The Weight of One Point
Min was from a wealthy family. He had been born and raised in Gangnam, attended school there, and now ran a major advertising agency in the same district. He was the classic success story of the previous generation—authoritative, shaped by his achievements.
To him, Go was the only hobby he truly immersed himself in, one of the few fields where he could pour his heart into it. Because of that, he wanted the old order to remain intact in how he viewed this pastime and the way it was played.
“The young friend lacks humility.”
Min did not dislike Kim In-ha personally. It was simply that, by the standards of the Go he loved, In-ha existed outside the realm of common sense.
Kim In-ha had learned Go intensely from a young age, become a research student, fought through bloody competitions to earn a professional license, and reached the ranks of 9-dan through steady effort and results. That was the normal path for a professional Go player, and he believed it was the only correct one.
But Kim In-ha was different. There was no process. He had jumped from amateur to professional in a single breath and won a championship. He had crossed the difficult path without a second thought.
Even his interview had felt sharp and uncomfortable to the older generation. He was a person who did not lower himself, who did not shrink back. He had proven his skill and results, yet there was no trace of humility to be found, no matter how hard one looked. It was as if he accepted his current position as a natural outcome, beyond youthful bravado, a hardened sense of propriety.
Min’s irritation grew with every encounter. It felt as though the elegant Go he knew was being corrupted.
“……Jeong Si-hoo and Kim Eun-woo weren’t like that.”
Those two had followed the elite path to the highest ranks. Every move carried weight, every word carried dignity. And that was correct. After all, in Go, posture mattered as much as the result.
“Arrogant. Even in a simultaneous match against twelve players.”
It was not merely a question of win or loss. There were rules to be observed on the board and lines to be taught. There was a proper form and a proper path.
Kim In-ha placed his first move and moved to the next board. He waited with arms crossed, relaxed. When he returned after a full circuit, he received the stone one point higher on the shoulder hit.
“Nothing special about it.”
Min muttered to himself. No threatening moves yet. It was ordinary, unremarkable. Move 47. The initial shaking attempt had been exactly what he had expected.
“I’ll yield where I need to.”
He would create no variables. Using the advantage of the joseki, he would play thoroughly solid and material-oriented.
Min was confident. He had beaten Jeong Si-hoo 9-dan and Kim Eun-woo 9-dan in 1-on-1 teaching games, giving five points each time. He would add one more title: Kim In-ha 9-dan. Even after giving only four points.
“Do I really have to brag about this somewhere?”
The corners of his mouth lifted.
***
Professor Kang Gil-soo came from an elite academic family. He had learned Go from his father as a child and had reached the threshold of research student before abandoning it against his parents’ wishes. Nevertheless, his Go skill was at the level of the strongest amateur. He had won national tournaments and held an official 7-dan certificate.
“Groundless Go.”
That was how he viewed Kim In-ha’s style. In the AI era, the Blue Spot provided the answer sheet. The closer to AI, the more perfect the Go.
As a statistics professor, he believed Go should be approached numerically. Joseki was science, reading was calculation, and style should ultimately converge on probability.
But Kim In-ha’s Go did not follow that logic. He played moves with low AI matching rates without hesitation and reversed even in statistically low-win-probability positions.
“He won’t last long…”
Of course, judging the flow and endgame were part of reaching 9-dan. But the very style he played carried high risk. That meant research would likely be dismantled.
One white stone pushed back against Professor Kang’s lower-side coordination.
“I should block here.”
Theoretical answer. Was this the AI-recommended move he thought? But when he reached to place the stone, he hesitated.
“This might be a probe.”
He set the stone down again and fell into thought. He played two points.
Simultaneous match or not, giving two points to a 9-dan professional was extremely challenging. But he believed in himself.
“I won’t show other moves.”
Professor Kang hesitated briefly, then chose his original move.
Textbook response. A move AI would approve. A safe move.
When Kim In-ha returned after a circuit and played his next move, it was too thin and too adventurous.
If this was shaking…
“I won’t fall for it.”
Professor Kang smiled faintly and adjusted his glasses.
***
One white stone landed on the board. But the sound differed slightly from board to board.
Twelve boards. Twelve positions. He walked quietly between them, placing one stone after another.
“Jang Jun-man, chairman.”
Amateur 8-dan level by Samguk standards. Three-point komi. Heavy play. Forcing thought and heading into central fighting.
“Lee Won-tae, accountant.”
Cautious, defensive moves that left cracks. But when pressed, he pushed like a storm.
Each of them gradually began to reveal their own Go image.
“Almost all of them are taking shape.”
On every single board, he was engraving his own Go into them. Like a pattern. Like an inscription.
This was not response. He was not playing according to the opponent. It was one-way traffic. He designed everything unilaterally, creating the positions in his mind. Twelve maps unfolded there. He was slowly engraving them onto the boards.
Loose for one. Harsh for another. So tight that no breath could be taken. All different boards, but the same end. No exceptions allowed.
In particular, his gaze brushed past Min and Professor Kang.
“I must definitely show them.”
The thoughts of both men at the midgame stage were clearly visible. Contempt. Shallow mockery. They felt they were above him. He had intended that too.
“I should consider the branch manager’s face.”
He wanted to play more roughly and aggressively to win, but he held back. He did not want to offend the branch manager who had invited him. But he would not yield either.
He was not a bold person. He was not a timid person. He was a person who stored things. When struck, he struck back. When wronged, he pursued it to the end until his pride was satisfied. But he wanted to show it not with words, but with Go. In his own way.
***
“One point short.”
The first game to finish was Lee Won-tae’s match. He had held up well through the middle game, but he ultimately crumbled under White’s endgame.
“Well played.”
Regret was evident, but his mood was not bad. Even in a simultaneous match, the opponent was a 9-dan professional. Losing by one point to such a player was consolation enough.
Kim In-ha bowed lightly and moved to the next board. The second and third games were soon concluded as well.
“One point short. Oh, what a waste. That was well played.”
“Huh? You lost by one point too, boss?”
“Branch Manager Kwak?”
“……Yes. I’m short by one point as well.”
Jang Joo-young and Branch Manager Kwak exchanged glances and blinked.
Three games in a row, all one-point losses.
“Haha. What a vicious coincidence.”
Coincidence. There was no other explanation. But was it really?
Even if the opponent was a professional, reading the flow and shape on every board against twelve players was nearly impossible. Yet all twelve ended in one-point losses?
Logically it should have been coincidence, but the three men felt an inexplicable unease.
And another game ended.
“What? I’m not the only one who lost by one point.”
Again. Again, one point short.
A strange, silent quiet settled over the faces of those who had completed their calculations.
And the match against Min also concluded.
“Ah, I made a mistake here. I should have cut here instead of flipping… What a waste. One point short, indeed.”
Min shook his head and smiled, mixed with regret.
But outside of him, silence flowed over the others’ faces. An atmosphere where it was difficult to find words. Heavy, cold silence.
Min tilted his head curiously and asked, “Why are you all like this?”
“It’s… we all lost by one point.”
“What?”
Min’s eyes widened.
Four games in a row.
All of them had lost by one point.
“Hey, it just means our Terra Club members are strong.”
He forced out the joke. When no one reacted, Min’s gaze hardened.
“That can’t be.”
Absurd. A professional Go player was no deity, and this was statistically impossible. But the impossible was happening right before his eyes.
An indescribable chill ran down his spine. At the same time, an overwhelming pressure pressed down on his entire body.
Min bit his lip tightly. Then he turned his gaze toward Kim In-ha, who was quietly moving between the boards.
At that moment, another game ended.
“……One point short.”
Someone’s voice. Repeated result.
Kim In-ha bowed without a word. A quiet greeting. But that single bow landed like thunder.
No one moved. No one even gasped. Everyone’s expressions were frozen in shock.
“……It’s just a coincidence. A coincidence. You’re all reacting too seriously.”
Min alone kept denying it. But his words hung emptily in the air.
One point. One point. Ten out of twelve games ended in one-point losses.
Only two boards remained: Professor Kang and Chairman Jang’s match.
“You really play well.”
Chairman Jang said in admiration and placed his stone with resignation.
“You don’t have to calculate, do you?”
At Kim In-ha’s question, Chairman Jang nodded quietly.
“I learned a lot.”
Kim In-ha gave a short greeting and headed to the last remaining board.
At that moment, Min followed and asked, “Chairman, how many points short?”
Chairman Jang stepped aside and said, “If you’re curious, calculate it yourself.”
Min calculated Black’s stones, Lee Won-tae calculated White’s. After a moment, both their faces hardened.
“H, one point…”
Everyone felt a chill. At this point, denial was impossible. It was a victory meticulously designed by Kim In-ha.
And Professor Kang’s game was also coming to an end.
“Professor, should I calculate?”
“……”
He said nothing. He could not raise his head and repeated the calculation.
Once more. Three times, four times. The result did not change.
“One point… is short.”
Even in the middle game, he had been confident of victory. He had endured the shaking and the fierce attack. But in the end, he could not overcome that single point.
Breaking the silence, Professor Kang’s voice rang out.
“Did you deliberately play it like this?”
His voice trembled at the end. It was as if he himself did not believe it.
“You asked if I intended this one point, didn’t you?”
Kim In-ha raised his head and looked at him quietly. Wordlessly. Calmly.
The silence surrounding the twelve boards. And finally he spoke.
“Yes. Because there are many ways to play a teaching game.”
A short answer. But everything was contained within it. A design without a single exception. He had not pressed down like a teacher. He had not deliberately yielded. He had simply engraved each board precisely. He had conveyed the weight of the ‘one point’ a professional speaks of. Exactly that weight.
“……”
Everyone fell silent. Even their breathing disappeared.
Twelve boards. Twelve one-point losses. Everyone felt a chill.
“This is… a top-class professional…”
Same board. Same rules. But the depth of thought and the unit of thinking were different. A feeling of being overwhelmed without being dominated. A thrill close to awe. The shock and afterglow were engraved deep into their bones.
Kim In-ha bowed calmly.
“Thank you for your time.”