny hands these children wielded were wu, and the spirit they showed was xia. This place is the martial world, isn't it?
Only then did Yeon realize for certain where she had fallen: the wuxia world.