The Jealous Rival
Byun Woo-bin 5-dan. Age 20. Domestic ranking 19th.
When he joined the Yeongjae Baduk Professional League at sixteen, he hadn’t stood out in the slightest. Yet from the moment AI research became the mainstream, he rose like a comet.
This year’s record stood at sixty-six games, forty-five wins, twenty-one losses. A win rate of sixty-eight point two percent. Champion of the sixth Open Rookie King Tournament. Runner-up of the forty-first Badukwang Tournament.
A promising young player that Korea expected, China restrained, and the world watched. After Oh Soo 9-dan, the assessment that he possessed star quality followed.
Confident catchphrases. An unforgettable face. Skill layered on top—naturally, the spotlight followed.
Today, as well. Byun Woo-bin had an appointment with a Go specialist reporter, Koo.
“Byun pro seems to really like the peach. Other players usually interview at the Korea Baduk Association.” “The atmosphere here is nice.”
Byun Woo-bin and reporter Koo opened the door and stepped into the cafe.
At that moment, the scene that brushed one side of his vision made his footsteps halt.
The terrace where sunlight descended gently. There, a woman with long hair smiled with an eye smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
‘Yuzuha?’
A face he hadn’t seen in a while. As the slump lengthened, her expression had grown stiff or forced. She had distanced herself from him, her research-student peer, and rarely answered calls.
Yet here she was, sitting across from someone, laughing brightly.
“Reporter Koo, can I go say hello for a moment?” “Yes, of course.”
Apologizing, he approached the terrace.
The man was a face he had never seen before—neat shirt, dignified impression, gesturing as if explaining something. And while listening, Yuzuha laughed. A short, muffled laugh. A genuine eye smile that slightly wrinkled the corners of her eyes.
Byun Woo-bin bit his dry lips. Then he quietly opened the door and entered the terrace.
“Yuzuha.”
With that single short word, Yuzuha, who had been staring at the Go board, raised her head.
“In-ha?” The casual way she called his name.
“I came to say hello after coming for the interview.”
Byun Woo-bin’s gaze shifted to Kim In-ha. Expressionless. No greeting extended.
Not intentionally rude, but there was no goodwill either.
“Was it a teaching game?” Yuzuha’s pupils trembled slightly. She glanced at Kim In-ha across the table and nodded with a smile.
“Yeah, that’s right.” After a short breath, she continued quietly. “I was learning.”
Byun Woo-bin raised an eyebrow and asked, “What are you learning?” “Go.”
“……!”
The calm tone, the sincerity behind it. With that short answer, Byun Woo-bin’s throat went dry. Something unspoken seemed hidden in those words.
‘What is this?’
He couldn’t understand. Couldn’t accept it.
He knew Yuzuha had been in a slump. So he had reached out first, saying he would help. If he, who had researched AI more intensely than anyone, could assist.
But she hadn’t answered. And now, in front of him, she was learning Go from a strange man who wasn’t even a pro, with a face she had never shown before.
An unknown emotion bubbled deep in his chest.
“So? I won’t disturb you.” The words came out cold.
Byun Woo-bin turned around without greeting Kim In-ha.
Reporter Koo waited at one side of the cafe, sipping coffee.
“……Sorry. You waited a long time.” “No. More than that, the person in the middle of a game with Yuzuha pro.”
Reporter Koo pointed beyond the window.
“He looks like amateur Kim In-ha.” “Kim In-ha?” Byun Woo-bin, who had been about to sit, flinched.
“Yes. This year’s Presidential Cup champion. The player who’s been dominating the amateur board lately. Apparently even No. 1 amateur Park Jun-soo and the research-student hopeful Kim Tae-ho were beaten.”
Byun Woo-bin closed his mouth tightly and stared at the terrace.
Kim In-ha sat opposite Yuzuha. ‘Amateur?’
He hadn’t extended a hand even once to him. What exactly was he learning from an amateur?
Something stiff rose in his chest—irritation, anger, disbelief.
“I hear he’s not even a research student. His skill is decent, but at nearly thirty, standing out on the pro stage will be tough.”
With reporter Koo’s blunt assessment, Byun Woo-bin let out a small laugh.
The prime of a pro player is in the twenties. After thirty, stamina and concentration drop sharply. Joining at that age? Thanks to AI the pro prime has stretched, but it’s still not easy. It’s just laying asphalt for other pros.
“By the way, he broke through the Ciel Bank Cup Amateur Selection and advanced to the integrated preliminary this time. If things go well, he might face you, Byun sensei?”
For a moment, Byun Woo-bin’s pupils trembled. But he quickly suppressed the emotional waves and looked back at the terrace with a cold gaze.
That man. That amateur. Kim In-ha.
Just knowing he was sitting there made him feel unpleasant. A heavy emotion surged in his chest.
‘……Good.’
Byun Woo-bin took a short breath. As if declaring it, he resolved firmly in his heart.
Whether in the preliminary or the main event, when they met, he would crush him.
* * *
After returning from Shinchon, I washed the day’s fatigue away with hot water. With hair still damp from the water, I sat in the computer chair, leaning back and staring blankly at the ceiling.
It had been tough, but it was a day with some fulfillment.
Especially that word of Yuzuha.
‘Perhaps… Are you thinking of joining our Giseong Research Group? It’s a recommendation, so I thought I could recommend oppa.’
It had lingered in my mind the entire subway ride.
Research group. I had heard from Branch Manager about a place where pro players gathered regularly for game-record review, joseki study, and match preparation. As AI research became mainstream, the scale had shrunk, but it was still an important base in the pro world. Among them, the Giseong Research Group founded by Master Kang Hyuk was not just a casual gathering but a place where skilled players came together.
In such a place, Yuzuha had tried to recommend me directly.
“It would be a waste to reject it…”
My goal was to become a pro and aim for the world’s top. To achieve that, I needed a fierce environment where we pushed each other to grow. At the time when I vaguely thought such a place was necessary, Yuzuha had extended her hand.
There was honestly no reason not to take it.
“But… I didn’t expect ‘Mumyeong’s’ fame to reach this level.”
Today I had been honestly surprised. The pro players gathered in the Go cafe were reviewing my Go. Exactly ‘Mumyeong’s Go. It meant the pros were paying attention to Mumyeong’s moves as well.
“Sluggish, I guess I have to reveal that I’m Mumyeong… but it still feels a bit disappointing.”
Actually, I had disliked the boundary between online and offline crumbling. In AOS game gatherings, I had done well. But in reality, ‘Kim In-ha’ had not. My job, my situation. Their attitude toward me had shifted subtly. The line drawn beyond their gazes. The invisible disregard. The alienation and incongruity I had felt then had been hard to erase.
So I had chosen to hide myself—not because of my Go skill, but because I didn’t want to be evaluated as myself in reality.
“So, in the end… it worked out well.”
I let out a small laugh. No matter how well an amateur played, would a pro have come up to challenge first like this? I didn’t think so. It was a disadvantage for the pro. If I won, it would be a natural victory. If I lost, my pride would be hurt and my name would be scratched.
Jang Yu-na 2-dan could help with recruitment, but recruiting top Chinese players would be difficult. According to Branch Manager, Chinese players especially valued whether they officially joined.
I was likely being undervalued because I was an amateur. Korean players’ situations weren’t much different either. Even Ahn Sung-hyun 7-dan was active but in his late thirties, an age where it was hard to achieve good results as a pro, so he had simply responded for the recruitment fee.
Among the top rankers, no one would easily take such a risk.
So the situation where I was mistaken for a pro had been a blessing in disguise. Because I was evaluated solely on skill and could even play against pros.
‘One day I have to reveal it.’
But for now, I thought I could still use the name ‘Mumyeong’ a little longer.
So I had decided to hold it back for a very short time.
“Eh? Time has already become like this.”
I threw the towel around my neck into the corner. Then I booted the computer and connected to Samgukji Baduk.
Today, Jang Yu-na 2-dan had a match with a Chinese player on her live stream.
Today’s opponent was Lu Yuan 6-dan, current ranking eighty-first in the Chinese Weiqi Association. Like Sun Yao 6-dan, a young player rising in momentum.
“Today, let’s play a bit differently.”
Until now, I had played the Go that only I could play and won every official match. However, recently I had met an opponent I had never beaten even once—AI, DeepStone. I couldn’t overcome it no matter how I tried. Shaking was useless. Without emotion, psychological warfare didn’t work.
‘Strong… Not two points, but five or more.’
A sense of frustration faced a high, solid wall that could never be crossed.
According to Branch Manager, the average match rate of top world pros against AI was around fifty percent. Very rarely did matches reach sixty-five percent, but they were not uncommon.
That was proof that current AI’s Go was ahead of human Go.
“……To understand and surpass AI’s moves, one must first know how to play like that.”
That was the conclusion I had drawn. Now I might handle my own Go, but against world top players in the integrated preliminary, it was unknown.
So today, I also intended to play like that. Like AI. Looking for the Blue Spot. With a style focused on accurate calculation and shape judgment. As it wasn’t an official match, it was a perfect stage to test myself and surpass limits.
Today too, I thought to use ‘Mumyeong’.
* * *
“Today, who is our Mumyeong’s opponent? Don’t be surprised. It’s the young Chinese player Lu Yuan 6-dan, who recently became a hot topic by advancing to the semifinals of the Chinese Fenghua Cup!”
Today, Jang Yu-na 2-dan’s streaming tension was off the charts. Mumyeong’s popularity. Platform views soaring. Average viewers over four thousand. And chat messages pouring in like a flood.
These days, more exciting moments than when I became a pro continued.
“If I talk about various things, impatient people will get angry again, right? I can’t hold it in! So let’s go straight into the match.”
She immediately opened the match room and invited Mumyeong and Lu Yuan 6-dan. After accepting the pre-agreed conditions, the match began.
Tap. Lu Yuan 6-dan took black. First move: small wooden stone. Mumyeong, holding white, responded with a diagonal star point.
The opening proceeded with tension. The broadcast atmosphere rose.
“Lu Yuan 6-dan is known as a very solid player. It matches AI style perfectly.”
As Mumyeong’s move followed, Jang Yu-na 2-dan’s tone rose.
“On the other hand, our Mumyeong-nim is… an unpredictable style! A master of shaking and psychological warfare. As always, the true value comes out from the middle game.”
Not only Jang Yu-na 2-dan but domestic viewers didn’t doubt it either. Mumyeong’s Go always overcame early disadvantages, widened the board in the middle game to pressure the opponent, and produced clever moves within that flow. Shaking. Psychological warfare. And ultimately victory.
Everyone believed it would be no different today. Even against China’s young player Lu Yuan 6-dan, they said he would counter with an unpredictable move.
But something felt off. Even though it had entered the early to mid game, Mumyeong’s signature sparkling moves weren’t appearing. Charitably, a flawless development. Badly, an overly even flow.
‘It’s a bit different from usual…’
At that moment, a question brushed Jang Yu-na 2-dan’s mind. But she wasn’t sure what it was.
At that time,
The chat started to get flustered. Jang Yu-na immediately opened the DeepStone progress window on the auxiliary monitor. All the moves Mumyeong had played so far. As she checked each sequence one by one, her mouth froze. And soon she muttered as if disbelieving.
“……All the moves I’ve played so far are Blue Spots?”