Archive of Our Own

One Last Game

“Hey, Akira?” Hikaru taps his folded fan against his chin. “Will you do something for me?”

Akira doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he considers the game for a moment, deliberating his next move. Then, in one clean movement, he pinches a stone between his fingers and clicks it down onto the board. He scoops up some of Hikaru’s pieces, gaining territory.

“Possibly. What is it?”

Hikaru quickly places a piece, shoring up a different section of the board that is all but lost to Akira at this point.

“I wanna play a game of Go with you.”

Akira’s brow furrows.

“…We’re playing right now.”

Hikaru shakes his head.

“No, I mean… a special game of Go.”

“…Like multiple boards? One color?” Akira thinks on it. “You could definitely use some work in that one.”

Hikaru growls. “My one-color is fine! That’s not what I meant!”

“Then, what?”

Hikaru stares down, completely through the wooden board between them.

“I need you to be me.”

Akira waits for him to clarify.

He does not.

“What does that even mean?” Akira asks. “And why would I wanna be you? That sounds awful.”

Hikaru clicks his tongue, then swipes the board completely clean, all the stones clattering off the side.

“What the hell!” Akira yells. “We weren’t done!”

Hikaru ignores his protests, and quickly places a handful of stones of both colors in specific spots across the goban.

He picks his fan back up, then points it down at the new setup, the wooden framework holding up his hand like a pillar.

“I… need you to help me finish this game.”

Akira’s mouth pulls to the side.

It’s the early start of a game, 6 turns in, the same number of white and black stones each. So early that there’s basically nothing Akira can glean from it; what strategies might be involved, who the players could have been, how serious it might be. Going over games is nothing new, but this isn’t a game. It’s… a false start.

“…Why?” Akira asks, confused. “This is nothing.”

Hikaru eyes narrow with an uncomfortable ferocity.

“It’s not nothing,” he says firmly, before the ferocity abates. “It’s… it’s too much to explain fully right now. But, I want to finish this game. And the only person who can help me do it, is you.”

Akira’s eyebrow goes up.

“Because I’m the best player you know?” he suggests.

Hikaru rolls his eyes.

“Second best, at most!” he says, waving off the notion and moving on. He points his fan at one of the black stones. “I was black, in this game,” he says. “And, I need you to play as me, and help me get to the end. You’re…” He gets suddenly shy. “You know me and my Go better than anyone else.”

Akira feels his cheeks get a little warm. He can’t deny the truth in that; he’s been watching Hikaru play for half his life at this point.

But, there’s an obvious question that follows.

“Then, who will you be playing as?”

Hikaru hesitates.

“…I’ll tell you after we play, okay?” he says. “I promise. Just… will you please do this, for me?”

It’s a strange request, and because it’s so strange Akira leans towards refusing it. He doesn’t like being in the dark, doesn’t like being asked to… play pretend in that dark. But, it’s rare that Hikaru asks for something so modestly. He’s taking this, whatever it is, very seriously, and Hikaru isn’t really a serious kind of person. He’ll play the part at ceremonies, or get in the zone during a game, but this is something altogether different.

And maybe, it has Akira intensely curious. So he accepts.

“Okay,” he says. “You want to do this right now?”

Hikaru shakes his head.

“No. I need some time to get in the right headspace.”

“…The right headspace,” Akira repeats, skeptical. “You can do something other than ‘empty?’”

“Empty?!” Hikaru repeats with his more familiar irritation. “My head’s full enough that I can kick your ass more often than not!”

“Do we need to go over percentages again?” Akira bites back. “You’re win rate against me doesn’t even hit 40 percent, that is not more often than not!’”

“The ties don’t count!”

“Then it would still be just short of 50!”

“Oh what, you have the exact numbers all of a sudden??”

“Yes!”

Hikaru sweeps the board once again.

“Then let’s go one more time so I can raise it!”

“Fine, but I’m counting the game you ruined as my win, too.”

“The hell it was!”

They quickly get into a new, heated game, and the mystery of Hikaru’s request gets set by the wayside.

For now.

---

In the following week, Hikaru is a ghost.

He’s always a bit distant around this time of year, but this year he reaches a whole new level. He doesn’t show up at any Go events, doesn’t play a single game, exhibition, official, or otherwise, barely makes any social appearances besides a quick greeting here and there. They’re in a lull right now for title qualifiers, but with a new crop of Pros just graduating, Dan matches have started in full, and Hikaru completely skips one he had scheduled with Waya, who goes off about how rude Hikaru was the whole day afterwards. It’s even more annoying for Akira, because he’s the one people go to to ask why, and he has to keep telling them that he truly does not know what Hikaru is up to.

‘Getting in the right headspace,’ he supposes.

As best as he can tell, what that means for Hikaru is either locking himself up in the records room of the Go institute, or locking himself up in their spare room, going over old games, whether it by kifu or by… however the computer they have does it (Akira doesn’t touch the thing, himself). Hikaru is so deep in old texts and books that an outside observer might confuse his actions as studying, but of course, such a thing is impossible. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

But what strikes Akira the most about Hikaru’s recent actions is how lonely the whole thing makes him feel. Hikaru has been a constant presence in Akira’s life for the better part of a decade by now, and even though he’s still around, he’s firmly in the margins, visible to Akira but separated by some unknown barrier.

It’s jarring. To realize how… dependent he’s become on Hikaru, his attention, his company. To have that dependency suddenly sundered by Hikaru’s own whims.

But maybe that’s only more evidence for how important this game must be to him.

Direct sincerity doesn’t come easily to Hikaru, but his emotions are easier to read than even the simplest of kifus, and because of that Akira knows exactly where he stands. How important Akira’s own company is, to the boy who chased after him for years. The two of them are a pair now, to each other and the world, and if Hikaru is spending so much time in solitude, it must truly be significant.

It must be. If it’s not, Akira will raze him to the ground with the fiercest Go he’s ever seen.

It’s a sign, though, that Akira needs to take it just as seriously. He’s been given a mission – Play a game as Hikaru – and he can’t think of anything more daunting. To truly understand another person’s Go may be an impossible task on its own; the fundamental joy of this game is that no one is perfectly predictable. But Hikaru’s play is something altogether more; clever and creative, bombastic and beautiful. Akira has played thousands of games with Hikaru, and the thrill of it has never once waned. He could play a million more and never tire.

Not that he’d ever tell Hikaru that. He has a big enough head as it is.

But his assessment was, undoubtedly, correct. If there is a person on this Earth who could do it, it’s Akira, who knows Hikaru’s Go almost as well as his own. He’s seen it from the ground up, through all its twists and turns, could tell the shape of it even behind a blindfold. For Hikaru, he can be Hikaru, and maybe together, they can find whatever it is Hikaru is looking for.

---

The goban is set up. Two bowls rest on either side, filled with white and black stones, respectively. Akira sits and waits in the proper seiza position, legs under him and knees forward. He’s usually a bit more relaxed in their casual games, but he’s not sure this is casual. He hedges the mood by being in comfortable clothing though, in shorts and a t-shirt, because if he is Hikaru, that only seems appropriate.

But then the man himself walks in wearing full formal attire, in the flowing sleeves of a kimono and the roomy, pleated trousers of hakama, something Akira has only ever seen him wear once or twice for important ceremonies, and Akira has to wonder how much more there is to learn about his oldest friend and partner.

Hikaru spots Akira sitting properly by the goban, then has the gall to smile and say,

“You don’t have to sit like that, you know?”

Akira sneers. “You’re one to talk!” he cries, annoyed at being the less formal of the two. He gives Hikaru a once over, and sets aside how handsome the formal clothing makes him look. “Why are you wearing that?”

Hikaru laughs.

“It’s a bit much, I know,” he says, rubbing at the back of his head. “But, this is probably as close as I can get to the original.”

He takes his place across the Go board, sitting properly too, and doesn’t elaborate on what the original is supposed to be. And then, and does nothing but stare at the board for a few minutes in silence.

Akira frowns.

The mood is weird. He’s trying to go along with everything, but Hikaru is telling him nothing, forcing him to flounder through this whole awkward performance without support. It’s frustrating, in a different way than Hikaru usually is, a way that Akira is starting to resent rather than adore. But just as the one-sided tension gets to be unbearable, Hikaru finally speaks.

“…Hikaru,” he says, to Akira. “Let’s play a game.”

Akira hates the way he says it. Sadly, bittersweet. Like it’s the last words he’s going to say. Absolutely nothing like Shindou Hikaru.

But then, Akira supposes, he’s Hikaru, now. So he channels his partners’ familiar petulance, and says to whoever Hikaru is now,

“I don’t actually know how the game starts, you know.” He dunks his hand into the bowl of stones, shifting them around with small clatters. “Which move is first. You didn’t place them in order when you showed me.”

The heavier mood that Hikaru fell into suddenly dissolves, and Hikaru goes, “Oh, sorry!” before pulling a fan out from his sleeve. Akira notices that it’s much more sophisticated than his usual fare, a cut above the cheap ones he goes through once a month. He points it at the top right star, with a refined movement that does not fit him.

He holds it there, waiting, until Akira pinches a stone from the pile and clicks it in place, right at the fan’s tip.

Hikaru follows up with his move, just as preordained, then points at another intersection of the board. It goes like that for just a bit, pointing, then placing, back and forth, Hikaru mapping out the pitifully short game in seconds, before he directs Akira one last time. Akira places a black stone, and they reach the ‘end.’

Or rather, the beginning.

“It was your turn,” Akira states, to Hikaru, to whoever he’s meant to be, and wonders what it was that interrupted this game.

Hikaru lets out a shaky breath, then swallows down some unknown emotion.

“…Yeah,” he says. “It was.”

He grabs a stone, holds it over the board for just a moment, then snaps it down onto the board with a devastating finality. This game, however old it was, finally progresses. A brand new step into unknown territory.

Akira takes a breath of his own, clearing out the anxiousness he’s feeling, and settles into his usual focus, but with a new, underlying principle guiding his play: What would Hikaru do?

He pulls out another black stone, and sets it on an empty star, and the game finally begins.

There is no simple way to describe Hikaru’s Go. Maybe there was, once, but it’s changed so much over the years, influenced by time, his mentors, his opponents, his mentees, Akira himself. But there is a through-line, a core to every game he plays. He is, more than anything, tricky, and playful, in a way that Akira isn’t sure he can fully replicate.

Because it’s more than just surprise moves or clever plays; Hikaru has those, but he can also play the most straightforward, controlled game you’ll ever see, leaving his opponent on guard for a surprise attack that will never come, all the way into a loss. And then, in the next game, he’ll take a risk that would be unthinkable for any reasonable player, and ride that aggression into another win. He is a master at subverting expectations, even when the expectation is subversion.

Weasels are usually used to describe something pejoratively, but Hikaru’s Go is something like weasels, maybe. Able to squeeze its way into any crack, any opening, and attack the weak spot within. However cute and harmless he looks on the outside, he is a predator, who moves in ways that are almost impossible to predict.

Key word: almost. Akira beats him more often than not for a reason.

It’s certainly a strain, though. Filtering his decisions through his understanding of Hikaru, and hoping the moves that come out of the other end are what Hikaru wants out of him. It makes his turns take twice as long as usual, which is frustrating on its own, but Hikaru is taking even longer, apparently going through his own filtering process. Thinking hard every turn, spending so much time staring at the stones that it’s almost agonizing. It’s the slowest, quietest game they’ve ever had.

It takes them nearly an hour to find any sort of flow, that hour so slow they only get through what would take ten minutes in a regular game. But now that they’ve painstakingly built a foundation, the moves start becoming easier, like working at a puzzle once you’ve already solved the outer edges. The shape is there, and all they have to do is fill it.

And now that the moves themselves take less brainpower, Akira starts to take in the actualities of Hikaru’s current Go. And the strange thing is… it’s not altogether different than how he usually plays. Objectively, it is, but there’s an echo of him in it still that’s glaringly obvious to Akira. But, maybe that’s just the reality of the game, the impossibility of completely removing yourself from the equation and playing as someone else. There is, no doubt, strains of Akira in the Go he’s playing right now, no matter how much he tries to mimic Hikaru.

The lingering mystery, however, is who makes up the rest of Hikaru right now.

The more they play, the better picture Akira gets. The most prominent thing he notices is the deep, endless patience to Hikaru’s current Go, one that’s so out of place for Hikaru himself. When Hikaru is patient in a game, it’s an omen; a sign that he’s simply waiting to strike, and strike hard. But here, it’s almost… tranquil. Serene. Every time Akira pushes and prods, Hikaru calmly meets it, smoothing away his attacks like the wind smooths out the sand on a beach, leaving it flat. And in the wake of that flatness, he carves nothing for himself, does not build territory to dominate. He simply neutralizes, like he has an answer for everything, like there is no move Akira could make that could surprise him.

Like winning or losing isn’t a concern at all; like the only thing that matters is playing with Akira. A gentle walk through the sands together, instead of racing to win.

It’s almost condescending. That he has so much control, and isn’t using it to attack. It starts to irritate Akira in a strangely familiar way, that there’s seemingly nothing he can do as Hikaru to break through. That, even if he suddenly switched, there’s probably nothing he could do as Akira to overcome Hikaru in this moment. Out of nowhere, he’s turned into something insurmountable, unconquerable, and as the irritation builds, something suddenly clicks, and Akira realizes with a terrifying clarity that he’s seen Hikaru play like this before.

It was in their first two games together.

Akira still remember them perfectly. He may have technically won the first one, but he had never felt smaller than in that moment, when a random kid who had never played anyone before came out of nowhere and completely overwhelmed him, controlling the entire game with the calm, paternalistic patience of an adult teaching a child. A being from up on high that deigned to lower itself to Akira’s level, knowing that using its full strength would be too much.

Something proven utterly true in their second game. Handicaps stripped away, leaving only clean, focused ruthlessness.

It’s a moment Akira still has no answers for. The Hikaru he played those days, and then never again.

Akira’s grip tightens on his knees. The mystery of that first Hikaru was something that had just… subsided, over these long years. Those instances of strength had been unignorable at the time, but their relevance slowly faded as the ‘second’ Hikaru grew and grew, until, one day, it was that Hikaru that Akira began to chase. By now, it’s been years since he last thought about it. Since he just set it aside as something he’d never understand.

And here Hikaru is, bringing it back out of nowhere, to dominate Akira once again.

It’s the first time in a long time that he’s truly angry at Hikaru. That Hikaru is throwing this unknowable strength back in Akira’s face, and didn’t even have the decency to warn him. That he can, at his whims, bring back that godly power, making all their other games, where they fight and struggle and eke out victories over each other, seem like utter wastes of time.

He bares his teeth and looks up at Hikaru, ready to end this whole charade-

When he sees tears in Hikaru’s eyes.

They pool just at his eyelids, threatening to spill down his cheeks. His gaze remains on the goban between them, taking in the game like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world, and there’s a smile so soft on his face that it hurts to look at. Hikaru, and whoever Hikaru is playing as, is not on high and lowering himself; he is something grander, taking up all space from low to high, from left to right, front to back. The air itself, wrapping around the two of them, around every inch of polished stone and wooden board. A God of Go, who has stepped in to lovingly play a game with whoever would give him the time.

And in the pause, Hikaru catches Akira’s awestruck expression. He shakily chuckles, then rubs the moisture away from his eyes before looking back.

“Do you see him, yet?” he pleads, eyes pinched, voice raspy. “Do you?”

Akira looks back to the board.

They’re deep into the game now. At the point where great players would begin their comebacks, fighting back with all their will, at the point where the best players would forfeit, knowing they could never overcome. And it becomes obvious who Akira-as-Hikaru is playing, because there is only one person who soared so high, one person who wielded this divine strength, one person who used that strength to defeat the best Go player Akira has ever known.

“Sai,” Akira breathes to Hikaru.

Hikaru sobs out a laugh and his face completely crumples, new tears streaking down his face as something in him is validated, like he got an answer to a question he’s been asking for all his life. Maybe Akira got it, too.

It takes him a minute or two to compose himself again, Akira silently sitting by since there is no other response he can think to give. It would be pointless to ask further questions now; not when there is still a game left to play. But there is no more frustration, because for the first time, Akira thinks he’ll finally solve the conundrum that is Hikaru.

And once Hikaru calms himself down, the game continues on.

Akira can’t see any actual path to victory here, but there is no doubt in his mind that Hikaru wouldn’t keep playing in this position, so he soldiers on. Explicit victory is clearly not the point to this game, but seeking it is what Hikaru needs. To play as Sai, against himself, doing the best he can do in either direction. That is the heart of what he’d asked of Akira, and now that Akira knows, there is nothing he won’t do to fulfill it. He owes Hikaru that, and so much more.

It’s such a strange setup to a game, but with all of the fog and confusion (mostly) cleared up, it becomes something thrilling. Once again a puzzle, that both of them are working together to solve, using everything they have. Akira regularly faces 9-dans and title holders, but might be the toughest game he’s had in a long time, by virtue of its constraints; needing to think as Hikaru, playing against an overwhelming force, and while there’s no rank involved, something way more important is on the line. Because Hikaru needs this game, needs it in ways Akira does not understand, but will do anything to give to him.

And the wild thing is, it ends up closer than Akira ever thought possible. With one last aggressive move, he grabs a bit of territory that puts him one and a half points under Hikaru. Within arm’s reach of an unreachable power. A testament to both Hikaru’s skill, and Akira’s.

When it’s over, Hikaru throws his head back and breathes deeply, eyes closed as a few more tears trail down his face. He lets go of something he’s held for a long, long time, dissipating it with his exhalations. He holds the fan against his heart, clutched between his hands. He has never looked more beautiful.

In response, Akira summons one last bit of Hikaru-ness and says,

“If you played like that all the time, you’d have every single title by now.”

And Hikaru laughs, his seriousness drifting off along with whatever he let go.

“Are you kidding me? It took everything I had to do it the once!” he waves off the notion, his wide sleeve flapping from the motion. “Besides, it only worked because I was playing against me. Me and Sai played hundreds of games together. I don’t think it’d work against anyone else…”

Already, Akira has a million questions. Hundreds of games is a lot of games to play with a person no one else has ever seen. But for the first time in his life, Hikaru is open to talking about the mysterious Sai, and Akira already knows what the most important question is.

“Hikaru,” he begins, a decade old question forming on his lips.

“Who was Sai?”

Emotions flicker through Hikaru like the reel of a slot machine, looping and looping as he decides just how much he wants to give away. His jaw follows the rhythm of his considerations, opening and closing as his determination fluctuates. He’s on a cliff’s edge, ready to either fall completely or abandon the whole situation entirely and sprint back to safety.

And with one last exhale, one last shake of his head, he commits to taking the plunge. His eyes focus on Akira with a steely expression. Akira can feel himself lean forward in anticipation.

And then, Hikaru finally says,

“Akira, do you… believe in ghosts?”

And Akira thinks maybe he’ll never truly know all there is to know about Hikaru.

“…No, I don’t,” Akira says, trying not to let his disappointment show.

“…Right,” Hikaru says. “Obviously you wouldn’t.” He wavers, looking more fragile than Akira’s ever seen him. Like if Akira said the wrong words here, a piece of Hikaru would break completely, in a way impossible to reform. He takes another breath, and continues. “But, that’s what he was. A ghost. Something only I could see.”

Akira swallows.

“I… see…,” he says, at a loss for words.

“I know it sounds ridiculous!” Hikaru says emphatically, waving his hands around. “But it’s true!” His rigid posture collapses into something more casual, more Hikaru, cross-legged and slumped over. “Maybe he wasn’t actually a ghost. I dunno. But whatever he was, he was with me, for years. With me, and only me. It’s why I… it’s why things were the way they were. Why I played so well before I even knew Go, why SAI could only play online…” His arms plop into his lap and he stares at Akira pleadingly. “You… you believe me, right?”

Akira keeps his face impassive.

It’s an answer he’s waited over a decade to hear, and he finds it profoundly unsatisfying. He’d come up with a dozen different theories over the years, but… ghosts? Ghosts aren’t real, much less Go-playing ghosts that decide to haunt boys in junior high. He’d find it insulting in any other context, these words coming out of Hikaru’s mouth, but it’s so clear that Hikaru believes it, believes it with every fiber of his being. This is no prank, or lie. This is Hikaru desperately begging for understanding after revealing a piece of himself he’s guarded for so long.

Akira doesn’t look him in the eyes as he answers,

“I… believe that you believe it…”

He’s worried that his answer will displease Hikaru - because though he doesn’t want to shut Hikaru down, he also doesn’t want to lie - but Hikaru just laughs at his response.

“So reasonable,” he jokes. “Like I said, I know it sounds crazy. But, I really don’t have any other explanation. A few years ago I even went and had my brain scanned, on the off-chance…” He shrugs. “But I got a clean bill of health.”

“…Some causes of hallucinations don’t necessarily show up in that kind of thing…,” Akira offers, not knowing what else to say.

“I guess,” Hikaru says, unconcerned. “But if it was all in my head…”

He thrusts out the end of his fan, toward the finished state of the game board.

“Where did this come from? The Go that beat you before I could hold a stone right, the Go that beat your father?” He recedes the paper fan, tapping it in his other palm. “I don’t have an answer that I can tell anyone and not seem insane.”

“I… suppose that’s true,” Akira admits. “You’re definitely not that good, even now.”

“Hey!”

It’s frustrating, but Akira concedes the point. There’s a lot of possible explanations for aspects of Sai’s, of Hikaru’s, mystery, but the one thing Akira never could account for was those first two games. The best he could come up with was someone feeding Hikaru moves through a microphone, watching the game from nearby, but what would have been the point? Even assuming the worst of Hikaru, there’s no reason for a 12 year old to cheat at an informal game he knew nothing about for zero gain using technology that wasn’t very common at the time. And even if he had, it is unthinkable that Hikaru would have carried that secret for so long. He would’ve accidentally spilled long ago.

But, if this Sai was a…ghost, who could only play through Hikaru, it would explain a lot. Almost everything.

Akira isn’t sure he can totally accept it. That a ghost walked the Earth, apparently for the sole purpose of playing Go. But his acceptance is unimportant in the moment, because this is real to Hikaru, who held this secret inside for most of his life and is finally allowing himself to show it.

Akira runs a hand down the side of the goban, past the game of scattered stones.

“…Whatever he was, he really was astounding,” Akira says. “Even now, I’m not sure I’ve seen a better player.”

“Yeah!” Hikaru agrees wholeheartedly. “He was… incredible. Beyond a genius. But you know what the best thing about him was?”

“What was that?” Akira prompts.

“Sai - Fujiwara no Sai - loved Go. Loved it in a way no one else did. You could put every Pro, ever person alive who plays Go, together in a room and he’d love it more than all of them combined. As long as he got to play, as long as he could play, as long as anyone, anywhere, could play, he was happy. Excited that game like Go could exist for thousands of years, and possibly exist for a thousand more.” He lays his head in his hand, thinking happily. “I think that’s why he was as good as he was. He loved it the most, and so he was the best.”

Akira sees Hikaru’s satisfied smile and feels butterflies.

“He sounds fascinating,” Akira says.

Hikaru nods. “He was. But frustrating, too!” He sits back up, hands bracing on his knees as he becomes more animated. “Imagine being a kid who doesn’t even know what Go is, and then you get haunted by that kind of guy? It took months before I could understand any of what he was talking about! But he kept trying to teach me, every minute of every day. He was just that kind of person, you know?”

“I see,” Akira says, captivated.

“And he did teach me.” He taps the board. “He gave me this. Gave me Go.” His eyes flick up to Akira. “And everything that came with it.”

Akira blushes.

“Well. I’m glad he did.”

Hikaru sighs, a bit of sadness in his breath. “I wish… I wish I could thank him for that. I wish I told him when I still had him.” His eyes shimmer, and tears streak down his cheeks once again.  “Told him that… that I loved him.”

The unstated, finally addressed. Because whatever Sai was, it’s more than obvious that he’s been gone for a long, long time.

“I’m sure he knew, Hikaru,” Akira says, because if this Sai had any sense at all, it would be obvious how much Hikaru cared about him.

Hikaru sniffs, wipes away the tears. “I hope he did. I hope… I hope he didn’t leave thinking I hated him, or something. I was such a brat back then…”

“…Back then?” Akira says.

Hikaru snorts. “Shut up,” he laughs, the tears turning happy. “I’m pouring my heart out here!”

Akira smiles, and reaches over to grab Hikaru’s hand. He’s never been good at using words to soothe, but this, he can do. He rubs his thumb across Hikaru’s knuckles, feeling the bumps and creases. Hikaru squeezes his hand back.

“Can I ask what happened to him?” Akira says carefully. 

Hikaru smiles sadly.

“I guess, whatever happens to everyone who doesn’t become ghosts when they die.” His eyes gleam with old memories. “He disappeared. Twelve years ago, today.” He nods at the board. “During this game.”

It breaks Akira’s heart to hear it. Hikaru losing his mentor, his friend, while they played the game they’ve all dedicated their lives too. It’s yet another unveiled mystery, because Akira remembers when this would’ve happened, when Hikaru almost quit after having just become a Pro. Remembers how sullen he gets every year around this time.

“I’m sorry, Hikaru,” he says. “I hope… I hope you got whatever you needed out of our game.”

“I did,” he says. “Thanks, Akira. For helping me say goodbye.”

Hikaru is an enigma. Someone who, if he is to be believed, inherited his Go from ghosts. Someone who, if he wanted, could have coasted to the top relying on the ethereal skill of someone else, but fought his own way there instead. Someone who will never stop fighting, until the day he reaches the peak. 

In second place, of course.

Akira doesn’t believe in ghosts. But, he does believe in Hikaru, and Hikaru’s Go, both of which are undoubtedly laced with something magical.

Akira lets go of Hikaru and carefully collects the stones off the board, pours them back into their respective containers. He grabs Hikaru’s bowl with two hands, and places it tenderly back in front of him.

“Tell me more about Fujiwara no Sai,” he says, clicking down the first stone of a new game. “While you show me, again, what he left behind.”

Hikaru wipes away the remains of his tears, then grabs a stone between two fingers.

“Well, Sai was born over a thousand years ago,” he says, tapping it onto the board. “But, the real story begins when he haunts Honinbou Shuusaku and plays all of his games.”

“He did WHAT?!”