Chapter 5: Betting Baduk (2)

The nickname ‘tlsckdah1021’.

29 matches, 29 wins.

It seems to have become a hot topic for suddenly appearing in online Go and racking up consecutive victories.

Every time I log into the online game room, whispers flood in, forcing me to block them.

And with this match, ‘tlsckdah1021’ reaches 30 wins in 30 games.

“Haa.”

I take a deep breath and set the mouse down.

It doesn’t mean much.

As if to prove my lack of creativity, the nickname ‘tlsckdah1021’, a mix of my name and birthday, and its 30-win streak only show I’ve regained a certain level of my professional skill as Shin Changmo.

The world of pros, granted to only about 200 Go players, and among them, the realm of the 9-dan masters called “godlike.”
Even if I faltered there, it’s not a level that would lose pathetically in an online space.

The opponent I just beat was at least a research student or a low-dan pro.

To their frustrated questions about me, I simply type, [Well played], and close the game window without lingering.
I only hope this game becomes a chance for their growth.

Unless I resolve to play as I did in my past life, Shin Changmo’s Go won’t see the light of day.
Thus, there’s no reason or meaning to answer the questions surrounding ‘tlsckdah1021’.

Having started Go anew, the Go I played in my past life is just an obstacle to overcome, not the ultimate goal.

My past self, Shin Changmo’s Go, was, at best, standard and solid; at worst, rigid and formulaic.

Unlike chess or other games, Go was thought to be a human domain until artificial intelligence conquered it, changing many things.

Go players who once dismissed and belittled AI’s incomprehensible moves began to revere and imitate them.
As with everything in the world, the strongest is right, and their actions are truth.

As a result, some traditional joseki were reevaluated or abandoned, and Shin Changmo plummeted sharply.

The tightly woven web of connections fell apart, turning “Go I knew how to play but couldn’t win” into “obvious Go.”

Walking Shin Changmo’s path again would only lead to crashing into the same wall.

Thus, I, Ryu Seo, will play a different Go from Shin Changmo.

I’m not aiming for anything grand.
As an imperfect human, I don’t have the arrogance to pursue perfect Go.

Just one step further than Shin Changmo.
One more step forward is enough.

Leaving a meaningful mark in Go’s thousands of years of history isn’t a wish unique to me.

I turn off the computer and sit in front of the new Go board Grandfather bought for me.

My opponent is myself.

Black is ‘Ryu Seo,’ and White is ‘Shin Changmo’.

Playing as one person but separating the approaches isn’t easy, naturally.

Breaking free from habits, inertia, and familiarity requires resolve and persistent effort.

As Black, I play the first move, then move to the other side and pick up White stones.

It’s inefficient and cumbersome, but without this, I can’t play with a different mindset and perspective.

When playing White, I place stones conservatively; with Black, I take risks.
Different styles of Go, but both aim for the best possible moves.

Spending double or triple the time, Black’s moves, when I switch to White, feel neither sharp nor fresh.

They feel forced, as if driven by an obsession to play differently.

Before long, White’s advantage becomes clear, and I flip the board.

Black built a solid shape to induce a chaotic fight, but White avoided battle tediously, securing territory and saving a central group of stones without much loss, deciding the game.

“Good.”

I didn’t expect it to go well from the start.

I steel myself and pick up Black stones again.

*

For the past few days, I’ve been staying at Grandfather’s house, playing alone or online in the mornings and evenings, and visiting the Go club every afternoon.

Though retired, Grandfather has his own work and life.

Leaving me alone at home or elsewhere might worry him, but he can go about his day with peace of mind knowing I’m at the club with familiar people.

Thanks to the owner’s kindness, there’s no financial burden.
The men I play often treat me to snacks or lunch after games, which is a huge help in my current situation, where every penny saved goes toward Father’s medical bills.

I’ll have to repay this kindness someday.

Beyond financial help, playing with the club’s people greatly improves my skills.

Compared to pros, their mistakes are more frequent, and their Go lacks consistency and structure, but that doesn’t mean they can’t play good moves.

Even weaker players have something to teach.
But for a learner, getting guidance from a stronger player is better, as they might not distinguish good moves from bad and could pick up poor habits.

In my case, with a certain level of discernment, that’s not a concern.

Besides, unless I become a pro’s disciple or a research student, the club’s players offer the highest-quality Go within my reach.

“Ugh, I lost. Even with three stones, I can’t win anymore.”

A self-employed man who runs a nearby fried chicken restaurant gathers his stones.

“Well played.”

At first, I gave him a two-stone handicap and played evenly.

My skills are steadily improving.

“Oh, look at the time! Seo, I’ve gotta run!”

Checking his watch, he hurriedly packs and leaves.

“Miss Seo.”

Someone calls me as I’m setting up the board to review, starting from the first move.

“Oh, hello.”

It’s Jung Woonil, the opponent I barely beat with a one-stone handicap.
He’s been too busy to visit since then.

“Can you spare a moment?”

He seems to have something to say.
I nod, and he leads me to the hallway outside the club.

“Here.”

Outside, he hands me a flyer for a tournament: the WY Cup National Women’s Amateur Go Championship.
The winner’s prize is 6 million won, with a total prize pool of 10 million won—a big event.

“My company sponsors this tournament. They give out seven seeds for the main draw, one of which goes to the sponsor.
The tournament’s approaching, and I hadn’t decided yet, but you came to mind, Miss Seo.”

With seven seeds advancing directly to the main draw, the other six are likely top-ranked amateurs or research students.
For me, with no record, entering the main draw directly might stir controversy.

“…Are you sure it’s okay to give it to me?”

I was planning to look into tournament qualifiers once my skills stabilized, so getting the only sponsor seed is appreciated.
But I worry it might create negative publicity for the sponsor.

“Haha, Miss Seo, I don’t make losing deals.
Among the participants is a girl who became Japan’s youngest pro.
She’s still an amateur since her official pro status is pending, but she’s practically a pro.
Coincidentally, she’s your age.”

Japan’s youngest soon-to-be pro must be drawing media attention.
A clash between ten-year-olds, a Korea-Japan showdown—loaded with sensational material.

If we face off in the bracket, I’d get attention too, and if that becomes a story, Jung Woonil, who gave me the seed and sponsors the event, would reap significant publicity.

“What do you say, Miss Seo? I’ve seen your skill with my own eyes, so all you need is courage.
Of course, at your age, you’ll need your guardian’s permission too, haha.”

If that’s the case, there’s nothing to hold me back.

“Yes, please let me compete.”

I nod firmly, my resolve set.