Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was May 9th.
On this day at the Momiji Inn in Hayashimachi, a symposium of literati Go enthusiasts was held with Wu Qingyuan 8-dan at its center.
Toyoshima Yoshio, Kawabata Yasunari, Hino Ashihei, and myself—a hack Go player.
Since Wu 8-dan had now separated from that Deity, I had been looking forward to being able to casually discuss the Deity at this symposium.

Last year, it was at this inn that the first game of the ten-game Go match between Honinbo Kaoru and Wu Qingyuan commenced, and I had been confined there from the night before the match as a spectator reporter along with the players.
That evening, Honinbo and I arrived at Momiji on time, but Wu 8-dan had gone missing along with the Deity, causing panic among the newspaper organizers.
At that time, Wu 8-dan, due to the Deity’s influence, was a painful sight to behold.
The Deity had lost followers and patrons alike, dwindled to a small group of about five or six Ken clan members who retreated to some corner of Tsugaru, their livelihood now depending entirely on Wu 8-dan’s match fees.

As night fell, Wu 8-dan finally appeared, wearing a rumpled National Uniform and carrying a small canvas Boston bag stained with grime and mud tucked under his arm. He looked utterly exhausted. According to newspaper staff, he was often kept awake all night during rituals before the altar - whenever he started nodding off, they would kick him down and shout invocations at his spirit, until sleep deprivation accumulated to drive him into mental instability and hallucinations. In other words, it appeared that one of the most effective tactics the Deity employed against Wu 8-dan was to deprive him of sleep. Despite being the sole financial support for the Deity's Ken clan through his match fees, the abuse he suffered before the altar was reportedly particularly severe; a certain satire magazine journalist successfully infiltrated the believers, and this journalist too allegedly witnessed Wu 8-dan incurring divine wrath—being violently kicked down and trampled upon by what appeared to be the Home Minister or someone of similar standing.

It was early last spring when I played Go with Wu 8-dan at his lodgings during his journey to Tokyo from Tsugaru. The next day, he was supposed to return to Tsugaru carrying the match fees he had earned during his stay in Tokyo, but "Without even breaking the seal, he offered all of it to the Deity," the newspaper staff member said to me in disappointment.

"And so, when he comes up to Tokyo for a match, they only hand him 300 yen for travel expenses—can you believe it?"

He, Wu 8-dan’s caretaker, seemed unable to bear the vexing fanaticism.

On the morning of the Honinbo match, Wu 8-dan finally got up past eight o'clock, coming to where Honinbo and I had finished reading the newspaper and were chatting. He must have slept quite soundly. And yet, once the match began, whenever it was Honinbo's turn to play, he would naturally start nodding off again and again. He would startle awake, come to his senses, and stand up. It was thought he had probably gone to wash his face with cold water. Indeed, it seemed true that the Deity wouldn't let him sleep, I thought. Fortunately, during the match he was confined at Momiji away from the Deity, so he could sleep soundly the next night as well, and from the second day of the match onward, his eyes stayed wide open, free from drowsiness.

This was a game where he spent the entire first day nodding off repeatedly as he played, so it couldn't have gone well for him. It had been a position where Honinbo was certain to win, but on the third day, Honinbo destroyed himself with a bad move. A few days before this match, the Deity's Ken clan had come up to Tokyo and settled into Wu 8-dan's lodgings. There they carried out raucous prayers around the clock, prompting the landlord to force them out, and the Deity was taken into police custody. Wu 8-dan took charge of that situation and left somewhere in search of a hideout, but he likely had scarcely any time to sleep due to those mundane matters alone. It was truly a pitiful sight, but thanks to the confinement and the match being conducted over three days with a manageable schedule from nine in the morning until six in the evening, he regained vitality day by day. Had it followed the current Shogi-style format of completing games in single all-night sessions, Wu 8-dan—nodding off repeatedly—would have stood no chance of winning.

When the seventh game was held in Tokyo, I saw it.
At that time, Messrs. Toyoshima and Hino had also come, and with Wu 8-dan’s victory concluding the match, they drank sake gathered around the players.
Wu 8-dan, who didn’t drink alcohol, was reading a Go magazine next to me—an article discussing Wu Qingyuan written by someone.
After finishing it, he flipped through the magazine’s pages only to start reading again at the section about himself.
No matter how many times he leafed through it, he kept returning to that same part.
Of course, in a Go magazine aimed at amateurs, there couldn’t possibly be any other articles to hold his interest, but seeing how those particular pages had become blackened with grime from his repeated handling struck me as both pitiable and absurd.
He was lonely—there could be no doubt of his solitude.
His poignancy resonated with me.
It had been last autumn when I heard from a newspaper staff member that Wu Qingyuan might break away from the Deity—that a desire to leave was stirring within him.
Over half a year had passed since then.

At the symposium, I tried earnestly to ask about the Deity, but he only sidestepped the questions with smooth physical evasions, showing no willingness to engage.
I had thought that now that he had renounced his faith, he might clearly answer why he left the Deity or what dissatisfactions he had held—but through responses like “the Deity Himself does exist,” his manner of speaking remained deliberately vague, persistently avoiding any substantive explanation.

Eventually, he would likely find his way to another Deity.

The symposium proved inconclusive—neither entertaining nor amusing—leaving a bitter aftertaste.
Unlike us confession-mad literati, while I understood Wu 8-dan’s deliberate avoidance of touching upon raw wounds, I nevertheless thought it would have been better for his ultimate development had he spoken more freely and gotten it all off his chest.

When the symposium ended and I was about to leave, a maid was waiting in the hallway and said, “Mr. Hara of Yomiuri’s cultural department has come and is waiting for you,” so I went upstairs. There were Meijin Tsukada and 8-dan Masuda as well. Hokuto Seikun and Akazawa-kun—they were all familiar faces.

I had a hunch about Tossa.

The Shogi Meijin match stood at Tsukada’s two wins to one loss, with the fourth game scheduled to take place in Yugawara two days later on May 11.
Kimura had emerged victorious over the challenger, and the Meijin match began.
This occurred during my hospitalization at a psychiatric hospital; in that first match, Kimura had completely won the shogi game, but by late night, he self-destructed through a series of bad moves caused by fatigue.
I had come to know that he would become addled late at night, and growing increasingly disgusted with the ever more sensationalist reporting, I lost interest in the Meijin matches.

When I went to Hara’s room, there were Tsukada and Masuda—unexpectedly present—raising their flushed, drunken faces and smirking. Though in Masuda’s case, his drunken face bore a bluish tint. He appeared thoroughly soused.

There was a reason for my hunch. Two years prior, when the first game of the Kimura-Masuda three-match series was held in Nagoya, I had accompanied Kimura from Tokyo to cover it as a reporter. At that time, Kimura had said to Masuda: “Tsukada’s admirable, you know. He’s always treated matches with utmost seriousness. Unlike me—he’d never show up at the venue the night before a match. He arrives two or three days in advance at the latest to rest up properly.”

Masuda had come to Nagoya a day before Kimura.
It probably wasn’t meant as a retort to that mindset.
His state of mind—which couldn’t be clearly defined as self-reproach or self-mockery—along with some measure of pride, and perhaps even a boastful pretense of “Given my position, I couldn’t have done such a thing,” may have all been contained within him to some degree.

Kimura had been a ten-year undefeated Meijin—leader of the Taiseikai and shogi’s preeminent figure unmatched in both name and reality—constantly traveling and perpetually busy.
It was foolishness incarnate—arriving tonight for tomorrow’s match via night train into Osaka each morning only to immediately rush east or circle west on errands afterward.
He had lost straight matches against Masuda until then.
Most were games played amidst his whirlwind schedule; even among his seven title losses culminating with Tsukada claiming his Meijin crown were several frantic encounters.
Yet he believed victory remained possible.
Defeated by Masuda then suffering decisive collapse—the tragedy of relinquishing his title—his confidence shattered at its very foundation.

That was two years ago on June 6th.
Because it's an easy date to remember, one doesn't forget it.
The seventh game of the Meijin match held at Monami in Nakano.
In that match, he lost the Meijin title.
I watched that match in fragments.
Even during Kimura's protracted deliberations—so lengthy that even the record-keeper grew fed up and went for a walk—I alone remained in the deserted match room, always keeping watch over the two of them.

Truly, Kimura's anguish surpassed even the agony of death throes.
He did not even touch dinner.
He had already been utterly exhausted since then, but around nine at night, when Tsukada was deep in thought, he left a message with the record-keeper saying, "Call me to the reception room," and slumped into an armchair in the dimly lit reception room.

By around midnight, defeat was already evident, the anguish of slipping away from the Meijin title with each passing second seeping through his every pore. Constantly on the verge of collapse from his anguish, he desperately tried to suppress the pain and regain his composure. To this end, he had flushed his face crimson, his demon-like visage marked by thick veins that coiled and bulged. It was a sorrowful ferocity. He was no longer competing in shogi; he was waging a desperate, ferocious battle against the visceral anguish of losing the Meijin title.

Several hours after discarding his pieces, with morning sake, he regained some composure.

“I was defeated by time,” he said.
“I read through it all, you know,” he said.

And then, he spoke again.
“I didn’t even have time to let my seat get warm.
“I’d arrive by night train, play the match immediately, then turn right back around.
“And with that, I thought I wouldn’t lose.”
“Even so, I thought it was only natural to win—found it downright strange that I could ever lose,” he said.

“However, this time, I thought I would lose.”
“It’s the era.”
“I thought I would lose to the era.”
“It’s an era when the old perish, you know,” he said.

Everything both rings true and doesn’t.
The secret is something the individual himself must be deeply aware of.

Indeed, I too had felt what might be called that very "era."
I had gone out to observe the match precisely because I thought he would lose.
Yet for me, this was not about any "era."
He had already reached the point where defeat became inevitable.

The reason I traveled to distant Nagoya to observe the Kimura-Masuda three-match series was that I had discerned glimmers of recovery in Kimura, who had been suffering unbroken defeats since losing his Meijin title.
He had been losing consecutively to Masuda in particular.
That year, he couldn't even count himself among the four challengers.
By contrast, Masuda stood at the head of Class A and was the undisputed candidate for next Meijin recognized by all.
I thought Kimura might win - more than that, I wanted him to win.
Because I trusted in those flickers of resurgence, I believed I might somehow contribute to their realization.

Masuda had come to Nagoya two days prior but kept drinking without restraint.
He had underestimated Kimura and become overconfident, convinced defeat was impossible.
That night before the match, Masuda got recklessly drunk playing Go with Kimura, then lay awake after sobering.
The next day's match proved equally flippant - abandoning prudence for bravado led to swift defeat.
Kimura by contrast maintained extreme caution throughout.

The reason I felt a flicker of doubt upon unexpectedly seeing Tsukada and Masuda on Momiji’s second floor was that I had recalled all those matters.

The fourth game of the Meijin title match was approaching in two days.
Tsukada—who by custom would arrive at the match venue no later than two days prior to rest—was here drinking sake in a place nowhere near the venue, with the crucial Meijin title match looming before him.
Even if reaching Yugawara by bus might take around three hours, for a professional player’s mindset, this was no way to conduct oneself.

When he saw my face, Masuda’s eyes gleamed sharply,

“Oh, Tsukada Meijin and I are close friends. We’ve become close friends,” he said.

When I last met Masuda, he had not yet played against Tsukada in the postwar period and had declared that facing Tsukada was his greatest wish above all else. I lost count of how many times he said it. In that declaration lay snap judgment and bravado - the verdict that Kimura had grown old with nothing left worth observing, or more harshly put, a measure of scornful arrogance. With his somewhat divine temperament, he not only reached this swift conclusion about Kimura but also harbored a certain wariness toward Tsukada.

In other words, Masuda had developed his skills to this day with the lifelong ambition of disproving Kimura's shogi.
His lifelong aim had been to overthrow Kimura.
Though Masuda was first to defeat Kimura, it was Tsukada who beat Kimura a step ahead in the decisive Meijin title match and seized the crown.

Having believed only he could defeat Kimura—had he claimed the Meijin title first—he would surely have dismissed someone like Tsukada as irrelevant.
He likely feared Oyama more.
Yet when Tsukada defeated Kimura first to take the Meijin title, Masuda—whose sole life's purpose had been to defeat Kimura and claim that honor—projected his own great achievement onto Tsukada and paid him homage.

Even after Tsukada became Meijin, his reputation remained unremarkable—many still considered him weak—which carried the added significance of forcing even the stubbornly contrarian Masuda to declare Tsukada’s strength against his nature. It also meant those outsiders couldn’t grasp Tsukada’s strength. There was further meaning in having Tsukada proclaimed strong out of defiance toward Kimura. And there lay the implication of drawing Tsukada into his own camp as a co-conspirator in disparaging Kimura.

The meaning behind his declaration of Tsukada’s strength revolved entirely around Kimura. Tsukada had a sharp playing style diametrically opposed to Kimura’s, yet there lingered a faint resemblance to his approach. And the reason he harbored sentiments of a united front with Tsukada was originally rooted in opposition to Kimura—though I believe there followed an even more pressing emotion: confrontation with Oyama. This junior disciple resembled Kimura in playing style; as a professional player, his tenacity might even surpass him. That calm competitive nerve sat eerily within this childlike small man.

Regarding Kimura and subsequently Oyama, Masuda paradoxically declared Tsukada’s strength, but his true intent stemmed from hostility toward Kimura and Oyama; he likely did not particularly fear Tsukada. However, due to Oyama challenging Tsukada and losing, he replaced that sense of relief once again with “Tsukada is strong” and “Oyama has yet to reach his level,” until ultimately, it seemed he had bound himself with the very rope of declaring Tsukada’s strength.

Tsukada, on the morning two years prior when he had seized the Meijin title, had reddened eye rims from a bit of sake and wore a dazed expression that seemed neither happy nor anything else, but when I brought up Masuda,

“I am not afraid of Masuda.”
“I have never lost to Masuda.”

He declared sharply.
It was rare for him to speak with such intensity.
This seemed to stem from a clear conviction that he truly did not fear Masuda.

The divinely inspired Masuda had unwittingly bound himself with his own rope through layered sharp intuitions in aggressive openings—the very aggressive openings that led to his defeat in last year’s five-game Tsukada-Masuda shogi match.
From that time onward, he had increasingly emulated Tsukada’s playing style outwardly, declared “Tsukada is strong,” called Tsukada his close friend, and proclaimed that they had become close friends.

In other words, Masuda’s mind still lacked independence. He did not possess enough confidence to stand entirely on his own. His declaration that “Tsukada is strong” revolved around Kimura and Oyama, stemming from his lack of confidence to fully negate them. When he proclaimed that Kimura was not to be feared and Oyama had yet to reach his level, he himself was the one who most acutely heard the voice insisting, “No, no—that isn’t true.” Through unwarranted bravado, he claimed not to fear those he unwittingly should fear, and being unable to shoulder that guilt alone, he had molded Tsukada into his accomplice. Moreover, in his aggressive openings, he had come to have no choice but to bear the declaration that “Tsukada is strong” as an actual fact himself.

When I looked at Tsukada, something suddenly came to mind.
Hino Issei had moved into my neighborhood, but nearby there was a house with a nameplate reading Tsukada Masao.
Since it was a cheap barrack built after the war, it naturally couldn’t have been the Shogi Meijin’s new residence.
However, having recalled that,

“In my neighborhood, a house appeared with a nameplate that read ‘Tsukada Masao.’ Since it was just a barrack—two rooms of six and three tatami—I didn’t think it could be the Meijin’s new residence. But I was surprised someone shared the same surname.”

“You never know—they might be using it as an excuse.”

When Hara Shiro teased him, Tsukada fluttered his bleary eyes and smirked,

“I also think I’d like to try such a thing, but it never quite works out.”
“I really do want to try it.”

he said.
It somehow didn’t feel natural.
Despite that, the seriousness of the man himself was evident.
He looked like a middle schooler who had come into money, straining to carry himself like an adult.

The conversation touched upon the match scheduled two days later.

I had lost interest in this Meijin match ever since reading the newspaper article about Kimura blundering into self-destruction in the first round,

“If Kimura’s going to blunder like that, there’s no point in going to watch.”

When I said this, it was precisely at that moment.

Tsukada and Masuda’s attitudes changed simultaneously.
And the two men spoke in utterly perfect unison.
“No, this third game wasn’t like that.”

Masuda sat up straight, glaring like a dramatic storyteller recounting the Meijin match's climactic scene, and continued in a growling tone.

“The third game showed astonishing fighting spirit,”
“Even after losing and resigning, his undiminished vigor carried a fearsome intensity—like he was declaring ‘Watch me in the remaining two games.’”
“This isn’t the Kimura we knew before.”
“An awe-inspiring display of willpower.”

“This isn’t the Kimura we knew before.”

Tsukada concurred.
His tone held surprising decisiveness.

That gave me much to ponder. They spoke in perfect unison. Moreover, both men’s attitudes shifted simultaneously as they sharply denied my words. Reflexively—Masuda with his characteristically flustered haste and Tsukada who never showed emotion—they spoke in this moment as one person might speak. Kimura’s fighting spirit, his fearsome intensity declaring “Watch what comes next,” the visceral conviction that this was no longer the Kimura of old—all burned unmistakably into my mind as his demon-like flushed face rose vividly before me.

Given that even Tsukada had reflexively changed his attitude to state this, it must have been something extraordinary. By contrast, regarding Tsukada—who faced a match two days later—I found myself wondering whether this was truly acceptable. The way he'd spoken with such peculiar earnestness about wanting to surround himself with women—how his unstable state of mind had permeated those words—all of it came flooding back to me.

This stood in complete opposition to Kimura's haughty demeanor when he'd lost the Meijin title. I thought Tsukada would lose the fourth game. Yet he might still win. But should he lose the fourth, I felt certain he'd fall in the fifth as well. For Tsukada would inevitably be cornered with a desperation far more visceral than Kimura's vague dread of "changing times" when relinquishing his title—not mere bravado, but raw urgency. Because more than Kimura—undefeated for a decade—had ever feared Tsukada's strength, this Tsukada now understood the might of that decade-undefeated Kimura, who would surely overwhelm him in the fifth game through sheer fighting spirit. On Momiji's second floor, he could still stave off fear by merely sensing that combative energy, but after losing the fourth game, that same force would undoubtedly loom before him in the fifth as an object of pure terror—no longer bluster, but dread incarnate.

“You mustn’t think there will be a fifth game. Consider there’s nothing after—settle it in the fourth game, you must.”

Masuda admonished Tsukada and said.
I wondered if that was really true.
Does the close friend really think that way?
It was hollow.

The fourth game was indeed won by Kimura.
I promptly visited Bungeishunju Ltd. and requested that Mainichi Newspapers grant me permission to observe and write about the fifth game.

Before long, such a rumor began to circulate.
It was said that Masuda was telling people.
"I may be close friends with Tsukada, but this time my friend will lose and Kimura will reclaim the Meijin title," he said.
He should have understood.
Masuda knows human competitive psychology with the precision of a literary scholar.
He may have felt his close friend’s defeat more deeply than I had sensed on Momiji’s second floor.

★

The fifth game was to be held at Saiankan within the Imperial Palace—something I never could have anticipated—and when artificial flowers meant to be worn on our chests for passing through Ōtemon Gate arrived, I was thrown into a panic. Since I didn’t own a tie, I had to begin by fretting over that first. Etiquette being my perpetual weakness, I found myself gripped by unease.

Thinking it would be improper to arrive by car, I took a taxi from Tokyo Station—but when we'd barely been moving for about a minute and the driver said "Here's Ōtemon Gate," dropping me off, I was completely flustered.
There were five or six guards who checked the day's visitor list against their records before permitting passage.

Though called part of the Imperial Palace grounds, Saiankan stood right past Ōtemon Gate, while the Palace Court—accessible to any visitor—appeared to lie much deeper within.
My arrival time was 9:45.
It was fifteen minutes before the match's scheduled 10:00 start.

There was an entrance with rows of shoe lockers, reminiscent of an elementary school.
When I went straight to the dojo, it proved to be an astonishingly vast space.
The claim that Yagyū's dojo measured eighteen ken on each side turned out to be kōdan book hyperbole—this rectangular hall centered around a jeweled seat divided into kendo and judo sections, with the judo area keeping wooden flooring around its perimeter and tatami mats scattered sparsely.
There were apparently 135 tatami mats.
Calculating the dojo's total area defied comprehension—it was spacious enough not just for playing catch, but for children to hold baseball games.

Near the jeweled seat on the tatami flooring, scarlet felt was spread out, with four folding screens enclosing three sides to create a match space of about eight tatami mats. Bonsai arrangements and wood carvings had been placed as decorations—even such items must have been brought in to keep the space from appearing too barren. At first glance, it was unmistakably a stage set for hara-kiri. It was nothing less than that. In reality, since this amounted to one participant effectively committing ritual suicide, the whole affair felt truly inhumane.

On the dojo’s wall panels hung nameplates indicating dan and kyu ranks.
It must have been a training hall for what you might call the Imperial Palace Police—a police officers’ dojo.
It was spacious but shoddily built.
Being a structure within the Imperial Palace grounds, it came as quite a surprise to visitors who had envisioned a national treasure-class solemn building.

Because these were judo tatami mats, springs had been installed beneath them.
As a result, even if just one person walked across the tatami, the match area would tremble violently.
No matter how quietly one stepped, it would still shake intensely.
At first, I had thought this pillarless structure—measuring some ten by twenty ken—must be shaking whenever trucks passed due to its flimsy construction.

“It’s fine now, but when night comes, you’ll need to be careful walking on the tatami mats.”

Kimura had been deeply concerned about this before the match, but I couldn’t grasp his meaning.
With attendees and photographers from various companies crowding and scurrying about the dojo before the match, one couldn’t discern that people walking on the tatami mats caused the shaking.

However, Kimura had visited Mainichi Newspapers and inspected Saiankan the day before the match.
Here too one could see the mindset Kimura had staked upon this match.
He was no longer the man from his decade-long undefeated reign as Meijin—the one who used to rush sleep-deprived to match venues aboard night trains, dashing about in all directions.
The two-year disqualification from his Meijin title had taught him much.
He had become fundamentally humble—a professional player who devoted his entire being to each match.
Having inspected the venue beforehand, he knew how violently the tatami flooring would tremble whenever someone walked on it; had he first gone to the Imperial Palace on match day itself, he might have panicked over unfamiliar protocols—the guards, which direction to head—and become flustered.
Such worries were only natural; even I, a mere spectator, had felt peculiar until reaching the match venue.

Even when considering my own such anxieties, Kimura’s act of inspecting the venue the day before the match revealed his thorough preparedness. Compared to Tsukada—who had been drunk on Momiji Inn’s second floor rather than at Yugawara two days prior to the match—these differences in mental preparation were bound to decisively influence the outcome. Though Tsukada’s lapse had occurred during the fourth game rather than the fifth, it was already too late. The seeds sown there would sprout here, for all such mental preparations were not matters to be achieved overnight. Kimura, undefeated for ten years, had collapsed under the cumulative weight of seeds sown over a decade, while Tsukada—as the culmination of two years of psychological readiness—had ultimately carried it all into this fifth game.

I went to the match venue and was loitering for two or three minutes when both players, Tsukada and Kimura, appeared at the game site. Tsukada was, as usual, silent and brusque, showing no inclination to greet acquaintances even when present, while Kimura exchanged greetings with familiar faces and even said to me, "I heard your condition hasn’t been well—how are you now?" though he seemed restless and somehow lacking composure.

Ten minutes before the scheduled time, the two were already seated facing the board. It was for the cameras. More than ten groups of photographers fired flashes from all sides. "Please hold a piece," the cameraman requested Kimura, the first player.

“If I hold the piece now, it’ll be a problem.”
“I’ve gotta make that move later, otherwise it won’t work.”

Kimura showed a strained smile. "Well... no—alright then, like this—I'll make a gesture of lifting the piece," he said, taking a shogi piece and raising his hand above the board to create a posed position.

I lined up alongside Nishimura Raku Ten and Oyama 8-dan by the board, and we were photographed.

“Well then, please have the cameras withdraw until the noon break.”

The scheduled time came.
Those remaining by the board were, besides the record keeper, Takejiro Kurajima and myself, along with about two others.
The surroundings had grown quiet, but the commotion of camera flashes and trampling footsteps scurrying in all directions did nothing to settle my state of mind even ten minutes after that had passed.
It was already ten o'clock, and the match had begun as scheduled yet there was no sense of order whatsoever.

Kimura thought for one minute and moved P-2e. Tsukada immediately responded with P-8d... P-2f... P-8e.
Having reached this point at the fifth move, Kimura's long deliberation began.

A match was typically something where they'd be puffing on cigarettes nonstop, but even after ten minutes had passed, neither had yet taken any out. First Kimura took out a cigarette. As if drawn in, Tsukada too took one out. Kimura leaned back against the armrest. Tsukada's face was bright red. I wondered if it was sunburn, but someone said, "Tsukada must've knocked back some booze." That might have been the case. Even Kimura—who'd made thorough preparations down to inspecting the match venue—seemed somehow restless and ill at ease. Tsukada carried the anxiety of being pursued along with pressure from accumulated mental preparedness. To throw this off, it wasn't impossible he'd resorted to alcohol as a last-ditch measure.

“Did he really drink?”

When I asked, the attendant panicked and,

“No, I merely thought so.”

He spoke evasively.
He was one of the attendants for that day.

The fifth move was Kimura’s P-7f.
There, he used thirty-three minutes.
With a mere eight hours of allotted time, it was strange that Kimura, who usually struggled with time shortages in the endgame, would spend thirty-three minutes deliberating here.
I thought he must have wasted thirty-three minutes to regain his peace of mind.
Kimura seemed stiff.
He would adjust the bent piece with his left hand, then slump listlessly against the armrest like a drunkard, tilting back at about forty degrees to blankly blow cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.
He was likely making an effort to calm himself down—Calm down, calm down.
And indeed, through this thirty-three-minute wastefulness, he grew calmer with each subsequent move.
Among all his matches I had witnessed until now, I had never seen a day when his mind was as calm as it was on this one.

Gold to 3-2, Bishop to 7-7, Pawn to 3-4, Silver to 7-8, Bishop promoted at 7-7, Same Silver, Silver to 2-2, Silver to 4-8, Silver to 3-3, Gold to 7-8, Silver to 6-2, King to 6-8, Pawn to 6-4, Pawn to 4-6, Pawn to 7-4, Silver to 4-7,

Up to this point, no time had been spent.
For the first time, Tsukada spent three minutes in thought.
He thrust both hands into his hakama and kept his upper body perfectly upright.
From the very beginning, he had been as tense as if it were the endgame.
In shogi matches played through the night—as late hours approach the endgame—players grow flushed bright red, their temples swelling with twisted veins.
Both Kimura and Tsukada were like this.
In the match two years prior when Kimura lost his Meijin title, those bulging, contorted veins of both men remained seared in my eyes.
Yet in this match, Tsukada had shown endgame-level tension from the moment he sat at the board—flushed face already veined and swollen.
His mind had hardened into rigidity, leaving no apparent room for composure.

Silver to 6-3 (three minutes), Pawn to 3-6, King to 4-2, Pawn to 1-6.

At that moment, Tsukada stood up to go to the bathroom. Kurajima-kun raised his face and uttered, “Um, the bathroom is...” then stood up to guide him. I too didn’t know where it was located—it must have been quite distant.

When Tsukada returned from the bathroom, Kimura twisted his upper body sharply toward the record keeper and whispered “Tea” in a voice too soft for even me in the adjacent seat to catch. He must have been mindful of Tsukada absorbed in thought over the board—this sort of consideration from Kimura was something I’d never witnessed before. Upon returning, a woman from the Mainichi Shimbun circled only the outer wooden floor around the tatami area with ceremonial care before presenting tea with both hands. Walking on tatami would have made it quake like an earthquake; perhaps this too stemmed from Kimura’s forethought. At that time I hadn’t yet realized the venue’s shaking came from footsteps on reed mats—I simply marveled at how everything within Imperial Palace grounds adhered to Ogasawara-ryū decorum. Later, when spectators dwindled to just myself, even players tiptoeing bathroomward with utmost quietness made the entire structure shudder. Only then did I understand: Kimura had indeed researched thoroughly.

Tsukada spent twenty minutes in thought and moved gold to 5-2.
He coughed.
Kimura put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match with his left hand.
He was indeed stiff.
However, the piece stand was placed to the right, and moving the pieces was done with the right hand.
Putting a cigarette in his mouth, he stood up and casually headed to the bathroom.

Kimura spent eighteen minutes deliberating before moving his pawn to 1-5. He snapped the piece down with a sharp click. As matches neared their endgame phase—when faces flushed crimson and temple veins bulged—both players naturally began snapping pieces down with these crisp sounds. Sometimes they would place a piece with a click, lift it again, then snap it back down more decisively. Both Tsukada and Kimura gradually adopted this mannerism. However, this day's first resonant click marked the true commencement of their ritual.

Tsukada moved silver to 5-4, then silver to 5-6—no time spent.
He pondered briefly and moved pawn to 4-4.

Kimura spent eleven minutes in thought, then with an extremely careful hand movement placed his gold at 5-8 with a sharp click.
Total for Kimura: sixty-three minutes.

King to 3-1, King to 7-9.

When it became his turn to consider a move, Tsukada grew restless.
He would flick away cigarette ash fallen on the board with his middle finger or blow it off with a quick puff.
Restless and wired.
When I had seen him during the Meijin match two years prior, he had rather seemed insensate to the point of laxity.
That morning Kimura had chatted with spectators, risen to attend to matters—displaying numerous composed movements—while Tsukada remained hands thrust in hakama, torso erect, gaze locked on the board as though detached from worldly concerns.
Though he coughed hoarsely and fumbled out cigarettes to light them just as now, those acts had then appeared unselfconscious, almost transcendent.
Today his tension vibrated through us palpably—one could only conclude he had been agitated from the outset.
Where Kimura steadily regained equanimity, Tsukada’s nerves seemed only to sharpen further.

Tsukada spent eight minutes considering his move before placing his knight at 7-3.
Total time used: thirty-one minutes.

Kimura deliberated for sixteen minutes and moved his king to 8-8.

Tea and sweets appeared.
Kimura swiftly finished the confections and drained his tea in one gulp.

Tsukada advanced a pawn to 6-5 (eight minutes), then picked at the sweets.
He barely ate.
He barely drank his tea.

Kimura moved knight to 3-7 (fourteen minutes), snapped it down with a click, and while taking a deep drag from his cigarette, glared sharply at the record keeper.

Tsukada spent four minutes in thought, coughing “Hack, hack, hack,” and moved king to 2-2.

Kimura moved pawn to 9-6 (two minutes).
Tsukada moved pawn to 9-4—no time spent.

Kimura, propping himself up with one hand, leaned toward the record keeper and whispered something; then Tsukada stood to visit the bathroom.
When the record keeper also slipped away, and shortly after Tsukada returned from the bathroom, the woman came gliding around the wooden floor in that Ogasawara-style manner to present tea.
This time too, Kimura’s whisper had likely been a tea order.
He immediately gulped it down.
Tsukada too took a sip of tea.
Both kept their arms crossed in identical postures, utterly still.
It was Kimura’s turn.

In heavy and silent stillness, 1:00 PM arrived, and the lunch break commenced.

At 2:30 PM, play resumed.

From mid-morning onwards, I was the sole spectator.
All others were in the waiting rooms.
There were two waiting rooms: one for guests invited by the Mainichi Shimbun,
the other for reporters from various newspapers, radio stations, and newsreel companies.

Each time a move was made, the record keeper slipped a paper noting the move and time used through a gap in the folding screen.
A Mainichi Shimbun staffer kept watch, tiptoed over quietly, and carried this back to the waiting room.
There, 8-dan professionals including Doi, Watanabe, Masuda, Oyama, Harada, and Kaneko were packed together, beginning their analysis each time a move report arrived.

People walked carefully on tiptoe across the tatami mats, yet trembled uncontrollably. When the match venue grew hushed as people dwindled, no matter how stealthily they walked, it was futile.

“It’s like a quaking earthquake.”

Kimura abruptly looked up and said, “When we reach endgame steps, take care with your walking.” He emphasized this to the record keeper. After resting—once seated and having thought for about ten minutes—Kimura stood up and went to use the bathroom. It seemed to stem more from psychological necessity than a physiological one. Kimura moved rook to 4-8. Having deliberated since before lunch, he spent a total of sixty-six minutes on this move. Total time consumed: one hundred sixty-one minutes. Tsukada was still at forty-three minutes.

Tsukada began a long deliberation there.
This seemed to be the strategic crossroads—the first fork in fate’s path.

The Ogasawara-style woman brought three o’clock tea and sweets.
The spectators consisted of me alone.
Kimura suddenly noticed the absence of tea and sweets before me and said to the woman, “For Mr. Sakaguchi as well.”
Kimura stood up to go to the bathroom.
Since tea and sweets had also come for me, I took some Zedrin.
Well—I couldn’t help it—I was sleepy.

I had not taken Zedrin since February of that year. After being hospitalized in a psychiatric ward due to Adorm addiction and with its general sale being prohibited since my discharge, I had resolved to use neither stimulants nor hypnotics from that point onward. But on this day, I reconsidered. I knew I would grow drowsy. The other spectators were shogi experts or enthusiasts who enjoyed game records, so they were happily studying the moves in the waiting rooms, but being terrible at shogi myself, that approach wouldn't work for me. My sole focus lay in observing the players' demeanor during matches—which was precisely why all other spectators were chattering away in the waiting rooms while I alone had never left the board's side. I was a pitiful spectator.

Even though I didn't understand the moves themselves, keeping up appearances through a two-hour-long deliberation made me feel like a fool, so of course I grew sleepy.
There was no helping it, so I steeled myself and brought out the Zedrin.
There still remained some Zedrin from the large stock I had bought long ago.

Tsukada stood vacantly, then shuffled off to the bathroom dragging his feet.
He had been thinking for nearly forty minutes.
When Tsukada left, Kimura turned to the record keeper with a beaming smile,

“A wet towel would be nice,” Kimura suggested.
If this were a ryokan，such formalities wouldn’t be necessary，but within the Imperial Palace，matters were complicated，and even the record keeper stood up and began pacing restlessly.
“Is there one，perhaps? I must have forgotten，” he said with an apologetic expression.

“Ah, it’s fine.
If there isn’t one, that’s fine.”

Kimura consoled them with a smile.
The younger record keeper left with an uneasy expression.

“Matches are better in winter. Summer’s too hot.”

He addressed Yamamoto 7-dan, the record keeper.
Kimura's smile was serene.
It was a smile that vividly reflected the tranquility of his mind.
I had once traveled with him to Nagoya by train, and during the journey, he had been a man who remained this calm, always smiling quietly.
Yet during a match, I had never seen him wear such a quietly vivid smile and speak so casually.

It was an extremely muggy day. It had apparently started spitting rain outside. It was a deeply humid heat. Yamamoto 7-dan and I stood up and tried opening the dojo window. Some cool air began to flow in.

“Hey.”
“Shall I take off my haori?”

He smiled at me.

“That would be better.”

I answered.

As Kimura finished removing his haori, Tsukada returned from the bathroom. Glancing at Kimura, who had removed his haori, he too wordlessly took off his haori and carelessly tossed it aside.

The Ogasawara-style woman brought a hand towel wrung out in cold water.

Tsukada resumed his prolonged deliberation.

Kimura, this time not in a whisper, clearly said, “A cup of tea, please.”
Yamamoto 7-dan stood up, and after a short while, a Mainichi Shimbun staff member came to summon me.

“Since this appears to be the most difficult part, please step away from your seat for a moment.”

I immediately nodded and left.
As I was leaving the dojo, I ran into Mr. Shisaku Sasaki.

“I’ve just arrived here, you see. What’s the state of play?”

When he tried to go observe, he too was cautioned,

“Ah, I see.”
“I suppose that’s how it is.”
“That’s understandable.”

With that, he entered the waiting room with me.
The Meijin match two years ago had not been like this, but in this Meijin match, spectators were asked to leave when they reached critical phases.

When I went to the waiting room, Mr. Sasaki was there.

“What do you think?”
“What’s your prediction?”
“Who will win?”

“Kimura.”

I answered immediately.

“Kimura’s composure is extraordinary. I’ve never seen him maintain such calm during a match. His mind shines through with crystalline clarity. Meanwhile, Tsukada has stiffened up completely—rigid as a board.”

Mr. Shisaku made a face that said, “Hmm.”
He had apparently bet on Tsukada.

★

Such a lively waiting room scene was rare. As about fifty Shogi 8-dan players gathered, Go professionals like Fujisawa 9-dan and amateur 5-dan Yasunaga joined them, wholly engrossed in their games of Go and Shogi. It was human nature for professionals to avoid their own field in leisure activities; thus, the Shogi players peered with interest at the Go games while the Go players watched the Shogi matches.

Before long, an interesting match began. Oyama 8-dan and Yasunaga 5-dan, who had played through a two-stone handicap game, started another by saying, “Alright, bring on the Go game,” this time with a seven-stone handicap. Oyama 8-dan’s handling of Go seemed to be about the same level as mine. The difference lay in the fact that he was a natural-born professional player. Yasunaga 5-dan called himself the “Unskilled Meijin” and had a remarkable knack for glossing over his lack of skill. Oyama did not engage with this posturing. He held back steadfastly and avoided forced moves. By skillfully utilizing the handicap stones to press forward firmly, he soundly defeated Yasunaga in two consecutive games.

“With Oyama given seven stones, can Yasunaga even win?”
“This isn’t a real match.”
“If it’s seven stones, I’ll take on Oyama anytime.”
“Well?”
“Let’s do it!”

Kurashima jeered.
“Fine, let’s play,” was decided, and Yasunaga too grew serious. He seemed thoroughly vexed.
White spent several times longer than Black deliberating each move.
He had steered it into a decent game of Go, but ultimately White’s formation crumbled.

The first time I saw Oyama 8-dan was on this day. The same applied to Harada 8-dan. While I couldn't possibly comprehend the intricacies of shogi strength, as a professional player, Oyama seemed to stand slightly apart from the rest.

I had played Go with Kimura and Masuda before. Both employed a forceful style of play, and when it came to Masuda, his games resembled chaotic scrambles—so the still less experienced Oyama would apparently get overwhelmed by Masuda's turbulence and lose, though being weaker meant this was inevitable. However, regarding how much of their inherent ability they actually deployed: Oyama exerted his fully, leaving almost nothing unused, while Masuda played with bold bravado yet also made blunders.

This characteristic in Go must undoubtedly apply to professional Shogi as well. Oyama had nothing resembling bluffing in his play. He was extremely calm, with a refinement honed through training from his youth. Having grown up under a senior like Masuda—a roughneck who berated him arbitrarily—it was only natural he cultivated such composure; there was none of the softness found in greenhouse-raised upbringings. While Masuda couldn’t compare to Oyama’s tenacity and persistence as a professional player, half the credit for Oyama’s development likely lay in having endured such an ill-suited senior. In contrast, Harada 8-dan of the Tokyo faction, though logically precise in game theory, gave a strong impression of greenhouse cultivation—the resolve fundamental to a professional player seemed somehow fragile.

After this match concluded, Oyama and I broadcasted a discussion at NHK’s request.
Since I don’t know shogi, even if you call it a discussion, there’s nothing like speaking with an expert.
I had agreed that if the announcer asked me questions, I would respond by sharing some impressions accordingly.

When the broadcast began, the announcer retreated, forcing us into an impromptu discussion that somehow muddied the tea, resulting in a truly dull program.
At that moment, Oyama 8-dan turned to me with a thoroughly dejected look and said,

“Mr. Sakaguchi, we should have gone through with playing it out after arranging the match.”

He looked regretful.

Oyama was a man who, in such situations, even considered dramatic effects when it came to broadcasts.
In the discussion, he was considering the structure.
He was a genuinely thick-skinned gambler at his core.

Dinner break had come, but since I left the match venue, Tsukada had spent seventy-five minutes pondering only to make a single move at 7-4 corner.
For a little over two hours after that, Kimura continued deliberating, and before he could make his move, it became seven o'clock dinner.

Resumed at eight o'clock.
Because it would be improper to enter the match venue, I watched quietly from a corner of the dojo.
Kimura suddenly grabbed a piece, snapped it down, then slammed another one down with force.
That was at 8:20.

Outside, it was raining.
Dusk hung heavy, an eerie hour when light and dark remained indistinct.

Kimura's move was 4-9 Rook.
He spent 157 minutes on this move, bringing the total to 318 minutes.

Tsukada: 6-4 Gold (4 minutes). Kimura: 26 minutes of deliberation, 2-6 Bishop.
Then came: 4-3 Silver (3 minutes), 4-5 Pawn (27 minutes), 5-4 Gold, 4-4 Pawn, 4-4 Same Gold Left (3 minutes), 4-7 Gold, 8-6 Pawn (38 minutes) captured by Silver, 5-5 Silver, 4-5 Silver (25 minutes).

At this point, it was approximately 10:30.
The surroundings were enveloped in utter darkness, and the scarlet mohsen folding screen illuminated in the light had truly become a stage for harakiri.

There, Tsukada’s second long deliberation began.
As of this point, the time consumed was 396 minutes for Kimura, whereas Tsukada had used a mere 163 minutes.

When I came to the waiting room, there were no longer any people engrossed in playing Go or Shogi.

They had set up a shogi board in the center of the room with Doi and Oyama facing it while Kaneko 8-dan sat beside them, moving pieces as they devoted themselves entirely to analyzing potential moves.
The shogi game had truly reached its decisive phase.

The research by Doi, Oyama, and Kaneko inevitably concluded that Kimura held the advantage.
At that moment, Kurashima Takejiro arrived. "Hey, Masuda and Harada are working on it in the press room—over there, they’ve concluded Tsukada’s got the advantage!"
“Since Oyama’s playing style resembles Kimura’s, they end up with the conclusion Kimura envisioned.”
“Since Masuda’s playing style resembles Tsukada’s, he’s found a move that the folks in this room haven’t noticed,” Kurashima reported.

“That’s interesting.”

And Toyota Saburo ran off to the press room.
I also went to the press room and heard an explanation from Harada 8-dan, though it didn’t conclusively favor Tsukada.
Ultimately, in their analysis of the moves there, Harada 8-dan had been the most impartial, having exhaustively considered every possibility.
His research partner was Watanabe 8-dan.
Masuda had gone to our waiting room as we crossed paths.

The crux lay in proceeding through 4-5 Gold, same Knight, and 4-4 Pawn to reach the prior variation—a sequence where the lower player could drop a Gold at 6-3.
At this juncture, Oyama seemed to have been contemplating holding back another step, chiefly focused on blocking the upper player’s silver drop.
Following this approach as Oyama did would inevitably lead to a game state where Kimura’s victory became certain.

Of course, I had absolutely no understanding of the intricacies around here. Because I was writing this without understanding, I myself felt utterly foolish, but oh well, I asked readers to please bear with me without getting angry. Even if it was wrong, I wouldn’t take responsibility. “Since Oyama’s playing style resembles Kimura’s, it’ll result in a favorable game for Kimura,” Kurashima Takejiro said. “And Masuda’s making a move Oyama hasn’t noticed,” he added. “It was the move of dropping a Silver at 3-8 to target the Rook.”

However, when the 8-dan group considered this scenario, the rook would escape to 7-9.
The silver promoted at 2-3.
The bishop escaped to 5-9, and if this bishop then circled to 7-7, it still seemed Kimura held a slight advantage.
This was because Tsukada’s promoted silver became an idle piece while this bishop occupied a vital point striking the opponent’s king’s *kobin*.

However, Harada 8-dan had considered discarding a Pawn by first pushing 6-6 Pawn and capturing with the same Pawn to erase this threat.
He said that even then, the situation remained unclear—he couldn’t determine it.

When I returned to the waiting room after having this explained to me, Masuda had joined Oyama, Doi, and Kaneko, and the group had just noticed the same thing I had learned from Harada.

“I don’t get it at all. I don’t care anymore.”

Masuda rolled his eyes and grinned,

“I’m gettin’ a bit sleepy here.”

He looked around restlessly, but with five or six people who resembled defeated soldiers haphazardly sprawled left and right, sleeping in the corners, there was no room left. However, he remained energetic and lacked the desperate gaze of someone clinging to sleep.

There, the eighty-three-minute deliberation concluded, and Tsukada's move was announced.

6-6 Pawn.

It was precisely what Harada had predicted.
And moreover, the other 8-dans had just noticed it as well.
In the waiting room, a sudden roar of commotion arose.
Kimura took it without a moment’s pause, capturing the same Pawn.

“Tsukada Meijin is strong.”

Masuda glared wide-eyed and shook his head as if vindicated. Even this emphatic gesture felt insufficient for proper praise.

"Hmm, he's a strong one, ain't he."
"He's read through this whole line."

He jabbed at the board with his finger before snatching it back. Though he'd indicated the exact sequence Tsukada had anticipated—whether the 4th, 7th, or 6th file—the crowd blocking my view left me guessing.

“There’s no end to the possible moves coming out. No decisive line in sight.”

Doi 8-dan, perhaps having grown sick of the research, shouted loudly, appeared sleepy, and made his declaration: "I’m done with this research."

At that moment, it was five minutes to twelve.

Kimura, with little remaining time, entered another long deliberation.
According to the 8-dan group’s research, the battle was now converging on the fourth file: Tsukada would drop a Silver at 3-8, forcing Kimura’s Rook and Bishop into retreat.
According to Harada, who first identified this line, the situation remained unclear—the battle lay ahead.

A person from a certain company came to me to get Zedrin, but lowered their voice slightly and,

“Mr. Sakaguchi, Former Meijin Kimura has just gone to the restroom unsteadily.”
“Could you have the Former Meijin take Zedrin as well?”

“Are you tired?”
“Yes – he’s walking like some wispy shadow, all unsteady-like. It’s downright pitiful to watch.”
“Is that so.”
“Then let’s dose him.”

Kimura, now forty-five years old, found his exhaustion worsening at night.
The hour of the ox at 2 AM was known as Kimura’s cursed hour, when he would thoughtlessly destroy thoroughly winning positions through careless blunders.
The first game of this term’s Meijin match was one such example, and that was why I had convinced myself that if Kimura was acting senile like this, he was done for.
At this point, physical stamina became a major factor in the match.

About a year and a half ago, I had made Kimura take Zedrin and caused him to win.
It was the aforementioned three-game match between Kimura and Masuda in Nagoya.
Since Kimura’s exhaustion was painful to witness, I had him take Zedrin after dinner.
And Kimura won this match.
The next morning, he—well, that drug works well enough, but then I can’t sleep—squinted his eyes blearily.

There should be no profession better suited to using this drug than Go and Shogi players, yet strangely, since no one knew about it, it was puzzling. Their matches occurred once a week or ten days, so it never became habitual. And as if in collusion, they feared late-night exhaustion above all else. Yet none knew about this drug.

Indeed, youth made all the difference—while those nearing forty and beyond would slump over past midnight, Oyama, Harada, and Go’s Fujisawa remained with eyes wide awake even at five the next morning, showing almost no signs of fatigue.

Even Oyama took my Zedrin case in his hands and examined it with apparent curiosity.

“Does taking this really keep you from getting sleepy?”

“That’s correct. But looking at your face and Mr. Fujisawa’s, you don’t seem tired at all. Do you still get fatigued during matches?”

“Yes, around midnight my mind grows dull and it becomes unbearable.”

He always spoke in a low, quiet voice.
And,

“How much is this?”

he asked about the price, true to his Osaka roots.

“This medicine, you see,” I said. “Since pharmacies can no longer sell it, you should obtain it from a doctor. As long as you use it only for crucial matches like Meijin matches or Challenger Deciding matches—it’s practically made for that purpose—there’s no harm.”

With that, I made sure to impart this wisdom to Oyama. In truth, I considered them to be the very professionals most suited to taking this medication. The Meijin matches were akin to life-and-death struggles, and the number of games requiring stimulants—ten per year for A-class players and five challenge matches—amounted to just that. For people like us who used it nonstop for work, it became harmful, but for them, it was at most twenty times a year—and those were matches inherently staking life and death.

I was prompted by someone from a certain company and went out into the corridor to wait for Kimura returning from the restroom.
Kimura appeared.
His staggered walk swayed unsteadily—likely from sitting motionless in one spot for so long—though such gait naturally appears in professional match players.

I moved closer to him,

“Will you take the drug you took in Nagoya last time?”

When I asked this, he suddenly grinned slyly,

"Yes, thanks.
"Actually,
"I got some medicine from a doctor."

He answered with a nod and walked past, then turned around and smiled again.

“Probably the same medicine as yours, Mr. Sakaguchi.”

When he said this, his footsteps ascending the dojo steps remained steady. Moreover, the eyes he turned to me with a smile were clear, and indeed no trace of fatigue showed on his face.

On the second floor of Momiji, Tsukada and Masuda declared in unison: "The third game showed a different person altogether." "Kimura isn't senile in the slightest," they insisted. It was said he'd displayed astonishing resolve and fighting spirit, as if warning them to watch what came next. I remembered their words.

This was modern warfare. Here too lay a battlefield—a life-and-death struggle no less fierce than under bombardment. To condemn Kimura for using stimulants despite his age disadvantage missed the point entirely. Of course Oyama, being a true professional player, would take extraordinary interest in this drug.

Kimura deliberated for forty-nine minutes before moving his gold general to 4-5. Without hesitation came the responses: same-square knight, pawn to 4-4. This sequence matched exactly what the waiting room's collective fifty-four dan ranks had foreseen earlier.

Kimura deliberated twenty-two more minutes before advancing his gold general to 6-3. The subsequent moves followed without pause—pawn to 4-5, gold general to 6-4, same-square silver. Here too, everything unfolded precisely as predicted by those in the waiting room.

Someone quietly went to check the dojo.
It was already half past one the next morning.
Outside, a storm raged, but in the dimly lit dojo’s center, only the folding screen within the alcove glowed brightly; not a single sound could be heard, the space utterly hushed.
Kimura wiped his face with a hand towel.
Tsukada also wiped his face.
Tsukada then took off his glasses and wiped them with the sleeve of his underrobe.
Kimura sat cross-legged.

There were no other spectators, yet a single peculiar figure sat in formal posture. A bearded man who appeared to be a martial arts instructor from Seiningkan, his sitting posture was characteristic of martial artists. Clad in a stiff cotton kimono and hakama trousers, he sat perfectly still in the dimness two or three ken away from the light within the folding screen. Though his stance appeared natural, his shoulders were squared rigidly and his hips settled low, resembling a sculpture perfectly suited to the setting. It was as if he were an official witness to harakiri.

It was exactly half past one when Kimura slammed down the piece with a sharp crack, putting his full force into the move.
3-7 bishop (24 minutes). This too was a move the fifty-four dan players in the waiting room had foreseen.

This next move was the decisive move of fate.

I had returned to the waiting room.
Even from among the fifty-four dan players, dropouts had emerged—Doi 8-dan lay sprawled out.
It was the era of youth.
Replacing Doi 8-dan at the board were Kaneko 8-dan and Oyama 8-dan analyzing positions.
Fujisawa 9-dan—his rotund Go player’s frame—listened intently with gleaming eyes that showed no trace of drowsiness.
Muttering “Sleep… sleep…” while peering over shoulders and interjecting comments was Masuda 8-dan.

It was 2:10.
The news of the fateful move arrived.

Tsukada moved his knight to 5-2 (39 minutes).

The shogi players gasped “Ah!”

“Huh? What? What?”

The one who raised a loud voice and pushed through the crowd was Masuda.

“5-2 knight? Oh. There was such a move?”

It was a move no one had anticipated. Masuda’s eyes shone. Whether it was a brilliant move or a blunder, he first expressed admiration at this move that took everyone by surprise.

Taken by surprise, the entire group of shogi players suddenly began moving their pieces fervently.

“An unorthodox move,” said Masuda.

“It’s an unorthodox move indeed,” said Kaneko.

I didn’t understand what it meant.
I asked Kaneko 8-dan.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘unorthodox move’?”

“In other words,”
“it’s a move the opponent couldn’t possibly anticipate.”
“Reading moves essentially means reading the flow of the game.”
“This kind of move is one the opponent could never possibly anticipate.”

“He’s goin’ for a time depletion,” Masuda snapped bluntly.
At that moment, Kimura’s remaining time stood at forty-four minutes.
Tsukada had made a move Kimura couldn’t have anticipated.
This was Tsukada’s gamble against Kimura’s dwindling forty-four minutes.
Since it was a move he’d never foreseen, Kimura reeled.
Now he had to restart his calculations from scratch.
Every scenario Kimura had painstakingly mapped out now lay shattered—hundreds of minutes squandered in vain.
With only forty-four minutes left, he faced the herculean task of reassessing this labyrinthine position anew.
The scarcity of time alone threw him into turmoil.
His thoughts refused to coalesce.
The clock marched forward without mercy.
Kimura’s composure frayed.
This precise unraveling was what Tsukada had engineered.

I knew nothing of this term’s Meijin matches beyond this single game, but it was said that Tsukada’s strategy had been primarily this same approach of aiming for Kimura’s time depletion.

The shogi players considered various possibilities, but the future course remained unpredictable.
However, it seemed Kimura had been completely confident of victory at that moment.
Throughout that day, Kimura remained utterly composed.
Tsukada's surprise attack—a tactic divorced from the very art of shogi itself, aimed solely at time depletion—proved truly to be a case of stirring up a hornet's nest.

Kimura, after sixteen minutes of deliberation: 4-8 gold.

This, too, was a move that defied the waiting room's expectations.

“A restrained move, huh?”

As Kaneko let out an admiring sigh,

“Impressive.”

Masuda nodded.

Tsukada deliberated for nine minutes before moving his knight to 3-3.
Kimura instantly responded by sliding his rook to 2-9.

I slipped back into the dojo once more.
The clock read 2:35 AM.
2:50 AM.
Tsukada snatched the silver piece from the komadai and slammed it down with combative force.
4-6 Silver—sixteen minutes spent.
His movements now pulsed with nothing but raw aggression, that slight edge of a street brawler.
He resembled a cornered boxer abandoning technique for wild swings.
The man could only be described as unhinged, trembling with overstimulation.

In response to this, Kimura, with perfect composure, snapped his piece into place.
2-6 bishop (2 minutes); followed by Tsukada’s 4-4 knight (7 minutes); 6-3 bishop (1 minute). By this point, Kimura had used 455 minutes, and Tsukada had used 376 minutes.

When I brought news of the moves up to this point to the waiting room, Doi, Oyama, and Kaneko murmured in unison that Tsukada had blundered.
The high-ranking players in the waiting room clearly acknowledged Tsukada’s losing position.

Tsukada: 3-6 knight (twenty minutes); Kimura: no time, 5-8 Gold.
Tsukada, after another twenty minutes of deliberation: 3-5 Gold.

When this news arrived,

“Ah, this is bad.”

Doi 8-dan immediately shook his head.

“Tsukada Meijin’s gone off the rails here.”
“Something’s gotten into him.”
“When it’s your time to lose, you lose.”
“But damn—what a rotten move.”

“Why is that?”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“This is one hell of a bad move,” he said. “He used his held Gold just to block the bishop’s path—a Gold that serves no other purpose now. With all his Gold and Silver spent like this, Former Meijin Kimura must be feeling quite relieved.”

Doi 8-dan seemed to have clearly resigned himself.
He probably had wanted Tsukada to win.

“Hey, this is it.
This is it.
The Former Meijin’s left hand holds a cigarette and raises it above his head like this, see?”

Masuda demonstrated the pose.
This was Kimura’s signature pose when in a winning position.
About ten minutes later, the report of the next move arrived.

5-9 Bishop (1 minute); 5-4 Silver (7 minutes); 7-4 Bishop.
6-2 Rook.
3-7 Rook.

It was the very moment when everyone in the waiting room had just finished writing down that move in their notebooks.

A single person came running.

“The match is over. Kimura has won.”

There wasn’t even time to gasp.
The entire group rushed into the dojo in a single mass.

Just as it had been when he won two years ago, even in defeat, Tsukada showed no change in expression.
They were always the same listless eyes.

The remaining moves were 6-3 Silver.
8-3 Bishop (1 minute) 8-2 Pawn.
3-8 Horse.
4-2 Rook.
3-6 Pawn (1 minute). Same Gold.
3-7 Pawn.
Same Silver (1 minute). Same Bishop.
4-6 Pawn.
2-4 Pawn (2 minutes). Final move.

At that moment, 4:02.

★

The recording machine was spinning round and round.
Kimura, Tsukada, and Kaneko did the broadcasts; Oyama and I conducted an interview broadcast; and Mr. Nishimura Rakuten and others broadcasted.
The night had dawned.

When I returned to the waiting room, Masuda was alone and excited. I imagine he had already envisioned next year's challenge match, positioning himself as the challenger, unable to suppress his agitation.

“To make such a terrible move...”
“For someone of Tsukada Meijin’s stature...”
“His usual sharpness—not a trace remains.”
“So that’s what defeat looks like.”

Masuda tilted his head slightly,

“But Former Meijin Kimura—no, he’s Kimura Meijin again now.”
“Kimura Meijin is formidable.”

He was alone and excited.

Oyama quietly returned and sat down beside me, his back to the window.
He was always soundless and quiet.
I asked Oyama.

“Kimura and Tsukada—which one’s victory would be more favorable for you?”

“Hmm?”

“Masuda seems fired up because Kimura won, but you’d be happier if Tsukada had won, wouldn’t you?”

“Not really. To me, there’s no particular distinction between one outcome and the other.”

However, regarding such matters, one must recognize that professional players' statements are largely unreliable. Everyone conceals their true intentions, sometimes even expressing the opposite. This tendency was all the more pronounced with Oyama—a perpetually composed man who cultivated no enemies. When I asked during our broadcast interview whether Tsukada's 5-2 Knight had been a move to induce time trouble, he dodged with a vague "No, that wasn't it." Yet Tsukada himself had explicitly stated during his broadcast with Kimura and Kaneko that it indeed aimed to exhaust Kimura's clock. Oyama never intended to speak truthfully—he considered such evasion perfectly natural. Regretting our lack of pre-interview coordination, he focused instead on structuring our dialogue for maximum dramatic effect. This audacity distinguishes Oyama as peerless among players—an extraordinary performer whose hidden gambler's tenacity defies measurement.

According to what I heard through others, Masuda had spent that entire day drowning his sorrows because his close friend had lost the Meijin title. Of course, this was pure fabrication. There could be no one as exhilarated by Kimura’s victory as he was, already buoyed by dreams of next year’s challenge. In that respect, Masuda too was an actor—albeit a rather clownish one—while Oyama struck me as a main stage performer.

Kimura and Tsukada came walking side by side into our waiting room.
Kimura’s face was bright, but as if deliberately concealing that brightness, he hid behind people’s backs and sat leaning against the wall.
Tsukada plopped down at the entrance.

“My way of losing wasn’t disgraceful, was it? I believe I wasn’t disgraceful, though.”

Tsukada looked around at the people and asked. There was a sharpness that carried a slight hint of hostility.

“It wasn’t disgraceful at all. Everyone’s impressed, I tell you. That was a truly admirable attitude.”

Someone said.
Even when I overheard this in the broadcast room, Tsukada was asking whether his conduct in defeat had been disgraceful, and the spectators were remarking to one another that Tsukada, who had lost the Meijin title, remained unchanged in his attitude—truly admirable.

Even in the waiting room where the two were still playing their match, someone had been saying.
Kimura had considered both scenarios of victory and defeat, refined his mindset to avoid disarray even in loss, and had steadfastly prepared himself—or so it was said.

So that there would be no disgraceful conduct upon defeat.
It was truly a pitiful notion, but their needing to devote such care to mental preparations might indeed have been a natural aspect of readiness.

I thought otherwise.
What nonsense.
Wasn't it enough to pour everything into match technique - whether you win or lose?
Everything else was superfluous.
Why shouldn't they give their all, lose, and collapse weeping?
The very existence of criticism condemning Meijin for losing tears or panic proved society's error.

The other day, I received a magazine published from prison.
Within it was a roundtable discussion about death row inmates where the warden, chaplains, and others spoke of them. They emphasized how dignified the inmates' attitudes were when facing death—how their manner of dying was so composed and free of disarray that these individuals were described as people whose souls had been saved, even spoken of as if they were heroes.
In response to this, a man named Ogawa was the only one who said the following.

“Hmm, is that really the case?”
“Hmm, is dying with dignity really such a great thing?”

This person’s modest protest had not been given the slightest consideration in that roundtable discussion.
The Meijin Match participants were no different.
They were secretly expressing admiration for things like not having a disgraceful way of dying or losing.
Surrounded by such absurd people, Tsukada—obsessed with maintaining a disgrace-free way of dying or losing—was pitiable in a sense, but I found the whole affair utterly preposterous.

Panic and cry—isn't that fine? Instead of wasting energy on trivial matters, why not fully immerse themselves in the match? Isn't it more despicable to employ strategies divorced from Shogi's true artistry—schemes targeting their opponent's time depletion? I believe Tsukada was inherently a loser. Overwhelmed from the outset, sensing inevitable defeat from the start, targeting his opponent's legs from the beginning—his fighting spirit amounted to nothing but a defeated man's desperation, like a doomed boxer's wild flurry. He remained agitated from the match's commencement until its end, never recovering his composure.

Someone said to Kimura.

“They really must extend the time limits.”
“It’s terrible for them to be pressed for time in the Meijin Match.”
“At least for the Meijin Match...”

And it was a clichéd remark.
For it was a phrase everyone uttered, and Kimura himself had cried out, “Ah, I lost to time!” two years prior when he lost the Meijin title.

However, Kimura’s response this time was different.
He answered casually.

“No, you.
Even if there were all the time in the world, it’d be the same.
If you have plenty of time, you’ll just overthink things early on—either way, you’ll end up pressed for time in the endgame. It’s all the same.”

That would be what he had remarked.
Even with just this much change in thinking alone, these past two years had likely not been wasted on Kimura.

Kimura and Tsukada returned by car.

Oyama and I walked side by side from the still sparsely populated moatside toward Tokyo Station and Kyobashi.
We went to the Mainichi Shimbun dormitory and drank alcohol.
It was because this calm professional player—still twenty-seven, this unassuming little man with his unremarkable appearance—seemed so refreshingly clear to me that I felt like spending a day with him.