Chapter 9
Chapter 9
“…Even game?”
The chat was burning with rage at my provocative words.
Most of it was ridicule and mockery for not knowing my place.
I didn’t care.
Being insulted didn’t matter.
What mattered was making the most of this opportunity.
I needed to see how far I could go against a professional.
To do that, I had to level the game into an even match.
“Hmm… I do see people like this sometimes…”
Jang Yu-na 2-dan trailed off, sounding troubled.
But after a moment of hesitation, she smiled confidently.
“Alright, let’s do it. But Mu-myeong.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking at my nickname in the waiting room.
“You’d better play well. I’m a bit offended now, so I won’t go easy on you.”
It sounded playful, but it didn’t feel like a joke.
She was serious.
My modified match request was accepted.
[Even game. Komi 6.5 points, 10-minute main time, 3 byo-yomi periods]
The automatic draw decided colors.
I got white.
Losing first move advantage was a pity, but not something to dwell on.
“Hoo…”
I let go of the mouse and took a deep breath.
I lowered Yu-na’s stream volume so it wouldn’t distract me.
‘This is more nerve-wracking than a tournament.’
But it was a pleasant kind of tension.
The pressure sharpened my senses.
Tap.
On the full board displayed on screen,
Jang Yu-na placed the first move on the upper-left star point.
I responded immediately with my own star point.
The opening developed normally.
Both of us left room for flexibility, probing each other without committing.
‘She’s different.’
She fully exploited the advantage of the first move.
And when needed, she shifted seamlessly into flexible joseki choices.
Unfixed opening patterns.
Perfect timing.
Refined movement.
‘This is professional go.’
It was on a completely different level from the opponents I had faced before.
Maybe only PePe came close, but even that wasn’t like this.
My hand moved across the mouse.
There was no reason to feel intimidated just because she was a pro.
I only needed to play the best go I could.
Click.
From corner to side, from side to center.
Small clashes turned into a blaze that spread across the entire board.
“The stage is set.”
A complicated position.
A chaotic fight.
I had successfully created a battlefield where my style could thrive.
Now all that remained was…
“To win.”
“Hm, your choice of joseki is a bit outdated.”
Even while playing the viewer match, Jang Yu-na continued to speak through her microphone.
“This shape is bad for White. It’s rarely used nowadays for a reason.”
She added commentary as a professional, and also as a streamer.
That was part of her job, but also her confidence as a pro.
‘Strange. It’s supposed to be a bad opening… but it doesn’t feel bad.’
Go evolves rapidly with constant research.
Old patterns disappear quickly.
Mu-myeong’s opening was one of those.
Her mind knew it was inefficient.
But in practice, it didn’t feel that way at all.
The supposedly inefficient white formation…
as the game progressed, those stones felt like they were exactly where they needed to be.
“She’s playing very fluidly here. This person… his go is hard to read.”
This wasn’t just broadcast talk.
She genuinely felt herself being dragged along by his style.
There’s a saying in go:
Lack of form becomes form.
‘No. It shouldn’t be like that. Every move is too solid.’
Moves that expand territory.
Moves that defend.
Moves that provoke.
Even if it looked loose on the surface, not a single move felt careless.
“I’ll cut here and test your response. How will you answer?”
Her nickname in her prime was the Bull.
A player known for relentless, head-on fighting.
A brutal, all-in combat style.
Tap.
White answered immediately.
She immediately attached and counterattacked.
It was no longer a local skirmish.
It had become a full-board war.
From this moment on, Yu-na stopped speaking almost entirely.
The initiative had shifted.
White, who had been defending, was now relentlessly attacking across the board.
Yu-na didn’t even have time to read the chat.
‘I’m… losing?’
Her mind went blank.
The balance had flipped in an instant.
Everywhere she looked, she was struggling to stabilize collapsing fights.
‘Too strong. This is suffocatingly strong!’
It felt like standing in front of top-tier professionals competing in world championships.
Sharp intuition combined with unshakable solidity.
Two contradictory forces pressing down on her at once.
“…AI cheating? No, that’s not it.”
She denied the chat speculation.
“There are no AI-like patterns. It doesn’t feel like optimal calculated play either. There’s no weird unnatural feeling.”
And that was what made it terrifying.
She had never seen a style like this recently.
“There’s also no sign of modern AI influence…”
She couldn’t finish her sentence.
She was too busy surviving the board.
By the time the byo-yomi countdown began,
her position started to collapse.
She searched desperately for a way back, but there was no time.
In the end, she crumbled on her own.
“I resign.”
With a five-point deficit, she gave up without counting the rest.
“I won.”
The tension drained out all at once, and I slumped back in my chair.
My whole body felt empty.
“I beat a pro…?”
It still didn’t feel real.
Every move had been critical.
One mistake, and I would have been the one resigning instead of her.
“If it weren’t a stream, it would’ve been an even better game…”
The viewer-match format itself was a handicap.
She couldn’t fully concentrate.
But I had no intention of diminishing the victory.
Only of evaluating myself more calmly.
I pulled her stream back up and unmuted the audio.
“Good game, Mu-myeong.”
Jang Yu-na greeted me.
I typed in chat.
Thank you. I learned a lot.
The chat exploded again as viewers recognized me.
The praise didn’t feel bad.
Being acknowledged felt good.
“Mu-myeong, you’re not actually a pro, right? You’re not hiding your identity or anything?”
She asked jokingly.
I replied in chat.
I’m just a normal office worker.
“I see. That was a really fun game. If we get the chance again, I’ll ask for a rematch.”
After that, she moved on to the next viewer match.
I watched casually as the stream continued.
Interestingly, even amateur 3-dan and 4-dan challengers requested even games.
Probably because of me.
“Do they think I’m easy or something?”
Jang Yu-na smiled coldly.
It was obvious she was now serious.
And just as expected, the next two challengers were completely crushed.
No mercy.
It felt like she was letting out frustration.
‘So that’s her fighting style… no way back.’
Funny thing was the chat reaction.
Even while provoking her and getting destroyed, they enjoyed it.
“There are all kinds of people.”
I lay back on my bed, amused.
Today’s victory felt more meaningful now.
It made my strength feel clearer.
‘Maybe I can go even further.’
I slowly closed my eyes.
A pleasant exhaustion mixed with satisfaction pulled me into sleep.
“I’ll end the stream here today. I’ll be waiting for another match next time. Good night.”
Jang Yu-na ended the stream with a wave.
After confirming the broadcast had stopped, she leaned back in her chair.
“Good work, Pro Jang.”
Producer Heo Beom-ho handed her a cold drink.
“Peak viewers hit over 1,900.”
He smiled brightly.
Since moving to official studio broadcasts, they had hit a new record.
The influx of Chinese viewers was especially encouraging.
Go audiences were still dominated by China after all.
And real-time translation tools were gradually breaking language barriers.
“Hey, what are you thinking about? You look spaced out.”
“Oh… that person earlier.”
“Who? Mu-myeong?”
“Yeah.”
“You saw it too. I didn’t expect Yu-na to lose an even game. Probably a strong amateur or a research student.”
The PD was an amateur 3-dan himself.
A go enthusiast who became a professional producer in the field.
So he had some eye for skill.
“I don’t think he’s a research student.”
“How do you know?”
“There’s no instability typical between amateurs and pros.”
Modern research students were heavily influenced by AI.
They used cutting-edge joseki and theoretical openings.
They often played creative AI-inspired moves.
But—
‘None of that applies.’
It was the opposite.
Go before AI.
Human go.
Familiar yet unfamiliar.
Old, yet solid.
It felt like watching “a completed form of human go.”
“Then a top amateur? Even amateur 9-dans sometimes get two-stone handicaps against low pros.”
“He’s not amateur level.”
“Then what? A pro?”
“Probably.”
She answered firmly.
“If he’s a hidden pro, why use an amateur account? The admins would give him a pro account immediately.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you joking?”
The PD frowned.
“But I hope he’s not a pro.”
“Didn’t you just say he was?”
“It doesn’t matter who he is. What matters is what he shows.”
“Wait… don’t tell me—”
The PD’s eyes widened.
“You felt it too, right? Mu-myeong isn’t someone who’ll stay quiet.”
“Yeah. At that skill level, coming to a stream and deliberately joining viewer matches… even playing even games to get attention…”
“He’s someone who does things.”
“Someone who can’t stay still.”
Both nodded.
People who crave attention cannot hide it forever.
They grinned at each other.
“Let’s make this interesting.”
