"Hello, please take care of me."
"Hello, please take care of me."
Jing Yu and Huo Yu sat across from each other. Huo Yu, in his thirties, sported long hair and a neat mustache, exuding an artistic, melancholic vibe.
Well, if he weren't sitting next to Jing Yu, he'd probably look quite dashing.
But with them side-by-side on-screen, Huo Yu simply looked... ordinary.
Jing Yu, in his flowing white ancient robes, light makeup, and folding fan in hand, was almost too perfect—his pale skin and stunning looks made both men and women watching at home salivate.
To be honest, based on how easily he defeated Qian Yu, Jing Yu was starting to feel like he might already be at the top level of this world's Go players.
After the match with Qian Yu, he did a self-evaluation and realized:
Even without using the obscure inward variation of the Large Avalanche opening from his previous life, he could've beaten Qian Yu just using Great Zhou's standard patterns.
But still, using the most reliable and calculated method was just more stable—this was Jing Yu's strength.
And the fact was: he hadn't even fully unleashed the later stages of the Large Avalanche's inward turn variation before Qian Yu had already fallen into his trap and lost.
You see, Great Zhou didn't have a 'Go Seigen'. The Large Avalanche had been studied here, but everyone always focused on the outer variation. In that form, when played traditionally, Black tends to lose a little.
But Jing Yu played the inward turn—and in that variation, even if the sequence goes smoothly, White ends up worse off.
Of course, Qian Yu didn't know any of that. To him, Jing Yu's move looked like a mistake—or just an odd amateur habit.
One misread, and he was completely trapped.
This variation, after all, had been studied by top-level players in Jing Yu's previous life for over a century, and was once considered one of the three most complex joseki (opening patterns).
Sure, AlphaGo had dismissed it as suboptimal in later years—but who knows how it was calculating things?
Human players still used it for decades, and Qian Yu was human—he was never going to unravel all the traps of a super-dense joseki in a two-hour match.
With that foundation, plus a whole slew of unusual follow-ups, Qian Yu had absolutely no chance.
During the lunch break, Huo Yu, Qian Yu, Xu Jun, and Li Le got together to discuss Jing Yu's playstyle.
After all, this tournament basically had only three serious contenders: the two 9-dan players, and now... Jing Yu.
So while the 9-dans didn't bother studying him—thinking they'd only face him at the very end—the remaining pros had no choice but to analyze him in depth.
Among them, Li Le had the most experience playing against Jing Yu, so he generously shared everything he knew.
The four professionals spent the entire lunch break dissecting Jing Yu's unorthodox techniques.
Everyone knew by now: the final eight would include those five pros and Jing Yu—no doubt about it.
And eventually, the professionals would have to face him.
It couldn't be left to the two 9-dans to "clean him up."
Afternoon.
Jing Yu vs. Huo Yu began.
By this point, the number of viewers had skyrocketed compared to the morning.
Yun Teng's sub-channel broke 2.5% in ratings—insane numbers for a niche Go event.
In the network's production department, Director Meng Yu had blatantly locked the door and was watching the match live on TV.
He remembered when Jing Yu first joined Yunteng TV—he'd casually played a match with him, and Jing Yu had even intentionally lost.
Later, when the news of Li Le's loss broke... then Qian Yu's resignation... and now, on-screen—
Huo Yu's confused face, staring at the board like he'd just seen a ghost.
"What is this move? How can it change like that?"
Meng Yu was also stunned.
He knew a bit about Go—enough to recognize just how bizarre and creative Jing Yu's tactics were.
Moves he'd never seen before—but they worked.
"Hey, isn't Huo Yu the one at a disadvantage right now?"
"More than that. He's on the verge of losing."
"How did Jing Yu even learn all these tricks? Honestly, I'm starting to wonder if he really does have Sai standing behind him…"
"Wait, what do you mean?"
"Like—what if there's actually a thousand-year-old Go ghost named Fujiwara no Sai guiding him?"
"You've been watching too much drama. If it were really a thousand-year-old Go spirit, at least his playstyle would resemble ancient techniques, right? But this stuff Jing Yu's using—no one has ever researched it professionally. And now he's using it to wipe the floor with seasoned pros."
"Poor Huo Yu. He looks completely lost."
"The way Jing Yu plays—it's like he knows exactly how to counter Huo Yu's every move. But Huo Yu? He's clearly walking into traps that were set dozens of moves ago. No way he can see that far ahead in such little time."
"Okay, but—hear me out. What if Jing Yu's Go spirit isn't from our world? What if it's from a parallel universe? Didn't scientists say parallel worlds could exist? Maybe in that universe, Go evolved totally differently!"
"Sigh. Look, I get that we all love 'Hikaru no Go', but don't let the fantasy get to your head."
"Exactly. Jing Yu is Fujiwara no Sai. There's no ghost—Jing Yu just loves Go as much as Fujiwara no Sai does. That's why he created 'Hikaru no Go'. There's no Fujiwara no Sai—Fujiwara no Sai is Jing Yu himself."
"...I'm crying. That hit deep."
"I was being shallow before. Now I see it—Jing Yu really does live like Sai would."
"But if he is like Fujiwara no Sai, then he must really love Go. So why did he become a screenwriter? And why the hell did he write something like 'White Album 2'—that cheating drama?!"
"???"
"Dude, now's really not the time for that. We're all emotional here!"
"Mod, kick this guy out. He's ruining the vibe."
Meanwhile, at the board, Huo Yu sighed.
He didn't resign, mostly because it wasn't his style.
But after tallying up the endgame…
He'd lost by over four stones.
"...I lost."
Dejected, Huo Yu bowed respectfully and left the stage.
He had done his best—no excuses. He lost, and that was that.
Backstage, when he saw Su Lin's furious glare, he simply offered one line:
"Su Lin 9-dan... That guy is really strong."
Among professional players, they weren't exactly in a hierarchy. Su Lin, being a senior and team lead, could give orders, but blaming Huo Yu outright wouldn't sit well.
Still…
"Strong, huh? I'd like to see for myself…"
Su Lin's tone had changed.
"Not that he'll necessarily make it to me or Old Zhou. Xu Jun—if you face him next, you know what to do."
"This exchange event… I don't know why, but ratings are through the roof. Online, every headline is about pro players getting stomped by a screenwriter."
"This isn't an exchange anymore. The Go Association already called me—we can't let that guy run wild. If we keep letting him win, we'll become a joke."
Online, Go forums were exploding:
Li Le (5-dan): 14 losses
Qian Yu (6-dan): resigned
Huo Yu (7-dan): lost by 4+ stones
All of them beaten by one man:
Jing Yu — a screenwriter.
If this kept going, it'd be disastrous.
Xu Jun looked grim.
He no longer dared to underestimate Jing Yu.
If they met, he would fight with everything he had.
Later that night.
Xu Jun walked into his room, head hanging.
He had lost too.
This small-scale, casual Go exchange event had brought in six professional players.
And in a single day, three of them had fallen—
To one man.
This was headline news.
Meanwhile, Zhou Zhengguang and Su Lin had finished their third-round matches early and gone straight to the control room to watch Jing Yu's games.
Now, their faces were different.
Before, they only heard others say Jing Yu was strong. But seeing his games live?
"...He's really strong."
"Yeah. How did the amateur Go world produce someone like this? Who is he even practicing with to get this good?"
Even Su Lin had lost his earlier smugness.
By the end of day one, only eight players remained:
Su Lin
Zhou Zhengguang
Li Le
Jing Yu
And four casual players with no real strength
With that bracket, there was no escaping it:
One of them would face Jing Yu next.