The Perfect Time
I nodded and walked up onto the stage.
The Ciel Bank logo gleamed on the backdrop wall behind the stage. A nameplate bearing my name rested on the Go board in front of me. I approached, took my seat, and felt more than ten cameras trained on me from the audience below.
The image of me and my Go would be captured in those lenses and broadcast live to tens of millions—perhaps over a million viewers worldwide.
‘… I feel like I’ve become the protagonist.’
I took a long breath. My mind was strangely calm.
Throughout my life, had I ever been in such a spotlight? No. It had always been an ordinary existence.
But this moment, this place—it was the stage I had always dreamed of.
Tap, tap.
The sound of shoe heels echoed across the stage as professional Go players stepped up one by one.
Kwon Seong-hyun 9-dan versus Wu Xiaoyu 9-dan.
Kim Eun-woo 9-dan versus Jang Ryo 9-dan.
World rankings, popularity, fame, and peak skill. Feeling anew that I would be playing against them side by side sent a thrill through me.
And the opponent.
Kang Seo-jun 9-dan, my opponent today, was already there.
His footsteps were quiet. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a tailored jacket, his hair swept back in the rare all-back style. He climbed the stage with the same unreadable expression he had worn all along.
“…”
Their gazes met. Tension crackled between them like an invisible current.
I held his stare without flinching. Recalling the words he had publicly hurled at me earlier, I allowed myself a faint, knowing smile.
Did he notice?
Kang Seo-jun 9-dan’s expression stiffened for a moment, then softened into something almost mocking.
He extended his hand first.
“Best of luck.”
I took it.
“The same to you.”
The clasp of our hands carried the weight of everything unsaid. I welcomed the tension. It felt good—alive, focused, electric.
Below the stage, the host’s voice rang out over the microphone.
“The Ciel Bank Cup World Masters Round of 32 match is about to begin. Please take your seats.”
Soon the progress officer gave the final all-clear. Once everything was set, the announcement came again.
“Begin the match.”
Kang Seo-jun 9-dan bowed his head slightly. I did the same.
Clack.
I scooped up a handful of white stones and placed them on the board.
He responded with two black stones.
Clack.
‘I’m white.’
The stone-drawing was complete. We greeted each other with formal courtesy.
Tap.
One stone touched the board—the first move’s focal point.
I answered with a diagonal stone.
AI-style joseki, weaving between the third and fourth lines.
In a normal sequence, claiming the remaining corners would be the obvious choice. But Kang Seo-jun 9-dan twisted the flow from the very beginning.
Tap.
A stone placed with a cutter on the diagonal stone.
He was designing imbalance on purpose.
‘No need to match him.’
I played the next move on the remaining focal point and claimed the corner.
Clack, clack.
Even though only a few moves had passed, he placed his next stone at the end of his thinking time.
Three-three invasion.
Black taking liberties, white securing thickness—an AI-style joseki. He secured the minimum liberties, then removed his hand and attacked my diagonal stone with an aggressive, almost blatant move.
‘I won’t play a predictable response.’
He continued to twist the existing sequence, constantly challenging while still trying to secure liberties. The development had left the joseki entirely behind.
The shape was unfamiliar, the sequence twisted and strange.
From the opening, he forced confusion upon his opponent, then carved his own path through the chaos.
I knew this style of Go well.
‘I… played like this.’
It was the second game of the Biryong Tournament finals.
He had shaken Park Jun-soo violently from the very first move with this opening.
Where was the throwaway move, and where was the sincere one?
A Go that tested the opponent, induced changes, and created confusion to forge his own path.
Kang Seo-jun 9-dan was now reproducing exactly the same.
Remarkably similar.
‘… You don’t usually play like this, do you?’
I asked inwardly as I watched him.
Analyzing the game record, Kang Seo-jun 9-dan’s style was that of a ‘designer of joseki-breaking’—a player whose strength lay in sense and creativity.
But today he was different. More experimental. More intent on creating change, more focused on inducing confusion.
The arrangement of stones, the shapes, the joseki choices, the sequences, the momentum—it was as if he were speaking to me not with words but with stones themselves.
‘I’ll win with the Go you play best.’
A wordless challenge.
A wordless mockery.
A wordless dismissal.
The emotion he felt toward me was etched plainly on the board.
Or perhaps deliberately displayed.
‘Interesting.’
I smiled. No sound escaped, but the corners of my mouth lifted slightly.
Why did his challenge excite me so? Why did it make me feel so alive?
It was astonishing even to me.
‘… He openly picked a fight, but avoiding it doesn’t seem right?’
I took a short breath.
At this moment, the fact that the opponent before me was Kang Seo-jun 9-dan, the argument exchanged during the draw, even the knowledge that he was a top domestic pro—all of it vanished from my mind.
Tap.
I stepped back and offered a change in joseki choice.
The spot that should have been left untouched.
But I stood still and chose the move.
‘Did you know? The formless Go you’re playing now…’
Black responded to my stone.
A spot that could not be defended without answering.
I, who had forced the issue, chose another move quietly.
Tap.
I placed one stone on the board.
‘It’s my language too.’
The Go I played.
The Go I played best.
The Go I had won with.
Now it was time to reclaim the initiative I had lost.
* * *
“Kwon Seong-hyun 9-dan chose to jump one space here. As expected, he’s securing liberties while maintaining thickness.”
Moon Ga-yeon, the caster, pointed out the recent move.
“Yes. It’s Kim Eun-woo’s typical style—stability over flashy changes. AI also rates this move as very thick.”
Song Tae-gyu 9-dan analyzed the intention calmly.
As the era changed, the nature of commentary had shifted as well. The old days of attaching magnetic stones to large boards were long gone.
Now it was AI win-rate graphs, recommended moves, and real-time analysis of changes.
Thanks to this, multiple ongoing games could be introduced smoothly.
“The flow is slow.”
“It means both players are being cautious. Shall we move on to the next game?”
With Moon Ga-yeon’s comment, the screen switched.
The match between Kwon Seong-hyun 9-dan and Wu Xiaoyu 9-dan.
Early stage, several joseki crossed.
Only about twenty moves in.
No particularly noteworthy point to comment on.
“Then let’s move on to game three.”
The screen switched sequentially.
It was now Kim In-ha’s turn against Kang Seo-jun 9-dan.
Song Tae-gyu 9-dan found the situation unsettling.
‘Hah… Is this right?’
There was no disagreement in analyzing Kang Seo-jun 9-dan’s Go. He was one of the undisputed top pros.
But the opponent’s level was far too low. Even if he had passed the integrated preliminaries, he was ultimately just an amateur.
The sponsor’s team leader had suddenly asked him to commentate. It had been forced to extend to one extra game beyond the two scheduled.
Sponsor? Support? Honestly, I didn’t know the relationship.
But in a world where professional Go players who couldn’t comment were everywhere, it didn’t look good.
‘They don’t want people to watch the game, so why force it…’
Just as dissatisfaction was piling up, the screen changed.
And Song Tae-gyu 9-dan’s expression hardened subtly.
A rather confusing opening.
Complex stone arrangement.
Changes intertwined like traps.
Unfinished joseki shape.
One of the most difficult forms he had commented on recently.
Yet the surprising part was separate.
‘Black isn’t being pushed?’
A sense of incongruity struck him.
He knew.
How creative Kang Seo-jun 9-dan was and how precisely he could design the flow.
He had experienced it firsthand.
Leading the shape against him was never easy.
“This move here is very rare. What kind of change do you think there will be?”
Moon Ga-yeon also didn’t miss the point.
“He’s forcing liberties from the corner. Instead, it means choosing the move. It seems like a move that accurately reads the flow.”
While explaining, Song Tae-gyu 9-dan felt a strange sense of alienation.
The complex shape kept producing twists that were hard to explain.
He couldn’t help but check the previously missed sequence by reversing it.
‘What?’
Song Tae-gyu 9-dan’s eyebrows shot up.
The identity of the unknown incongruity.
A development outside the joseki.
Overlapping of countless inductions and counter-inductions.
It was exactly visible.
‘It’s not Kang sensei shaking…?’
He took a breath and scanned the board again.
It was still early.
The shape wasn’t established enough to be called shape yet, and the flow hadn’t been formed.
This didn’t make sense.
The one shaking, experimenting, and breaking the board was always Kang Seo-jun 9-dan.
Following that was Kim In-ha.
That was logic and order.
But now, the one subtly leading the early flow was not Kang Seo-jun 9-dan.
‘Something is definitely off.’
He repeatedly denied it.
His pride.
His fixed ideas.
His ‘9-dan’ title.
In front of this Go, it was uncomfortably resisting somewhere.
“By the way, it’s interesting. Kim In-ha player isn’t using much time, is he?”
Moon Ga-yeon’s words pierced Song Tae-gyu 9-dan’s incongruity head-on.
It was true.
Unlike Park Jun-soo 9-dan, who had consumed nearly thirty minutes in the early opening, Kim In-ha had used only about ten minutes.
Only then did it fully sink in.
That the flow happening on this board now was not at a level that could be explained by mere chance or condition difference.
Tap.
In the midst of the complex changes, Kim In-ha played the next move again.
Almost without hesitation, at the exact timing.
Song Tae-gyu 9-dan clenched his teeth.
‘It’s just early luck.’
Repeatedly denying it, but on one side of his mind, anxiety was growing.
He lowered his head slightly, putting strength on his fingertips.
* * *
‘Flexible Go.’
Kang Seo-jun 9-dan’s impression from the opening exchanges.
He had abandoned the joseki.
Leading changes.
Designing imbalance.
Pulling into his own territory and hoping the opponent would follow.
But.
Kim In-ha had subtly twisted the flow within it.
‘Playing a Go with good adaptation.’
Creativity might be a bit lacking, but the ability to lead small-scale situations was excellent.
Without fleeing.
Without responding.
While protecting his own Go and trying to seize the initiative.
“…”
Kang Seo-jun 9-dan slightly raised his head and looked at him.
No change in expression.
Calm and composed.
Even on his first world stage, with live broadcast, there was no sign of tension.
Without shaking, he was focused only on his own Go.
‘Woo-bin was right. He’ll come up soon.’
Byun Woo-bin 5-dan and he were in the same study group.
At first, I hadn’t understood why he was so wary of amateurs.
Then, seeing the integrated prelims game 4 that Byun Woo-bin lost, his thoughts had changed.
It wasn’t a normal amateur level.
Late to enter the pro, but his skill made his age irrelevant.
If his skill was like this, it was obvious he would soon try to block his way in everything.
‘When stepping on it… I have to step on it firmly.’
Pros are the world of competition.
Among them, the first match is the most important.
Even if you win, you can’t just barely win.
You have to completely seal it off.
You have to plant the trauma of not being able to cross it again and again.
You have to carve psychological branding, so you can’t even try to cross it again.
‘I admit. In the beginning, I was behind.’
Even if that’s the case, it’s only a few points.
Of course, the gap is not small at the pro level.
But.
It wasn’t enough to decide the win or loss.
Tap.
Kang Seo-jun 9-dan played a move.
Scanning the shape, he organized the next move.
The somewhat loose flow was now tightened firmly by his hand again.
From now on, it was the middle game.
Twisting the situation complexly, disturbing the opponent’s reading.
Moves that shook the structure rather than fighting.
Flow that expanded the board, split the center, and disturbed both sides.
‘Observation is over.’
A cleverly thrown move.
If the reaction is late, you lose the flow.
If you take it, a fight breaks out.
‘Take it, Kim In-ha.’
This was the real thing now.
* * *
It was read.
Both sides’ moves were read.
From early to middle, through the genuine middle game.
I couldn’t take my eyes off for a moment.
Sweat formed on the fingertips holding the Go stones.
The early advantageous flow was long forgotten.
The superiority or inferiority changed in an instant.
If even one move was off, the situation could collapse in an instant.
Tap.
I played one move.
Not just a move to win.
A thoroughly calculated move.
A move to pierce the opponent.
But Kang Seo-jun 9-dan’s next move exactly jumped over my one move.
‘Read again.’
Immediate counter.
And the following subtle pressure.
Already repeating a move that tightened my breathing at the same time as capturing.
‘Ah.’
Many games I had played flashed through my mind.
Looking back, it hadn’t been real Go.
I had never felt this kind of tension before.
Endless boundary of interlocking moves.
Uncompromising shouting.
A fight where even one breath was competed.
A ruthless world where one move decides win or loss, and the loser gets nothing.
Goosebumps rose on my arms.
It was… it was thrill.
‘… Yeah, I wanted to play this kind of Go.’
This was top level.
This was a Go aiming for the world.
I was breathless.
Yet, it was awe-inspiring and beautiful.
This Go right now was the most perfect time for me.