No Longer the Underdog
"...So you're one of those people too. The kind that climbs up from the bottom, looking to devour everyone above him."
Shin Myeong-hwan quietly gathered the stones from the board, then rose from his seat without another word. He left a brief nod of farewell and disappeared out of the hall, the weight of his footsteps lingering behind him.
"..."
An awkwardness settled over me for no good reason. I'd won, and yet the feeling it left me with was strange. His dejected back, walking away in silence, kept tugging at my attention.
I can't help it. It's bothering me.
That was when Yuzuha, who had been sitting quietly beside me, spoke up.
"He's always like that. When he loses, he goes for a walk to review the game and clear his head. He'll be back soon, good as new."
"Yeah? That's a relief, then."
A sigh of relief slipped out of me before I knew it.
"More importantly, In-ha Oppa."
"Hm?"
"What was that today...?"
Yuzuha stared straight at me, her face utterly serious. Her eyes were so deep and lingering that, for a second, there was room to take the question the wrong way.
"Uh, could you be a little clearer about what you're actually asking?"
"Hmm."
Yuzuha cupped one cheek in her hand, thinking it over, then said,
"...Something's different."
"What is?"
"The way you'd point things out so meticulously, then suddenly shove with raw force, and then catch everything with this delicate touch... it was definitely you, Oppa, but it didn't feel like you."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"In a word! You were more attractive."
I let out a short, incredulous laugh. The subject was still missing, so it was a little confusing—but I had a sense of what she meant.
The senses of AI, and of a human being. The grain of a new kind of Go, where those two coexisted. The Go I was pursuing—something even I couldn't yet explain clearly.
"Huh? Was that Myeong-hwan who just left?"
Coach Park Jin-woo, returning from a brief absence, came over with his eyes wide.
"Haven't seen that in a while. That's the habit that comes out when he's been thoroughly crushed, or when he's felt a real gap in skill..."
He looked genuinely surprised. As if he hadn't expected Shin Myeong-hwan to lose like that.
I stayed seated, watching the reactions in silence. Coach Park Jin-woo studied me with a meaningful look, then opened his mouth.
"The review should probably wait for Myeong-hwan. Would you mind doing it a bit later, In-ha?"
"Yes, that's fine with me."
Coach Park Jin-woo nodded and was about to turn away when someone in the distance raised a hand.
"Then, might I request a game?"
An unfamiliar voice. A man in a neat shirt stood there, his face clean and well-kept.
Yuzuha stepped in at once to introduce him.
"That's Min-ho Oppa. He's an 8-dan, and he was the runner-up at last year's Cheongpung Construction Cup."
8-dan. The highest rank among the professionals I had played so far.
"Ah, yes. The pleasure is mine."
I stood and bowed my head. Kim Min-ho smiled and sat down across from me.
"Good. Play that game, and when Myeong-hwan gets back, we'll all review together."
With that, Coach Park Jin-woo turned and strode off again, already busy. Typical of a study group's head instructor. With the unified preliminaries approaching, he looked frantically occupied discussing opponent analysis and counter-strategies with the players.
"Shall we begin?"
"Ah, yes."
Kim Min-ho's expression as he drew for colors was easy, unhurried. There was a crisp precision to his movements, and the hand that took up the stones did not tremble. Perhaps his Go was like that too.
The stones whispered against each other.
White.
Kim Min-ho played the first move. A star point.
I answered on the opposing star point and watched how the game would flow. His opening stayed within standard patterns, but he was meticulously directing the tempo—a development without overreach, risk avoided at every turn, built on thorough positional judgment and tightly controlled attacks. A style that bordered on AI. That was this man's Go.
Shall I test him?
I changed direction from the early middle game. I followed the AI's calculated moves—then, at precisely the moment no one would play it, I tried a wedge.
Kim Min-ho's face twitched, just slightly. As if trying to parse my intent, his eyes wandered the board, sinking into a deep read. That was exactly what I'd been angling for.
A reduction. A large group. And a ko. Behind the mask of a quiet, even game, I pressed him with steady, solid pressure, driving him back little by little. In the end, it was a flow designed to make the opponent yield first, on the strength of superior ko threats.
Kim Min-ho's hand flinched, then stopped. He seemed to realize, all at once, that he had lost the initiative. Confusion flickered in his eyes.
He studied the board in silence for a long while, then carefully lifted his head.
"Um."
I met his eyes. Speaking up in the middle of a game—that was rare. Especially for a professional. My confusion lasted only a moment. In the end, he couldn't hold the question back.
"..."
For a moment, I had nothing to say. No, seriously. What was I even supposed to answer at a time like this?
...I didn't know either.
A narrow alley. A shabby signboard. A utility pole in front of an old building.
A new sign hung in that alley, a place steeped in childhood memories.
ORIGINAL INHA SNACK BAR
A shop named after me. And the word Original, carrying my mother's new resolve.
Today was the snack bar's soft opening.
"I'm here."
"Son!"
Mother pulled off her rubber gloves and greeted me with a bright, open face.
"Well? How's the shop?"
"You did a nice job with it."
The interior was modest. Secondhand dishes, worn tables. And yet there was a strangely tidy, warm atmosphere to the place. From the half-open kitchen, the spicy-sweet smell of tteokbokki was already making my mouth water.
"Want to try some? I can't tell if it tastes like it used to."
"Yes. I'll taste it for you."
I nodded and sat down at a seat toward the back. I could see Mother's back as she stirred the tteokbokki on the griddle, and something about it felt newly moving.
...I used to hate tteokbokki.
The way a kid who grows up in a Chinese restaurant ends up sick of jajangmyeon. When I was little, the tteokbokki I'd grown so used to had just been tedious. But these days, as I got older, I found myself thinking of it from time to time. That longed-for taste of tteokbokki that Mom used to make.
"Here."
Mother set a plate of tteokbokki down in front of me. Glistening red sauce. Rice cakes that looked tender enough to give at a touch. A light scattering of cabbage over the top. It was exactly as it had lived in my memory.
"Thanks for the food."
I speared a cake with a fork and took a big bite. Sweet, and yet the sauce came in with a heavy, rounding punch. The cakes were chewy, then melted on the tongue. It was the taste from back then.
I felt it, and I was about to chew it through and swallow—when I stopped.
I flinched.
The texture under my teeth was the same, but something caught at the tip of my tongue.
Have my tastes changed?
A faintly disappointing finish. I put another cake in my mouth and chewed it carefully, slowly.
...There's a hollow taste to it.
Umami. That lingering depth that should have clung softly to the tip of the tongue—it wasn't enough.
"How is it?"
I chewed for a good while, then slowly nodded.
"It's good. But..."
I hesitated a little, then added,
"It feels like something's missing. Or maybe I should say it's changed. The savoriness seems weaker than it used to be."
"Savoriness? That's odd. The sauce is the same as before."
Mother said it with confidence, but her expression soon tightened.
"Is it not sweet enough?"
"That's not it. You did let the sauce sit and ripen, right?"
"Mm. I put it down last night."
I thought for a moment, then spoke carefully.
"Would you mind if I tasted the sauce itself?"
"The sauce?"
Mother took a container of seasoning paste from the fridge. I scooped some up with a spoon, put it in my mouth, and rolled it slowly over my tongue.
Bitter, with a raw bite. Not very spicy, and oddly flat. Something was different. I didn't miss the difference.
"Mom, what garlic did you use?"
"Garlic?"
Mother rummaged through the fridge again and pulled out a bag. Peeled garlic. I took one clove from inside and chewed it as it was.
I bit down. A bitterness spread the instant my teeth closed. The aroma was weak, the heat faded and dull. Once, I never would have caught a difference this fine. But ever since I'd gained the talent, even my palate had changed completely.
"I think the garlic's the problem."
"The garlic?"
Mother asked back, startled.
"I don't know why, but the aroma and the flavor are both weak. No—it even tastes bitter. Where did you buy this?"
"At the traditional market across the street."
"I'll run to the mart up the road and get a different kind."
I left the shop in a hurry and headed for the nearby supermarket. I bought a pack labeled 100% Korean-grown garlic, came back, and spoke from the kitchen doorway.
"Mom, can I use the kitchen for a bit?"
"Hm? S-sure, go ahead."
I washed the new garlic, minced it fine, and mixed it into the sauce. After stirring it once or twice, I scooped some up with a spoon and tasted it.
That's it.
It wasn't aggressive. A depth that wound softly through the mouth. A gentle savoriness that clung to the tip of the tongue—that was this sauce.
"Mom, try this."
Mother tasted the sauce, then looked at me with startled eyes.
"In-ha. Yes. This was the taste."
I smiled, just a little.
"I'm glad. We found your touch again."
The bright look on Mother's face as she smiled. The worth of my Korean Cuisine talent—this alone was more than enough. Just seeing her happy was already a great reward for me.
That was when it came.
"What? It's true? Your kid's running a shop here?"
A familiar voice. Mixed into it, the casual speech and the rudeness. I turned my head, and a familiar face was standing there.
Permed hair, overdone double eyelids. An aggressively gold necklace, gold rings, a gold bracelet—the works. It was the woman who had been the landlord of the old Inha Bunsik building.
"Welcome. It's been a long time."
Mother smiled and greeted her. I dipped my head slightly as well. The woman, however, did not return the greeting. She dropped her eyes, then openly scanned the inside of the shop.
"Isn't this a bit much? There's such a thing as business ethics. Plopping down right next to my daughter-in-law's shop. What, you holding some kind of grudge against us?"
"Oh, goodness, it's nothing like that at all."
Mother put on a strained smile and tried to wave it off. It was a good day. She didn't look like she wanted to stir up trouble for no reason. But the woman's voice only climbed higher.
"Nothing like that, my foot. Business is already so bad we're dying over here... how is this any different from holding a ritual to put us in the ground?!"
Rage. Spite. And hostility. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Did we really have to sit here and take this? We weren't even her tenants anymore. I couldn't just keep quiet and listen any longer.
"Aren't you the one holding a grudge, ma'am?"
"What?"
The woman's gaze shifted to me.
"You were happy enough to kick us out of our shop. And now you come all the way here to pick a fight."
"Kick you out? The terms just didn't work back then!"
An excuse that didn't even make sense. It only made my blood run hotter.
"Fine. Let's say that's true. But your business being bad isn't our fault, is it? The food just isn't good."
"W-what did you just say?"
"I heard you're closing soon anyway. Just run your own shop. Coming all the way to ours to do this is rude, don't you think?"
"Y-you—you insolent little—"
The woman's face flushed red and blotchy. She snorted out a rough breath through her nose, glaring at us as if she meant to tear into us on the spot. Then she spun on her heel without a word and stormed out.
The shop fell quiet. Mother's hand closed lightly around my arm.
"...In-ha."
"Yes."
"Wasn't that a little too harsh?"
Her face looked faintly worried. I smiled and shook my head.
"It's fine. Some things need to be said. We're not the underdogs anymore."
Mother stared blankly for a moment at those words. Then she gave a small nod. Her face looked a good deal lighter than it had a moment before.
"But, Mom."
"Hm?"
"It felt good, though, didn't it?"
Mother let out a short laugh.
"A little."
I quietly laughed with her. Then I put a bite of tteokbokki—coated in the new sauce—into my mouth, without a word.
My heart, and the sauce. Both of them, a taste that landed exactly right. I was already looking forward to the opening, the day after tomorrow.
Monday.
On any other day, this would have been the hour I clocked in at the branch and greeted customers. But today, I was somewhere else entirely. Not the bank.
The Korea Baduk Association. The heart of Korean Go.
Here, today, Round 1 of the Ciel Bank Cup Unified Preliminaries would begin.
I drew a slow breath.
Let's go.
I stepped forward, sure of myself.