Time ticked on, and the match had entered the final endgame phase.

Click. Click. Click...

At last, both players completed their endgame. The result of the match was now clear—written out across the board.

The game was decided.

“Black loses by half a point after komi is applied.”

Yu Shao stared at the computer screen. He had already tallied up the final count and softly murmured, “This game… shiau wins.”

In Go, the number of points won or lost in the endgame doesn’t always reflect the gap in skill.

When a player holds a substantial advantage, they often play conservatively to lock in the win, avoiding sharp complications that might invite mistakes.

So, sometimes, a victory by half a point actually represents a larger gap than a midgame kill.

But this game was different. From beginning to end, the two sides had been evenly matched. In midgame, White gained the upper hand.

But as the game moved into the late midgame, Black’s shocking skills began to shine, and he staged a relentless comeback. The gap between the two continued to shrink.

Even as White tried to control the board and avoid complications, Black narrowed the margin again and again. But ultimately, after the final endgame move, Black still came up short—by just half a point.

“What a great game.”

Yu Shao sat silently, staring at the board. He had never expected to witness such a thrilling, flawless match online—one so intense that even he couldn’t help but applaud. Every moment of the game had been a battle. No dull phases. It had gone the full distance.

And he… was the only spectator.

Watching this game left him with a powerful desire: he wanted to play both of them.

He took a deep breath and moved his mouse, preparing to challenge shiau.

But just as his cursor hovered over the username, ready to right-click, he saw the name go gray—offline.

“Logged off…”

Slightly disappointed, he turned his attention to “gangxuebuhuixia” (JustStartedCantPlay), who was still online. He right-clicked and sent a challenge.

He waited.

But no response came.

“Forget it.”

Yu Shao shook his head and logged out of the 19 Go platform.

“If they’re really that strong, I’ll get my chance to face them one day.”

----------------------------------------

Elsewhere, in Jiangling.

Su Yiming sat silently, staring at the game record on his screen.

“I lost…”

He’d never liked playing online games. But after watching Yu Shao and Zhuang Weisheng’s title match, he suddenly had the urge to play—and on a whim, he matched with an opponent online.

He had always played on China’s domestic Go platform “Handtalk Spring and Autumn,” under the ID “JustStartedCantPlay.” Later, he signed up for an account on the 19 platform. Since he couldn’t input Chinese characters there, he used pinyin.

Because he didn’t enjoy online play, he had only played about forty games total.

He never expected that this online match… would end in his first loss.

He didn’t like playing online. As a true Go player, he preferred sitting across from his opponent, engaging in a real, over-the-board battle. But even if it was online, no matter the format, he always gave it his all.

And yet, he had still lost—to that player named shiau.

Over a hundred years ago, Go games could stretch over days, even up to a month. But online Go was 60-second blitz—he wasn’t used to playing so fast.

Still, even if it was blitz, a loss was a loss. He never used such excuses to deny a defeat.

“That wasn’t Yu Shao.”

“I know Yu Shao’s play inside and out.”

“If it had been him, he would’ve abandoned the group in midgame without hesitation. He’s never fixated on points or territory—he always sees the whole board.”

“The person I lost to… was someone else.”

Su Yiming paused for a moment. Suddenly struck by a thought, he moved his mouse, wanting to send a challenge to shiau for another match—but he found the account had already logged off.

----------------------------------------

Meanwhile, in Seoul.

“Master An Hongshi, were you just playing online?”

A young man around twenty-five or twenty-six entered the Go room, sat down across from An Hongshi, and began gathering stones while asking curiously.

“Yes. After watching the match between Zhuang Weisheng and Yu Shao, I suddenly felt like playing a game.”

An Hongshi nodded absentmindedly as he replied.

“That game was insane!”

Hearing this, the young man got fired up. “Unreal. That match gave me chills! Even Zhuang Weisheng lost to Yu Shao—and that’s Zhuang Weisheng!”

“Just like you, he’s one of the idols for so many players. I knew Yu Shao was strong, but part of me never believed he could actually beat Zhuang Weisheng. And yet, he did!”

The more the young man spoke, the more excited he became. “And that Tesuji variation—unbelievable! As soon as the match ended, I called you to do a review together.”

“Summer’s coming soon, and the big international tournaments will start rolling out. I might even end up facing Yu Shao. Honestly? A Chinese player like that… major pressure!”

“I even saw some Chinese media claiming Yu Shao might lead Go into its third era. As much as I hate to admit it, respect where it’s due—he’s earned it.”

But An Hongshi still seemed distracted, only responding with a soft “Mm.”

The young man noticed and asked, “Master An, is something wrong?”

An Hongshi snapped out of it, smiled faintly, and shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You don’t seem like yourself. Aren’t you one of Yu Shao’s most devoted followers?”

The young man cast a puzzled glance at him—then his eyes drifted toward the laptop next to the Go board. Suddenly, his hand froze mid-motion.

“Master An… you…”

The disbelief on his face was unmistakable.

“You didn’t… lose that online game, did you?”

An Hongshi paused—then shook his head. “No. I won.”

“Whew—!”

The young man clutched his chest dramatically. “You scared the hell out of me! I mean, come on—how could you possibly lose online?”

“Why not?”

An Hongshi shrugged. “Even in pro tournaments, packed with the world’s strongest players, I’ve lost games.”

The young man grinned. “But in your case, one loss is big news! Tons of players dream of beating you just once. There’s even that saying: ‘If you beat An Hongshi, you’re top-tier.’”

“That’s an exaggeration,” An Hongshi laughed, shaking his head. “I’m far from perfect.”

“Aw, come on. You? Far from perfect?”

The young man gave a theatrical gasp. “People used to say if you played a two-space extension, the opponent had no chance! Back then, whenever you extended, others would just pincer instantly—force a fight no matter what.”

“I was still a kid then, and I remember being stunned. I thought, ‘Wait—is this what being a master looks like? Who just pincers into a two-space extension? Terrifying!’”

“Turns out it wasn’t the others who were terrifying—it was you.”

An Hongshi couldn’t help but chuckle. “You really know how to flatter.”

“I’m just speaking the truth,” the young man laughed, putting the stones back into the bowl. “Everyone knows your nickname—Thousand Hands. Your style is unreadable. One moment solid and grounded, the next free as wind. You chase territory and influence at the same time—no fixed path, adapting to everything.”

“Every time I play you, I feel like all the masters of Go are standing behind you—maybe even my own reflection’s in there too.”

Even knowing it was flattery, An Hongshi didn’t mind. Who doesn’t enjoy a little praise?

He smiled and said, “Alright, let’s start the review.”

The young man dropped his casual demeanor, grew serious, and quickly placed a stone to begin reviewing Yu Shao vs. Zhuang Weisheng.

As he played, An Hongshi couldn’t help but recall the online game just now.

“That game—I only won by half a point.”

“And it wasn’t because I intentionally controlled the board. Even after playing my absolute best, I barely scraped out half a point.”

“Before counting the final result, I didn’t even know if I’d won.”

“A half-point win is luck. One-point is skill. One-and-a-half... is divine.”

“So… was it luck?”

Thinking of every move the opponent had made, his expression turned increasingly grave.

“Their style felt unfamiliar—yet I couldn’t find any known player to match it. Their sense of territory, thickness, pace, initiative... completely unorthodox.”

“There’s some overlap with Yu Shao—but it’s definitely not him.”

“In local battles, he sometimes uses incredibly old techniques—like the leaning cap joseki. But other times, he plays moves I’ve never seen in my life.”

“It’s like he’s experimenting—searching for something new within the old.”

“More importantly… there’s no doubt. His mid-to-late-game strength… surpasses mine.”

“So did I really win?”

----------------------------------------

The shockwaves from the National Title Match were beyond imagination. That night, nearly every Go forum was flooded with posts about the game. Discussion was everywhere.

Especially the Tesuji variation that Yu Shao introduced—it was so revolutionary, it was practically threatening to rewrite the foundations of Go.

The terrifying part was, if players couldn’t figure out how to counter it, they might soon be afraid to approach star points at all!

If players stopped approaching stars entirely, then the Go of the past and the Go of now… would be two entirely different games.

----------------------------------------

In San Francisco, USA. At a Go training class—

It was daytime there. A group of Go instructors gathered around a board, repeatedly reviewing Yu Shao’s game against Zhuang Weisheng.

They analyzed every move again and again—unable to stay calm.

One tall, broad-shouldered man lit one cigarette after another, his brain racing nonstop.

“My God. This is too much. This really is the Go of a new era.”

A man with glasses cried out, stunned: “The Tesuji is real! And it’s unstoppable—like divine punishment, like God’s whip!”

“Impossible. If the star point becomes untouchable, then Yu Shao himself wouldn’t use it either!”

Someone shook their head. “There must be a counter!”

“Maybe. But we’re not the ones to find it. We’ll need to ask the professionals.”

The burly man took a deep drag, snuffed out his cigarette, and said solemnly:

“We’re Go teachers—but now, we have to relearn Go.”

A dead silence filled the classroom.

The instructors looked at each other, faces blank with disbelief.

They were teachers—and yet, they had to start over?

How absurd was that?

Everything they thought they knew… might be wrong.

“Haven’t you realized yet?”

The burly man said gravely. “From the 3-3 invasion, to the flawed small-knight-no-worries corner, to the three great unresolved patterns, and now this Tesuji...”

“Compared to a year ago, the entire way we play Go has changed.”

“Thickness, lightness, speed, illusion, territory... all the foundations of Go have shifted!”

His tone rose. “If you look back at game records from a year ago now, they feel… bizarre. Like everything they did was just wrong.”

Everyone froze.

Then slowly, their expressions changed.

Now that it had been said aloud, they finally noticed it.

Their understanding had already changed without them realizing.

Now, when they saw a 3-3 invasion, they didn’t even flinch. Now, when two players broke out a complicated Avalanche variation, they weren’t stunned anymore.

Now, if someone used weird formations or ancient tactics, they’d frown. Even seeing someone play the large diagonal, they’d think there were better choices.

Suddenly, someone remembered the outrageous statement Yu Shao had made during the China-Korea-Japan League:

“Before me, no game could be called a good game.”

And now... they found themselves agreeing.

“Whether we like it or not, a new era of Go has truly begun.”

After a long silence, the burly man finally said quietly:

“Any player who doesn’t enter this new era—will be left behind.”

“This player from China… he blasted open the temple of Go.”

“And only then did I realize—the temple… was completely empty.”