Hikaru No Go Fan Fiction ❯ Balance ❯ Part 1, Spiritual (1/4) ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

<i>According to authorities around the world, there are five different kinds of health that human beings strive for: Physical, Mental, Emotional, Spiritual and Social. A healthy, happy life results from keeping all these elements in balance.</i>


BALANCE
A Hikaru no Go Sekkushiaru Roman Series
By Sailor Mac

PART ONE: SPIRITUAL (1/4)

There was an unnatural quiet in the observation room for the Room of Profound Darkness when Waya entered it. Normally, there was a hum of conversation as the game being viewed on the TV monitor was progressing, as observers tried to predict the next move, criticized or praised the players, or uttered the inevitable "Now if it were *me* in there . . ."

But today, there was nothing but the *pachi* sounds of the Go stones being placed on the board as the game was recreated by the observers. And there were certainly a lot of people observing. Waya couldn't remember the last time the room had been this crowded.

Of course, it had been a long time since a match had been this talked about, or anticipated.

He took a quick look around the room. All the heavy hitters had come out for this one, all right. Ogata was sitting across from old man Kuwabara, both studying the screen intently. Kurata was a few people back from them.

*What the hell is it about Shindou*, he thought, *that always attracts so much interest*?

He began moving slowly through the room, past all of the old-school Go players . . . the men perpetually dressed in suits and ties, many with cigarettes seemingly permanently fastened to their fingers . . . when those fingers weren't holding Go stones, that was.

Waya couldn't have been more of a contrast to them. He was wearing a fatigue-print jacket, a green T-shirt and blue jeans, and his brown hair stuck out all over the place. The old-timers always seemed charmed by that style of dress . . . it marked him as part of "the new wave" of players, the ones who were supposedly going to rescue Japanese Go from its current lowly status compared to other Asian countries.

*Who am I fooling?* Waya thought. *It's not me they talk about. It's always Shindou. Shindou and Touya.*

He spotted Isumi at the far side of the room, at one of the Gobans. The young man's dark head was bent over the board as he duplicated what was on the screen, and there was a slight frown on his face. This could either mean intense concentration . . . or a reaction to Shindou screwing up.

"Hey," Waya said, sliding into the seat opposite him. "How's he doing?"

"Take a look," Isumi said, scooping up the stones and beginning to lay them out one by one, recreating the game from the beginning. "Shindou's black."

Waya groaned inwardly as the patterns began unfolding in front of him. Shindou was cracking under the pressure, all right.

"That idiot!" he said aloud. "Look at this! He attacked too soon over here, and forgot to block there . . . and what the hell kind of a move is *this*?" He sat back, arms crossed over his chest, and gave a deep sigh of disgust. "Forget it. He's done for."

But Isumi said, calmly, "That's exactly what he wants his opponent to think."

"What do you mean by that? How could anybody play like that on purpose? Especially someone with a track record like Shindou's?" But he had to admit that Hikaru's track record was . . . unusual. Hell, it was fair to say it was bizarre. Who had ever come back from a string of forfeits upon first turning pro to be where Shindou was now?

"You should know by now that the only thing predictable about him is that he's unpredictable," Isumi said, looking back at the screen.

"Do you really think that he can . . ."

At that moment, there was a collective gasp throughout the room, and Waya turned his eyes back to the screen.

*Damn!* he thought, blinking in amazement, *he did it again! How the hell does he do that*?

Hikaru's supposedly sloppy play had just revealed itself to be a brilliant move. Suddenly, he was in control of the situation, gaining territory that Waya was sure he had lost . . . and his opponent was caught completely off-guard.

The game was entering the final stage, and Waya knew from personal experience that when Hikaru went into yose with the upper hand, he almost never lost. *Gods, he's going to do it,* he thought. *How the hell could anyone . . .*

He remembered all too well sitting in that very room with Ochi while Shindou was playing his Beginner Dan match against Touya Koyou -- an even more bizarre game than this one -- and the two of them wondering, over and over, "Who *is* Shindou?"

It was a question Waya had been asking himself ever since the day his friend first entered the Insei class, proclaiming himself Touya Akira's rival when he could barely play the game. And he wondered if he'd ever really know the answer.

He looked back at the screen. Nothing was happening, nothing had happened for several minutes. Hikaru had his opponent well-trapped.

Then, they saw the older man's head come into the picture over the board as he bowed. Nobody needed to hear what was being said -- it was obvious he was resinging.

There was a sudden heavy sigh of relief, as if everyone in the room had been holding their breath throughout the entire match. And then, everybody started talking at once, rapidly, as if they couldn't wait to get out the words they'd been holding in.

The door opened, and the pros began to pour out into the hall, chattering like theatergoers who had just witnessed the opening night of a stunning new play.

"Think we'll be able to get in there to hear him discuss the game?" Isumi said.

Waya shook his head. "Between the press and the old guys, there isn't going to be a centimeter of space in that room. Let's wait in the hall -- we might be able to grab him on the way to the elevator."

They knew they'd be able to get an explanation of the game later, in an informal setting, when it was just a small group of them. Waya personally couldn't wait to hear it -- though he wondered if he'd really understand his friend's playing style any better afterward.

The two stayed quietly in the hall for a seeming eternity, occasionally remaking on the people they saw going in and out of the tournament room, until, at last, the door opened and their friend emerged, looking more relieved than anything else.

Hikaru had actually put on a suit for the occasion, a far contrast from his usual uniform of T-shirts or sports jerseys and jeans, and his hair -- blond in front, black in back -- was combed neatly.

*I don't think it's hit him yet,* Waya thought. He waved his hand to get his friend's attention. "Shindou!"

"Waya! Isumi-san!" Hikaru rushed over to them. "Were you watching?"

"We saw!" Isumi said, patting his friend on the back. "The end . . . you were amazing!"

"But what the hell were you thinking in the middle of the game?" Waya said. "I thought you'd blown it!"

But he didn't get his answer, because the door to the tournament room opened again, and a flood of people with notebooks and cameras poured out, heading for Hikaru like a swarm of bees heading for a flower bed.

*Damn*, Waya thought, *this must be big . . . they must have sent every Go reporter in the country!* "We want to take you out to celebrate after you're done with these people," he told Hikaru quickly.

"Sure," Hikaru said, looking over at the press corps with a bit of trepidation. And in a flash, they surrounded him, blocking him from the view of his friends.

"We'll wait downstairs," Isumi said. They turned to walk toward the elevators, but it was easier said than done. The halls were thronging with pros, all talking with excitement about what they had just seen, as if they wanted to savor every bit of the game.

"I'm telling you, Shindou is it," he heard someone say. "He and Touya . . . Japanese Go finally has a future."

The elevator arrived, and the two boys got into it. "Damn," Waya said. "I'm glad we're getting away from that."

"We're not going to get away from that," Isumi said, quietly. "People are going to be talking about this for a long time."

Waya had to admit he was right. After all, this was far from an everyday occurrence in the Go world.

One year after entering the pros with a string of forfeits, Shindou Hikaru, age 16, had just made it into the Honinbou League.



* * *

Touya Akira was fighting the urge to look at his watch.

He was sitting at a U-shaped table in the middle of a community center hall, upon which six gobans were resting. Behind each board was a middle-aged man in a suit, showing varying degrees of interest in what was going on.

The gaunt one with the steel-gray hair was bent over with his nose practically touching the board, squinting at it; the short, squat one with the bad comb-over looked like he was going to fall asleep, the muscular one with the white crewcut was peeking at the other boards and then looking back at his own, like a child trying to cheat on a test.

Akira was seated in a swiveling chair in the middle, looking very much the young pro -- he was dressed in a blue suit and striped tie, his chin-length, dark-green hair perfectly neat. He turned from one board to the next, looked at the game, made a quick mental calculation, then placed his stone.

Shidou-go times six was something the young pro was used to by now. After all, he was very much in demand for lessons, more so since the retirement of his father a year and a half ago.

But today, he found it hard to maintain the deep focus he usually maintained for something like this. Because he knew he wanted to be somewhere else.

*He's probably winding up the game, if he hasn't finished it already*, Akira thought. *And if he won, he's caught up to me at long last.*

He couldn't have that. He had to stay ahead of Shindou. He just had to. Because if he let Shindou surpass him, there was no hope of either of them reaching the Hand of God.

*You've chased me for so long,* he thought, *and I've never let you catch me. And I'm not about to now. If you won that game . . . if you're even with me now . . . I will just go higher and higher, until you will never catch me no matter how long and hard you work.*

The memory of his own entry into the Honinbou League kept replaying in his mind, like a tape stuck in an endless loop. Shindou storming into the room, telling him he was back and ready to take him on . . . and he, himself, had replied, "Come after me!"

At that moment, he'd been flooded with a profound sense of relief. He thought he'd lost his one true rival.

His father had told him, when he was small, that the best thing a Go player could have was a rival to push him further. Akira had asked when he knew he'd found his.

"Finding your true rival is like finding your true love," Touya Kouyo had told him. "When it happens, you'll *know*."

And then, a couple of years later, Shindou Hikaru had walked into his father's Go salon . . .

Akira dipped his hand into the go ke again, pulled out a smooth, white stone and put it on the board before him with a resounding *pachi*. The player opposite him definitely had no feel for the game. He was just placing stones randomly, not even trying to connect them, not trying to build forts.

Normally, Akira was patient with people like this, and would take time to explain exactly what they were doing wrong. Today, he just wanted to get this over with. He'd been unable to get out of this commitment; the man who'd organized the group shidou-go was an old friend of his father's.

*I should be there,* he thought, *like I was there for Shindou's beginner dan game*. Of course, he's been expected to be there . . . his father was the boy's opponent, after all.

But he knew he'd really attended the game because he was interested in Shindou, in seeing his strength, how he played against his father. And the bizarre game that had resulted had been a letdown -- but hadn't all the games against Shindou been odd and frustrating?

*Shindou's been a mystery to me ever since we met,* he thought.

He looked around at the boards. All of the games were progressing slowly. It would be another half-hour or so before they would be over.

He couldn't wait any longer. He had to know *now* what had happened.

"Why don't we take a break," he said to the assembled players, "and we'll start again in about ten minutes?"

"Aaahhh, good," said the nose-to-the-board man, getting up and stretching his back, which let out a series of crackles and pops that sounded like a string of muffled firecrackers. "Been sitting way too long anyway."

"Still like shougi better," mumbled the would-be cheater, sprinting off toward the men's room.

Akira ducked into the corner and pulled out his cell phone. Shindou's number was the fourth one down in his phone list. He pushed the "send" button and listened to the ringing, realizing that his heart was speeding up . . .

And when it picked up, all he heard was a recording saying, "The cellular customer you are trying to reach is unavailable right now . . ."

Akira's heart sank. Did this mean that the match was still going on? Or that Shindou lost, and had gone home?

He searched through his speed dial directory again, looking for Shindou's home number, and tried that. Another recording. "Shindou residence, we can't come to the phone right now . . ."

Akira stabbed at the "end" button in frustration. *Typical of Shindou*, he thought. *He probably forgot to turn it on. He knew I was going to call him . . .*

He felt annoyance rising in him, and he didn't know why.

*There's a lot I can't figure out when it comes to Shindou*, he thought. *There always has been.*

And he knew that figuring out that mystery was as important to him as Go itself, and always had been.

* * *

"Hikaru!" Fuku, a chubby boy with perpetually squinting eyes, stood up at the table by the front window of the Igo Trip CafŽ and waved. "We're over here!"

Hikaru walked toward him, flanked by Waya and Isumi. Ochi and Honda were already there, menus in hand, and all three stood up as their friend approached the table. Fuku grabbed his hand and shook it so hard Hikaru thought he was going to rip it out of the socket. Ochi . . . seemed to be scowling a little less intensely than usual. Which was something.

"Hi, guys!" Hikaru said.

"He almost didn't make it here," Waya said. "We just about had to drag him away from the press."

"They were driving you nuts?" said Fuku as the three sat down.

"They were following him down the elevator!" Waya said, picking up another of the menus.

"And the other players all wanted to talk to him," Isumi said.

"They were all trying to get his attention away from each other," Waya said. "It was hilarious! It was like watching a bunch of girls going crazy over a rock star!"

But even as Waya was saying that, he felt a strong pang of jealousy. *Why him?* he thought. *I came into the pros the same time he did. I went to all my games, and he blew him off. But he was the one playing in the Hokuto Cup, and now he's in the Honinbou League. How the hell did this happen? It just doesn't measure up . . . but since when has anything about him measured up?*

In the end, though, he had to admit he *was* happy for him. And he knew Hikaru's victory was just going to make him push himself harder, until he made it into the League as well.

Meanwhile, Hikaru just sat quietly as his friends talked around him, looking down at the menu . . . it gave him somewhere to put his hands, his eyes . . .

He wasn't sure he really wanted to be here right now. He wanted time to digest what had just happened. But his friends had insisted, and all but dragged him out.

Right now, everything just seemed surreal. *I'll probably wake up in a few minutes,* he thought, *and find out this was all a dream.*

"Even Kuwabara showed up," Waya was saying.

"Kuwabara? I didn't see him," Honda said.

"Right up front, next to Ogata," Waya replied, looking around. "Hey, has anyone seen our waitress?"

"I didn't see Touya Akira there," Ochi said, quietly, peering steadily at Hikaru with tiny eyes through huge, round glasses.

Those words drove a knife of ice into Hikaru's belly. He knew Touya wasn't going to be there . . . but still . . .

*I'd been hoping he'd get out of his commitment,* he thought. *I wanted him to be there . . . to see me catch up to him at last . . .*

"Feh," Waya said, crossing his arms and slumping down a bit. "He was probably too stuck up to come."

"Waya!" Isumi said, frowning at his friend.

"Well, it's the truth!"

"It isn't like Touya to miss something like that," Ochi said, quietly. "He's always been far too interested in Shindou."

Hikaru's fingers slid into his pocket and wrapped around his cell phone. *I said I'd call him,* he thought. *I shouldn't have let them drag me here. Maybe I can slip out and . . .*

But his train of thought was interrupted by the long-delayed arrival of the waitress. "We'll get a big bowl of ramen for *him*," Waya was saying, pointing to Hikaru, "and we're paying for it!"

Hikaru sighed inwardly. *I'll try to get away in a few minutes,* he thought.

* * *

Akira waved goodbye to the last client and left the community center building, walking toward the subway entrance on the corner.

He'd tried Shindou's cell phone again at the conclusion of the games. Still no answer.

*I should just call someone else,* he thought as he went down the steps to the station. *Ogata could tell me if he won. Or any of the people from my study group. . . I'll just call Ogata when I get home.*

But for some reason he couldn't fathom, he wanted to hear it from Shindou's own lips. And he found that just about as puzzling as anything else about Hikaru.



* * *

Isumi came back into the cafŽ, placing his cell phone in his pocket. He'd gone outside to take the call from Nase . . . it was far too noisy in there to carry on the conversation.

He looked at their table and frowned. Someone was missing.

"Where's Ochi?" he said.

Hikaru and Waya's eyes met, and they started to laugh. Fuku broke out in a string of high giggles, and Honda just had a big grin on his face.

"Oh, man, you missed it," Waya said. "The waitress brought him the wrong kind of tea, and he got in a screaming match with her. She asked him if *all* of him was as small as his beady little eyes. He turned *purple*. Funniest thing I saw since Kurata got drunk . . ."

Hikaru shuddered at the memory of that one. He'd found it not so much funny as . . . disturbing. The incident had happened at a post-tournament party attended by both upper and lower dans. The portly 7-dan had downed enough sake to get an entire fraternity blitzed, then bounced around the room shaking his considerable rear and bellowing Michael Jackson's "Bad" at the top of his lungs.

"And then he stormed off to the bathroom, like he does when he loses," Waya said. "Hasn't come back yet."

"Nase said to tell you congratulations, Hikaru," Isumi said, sitting back down next to Waya. "She'll see you when she gets back on Thursday. She didn't want to go, but her family planned this trip months ago."

Hikaru reached into his pocket and fingered his own cell phone. Again, he wondered if he should go outside and call Touya.

*But it's so late,* he thought. *He's probably in bed by now. I don't want to wake him up . . . that'll mean a screaming match.*

He heaved a deep sigh, knowing he had no choice but to tell him in person the next day.

* * *

Akira emerged from the subway and turned left. He hadn't gotten off at the stop nearest his home. Instead, he had gotten off at the one near the Go Institute.

He told himself it was so he could see if anyone from Weekly Go was hanging around the building -- there was almost always a few staffers at any time of the day or night -- so he could question them about the results of the match.

But there was still that nagging, mysterious desire to hear it only from Shindou himself.

The street he was walking on was at the same time familiar, and not so familiar. The windows of most of the businesses were dark, there were no other pedestrians. Even cars seemed to be avoiding the area at this time of night.

*Why do I still do this?* he thought. *Why do I chase after Shindou, and urge him on to chase me? Why is it more important than life itself that I stay one step ahead of him? He's my main hope of reaching the Hand of God, yes . . . but why do I feel there's *more* to it than that?*

Ahead of him was the window of the Igo Trip CafŽ, glowing almost unnaturally against the darkness that surrounded it. The restaurant was open nearly round the clock, grabbing all the Go players who hung around the Institute after the McDonald's and the ramen shop had closed. It was never a place favored by the younger players.

But as Akira passed the window, there was indeed a group of teenagers just inside. And at the center of them was a smiling, laughing Shindou Hikaru.

Akira stood rooted to the spot, his eyes glued to the scene in front of him. *He must have won*, he thought. *He wouldn't be so happy if he hadn't. But why share it with them and not me? He said he'd tell me what happened.*

A burning anger began to churn away inside him. He considered barging into the cafŽ and confronting Hikaru.

But the anger was suddenly mixed with confusion.*Why do I feel this way?* he thought. *I really shouldn't care. What is he to me but a rival, and sometimes a friend?*

He turned abruptly on his heel, so fast that his long hair fanned out around his head, and stormed back toward the subway.

* * *

Hikaru opened the door to his bedroom and clicked on the light. The rest of the house was quiet; his parents had long since gone to bed.

It didn't surprise or bother him at all that they hadn't gone to the match, or even sat up to hear how he did. His parents were still clueless to his career. He'd tried to explain what the Honinbou League was to his mother, but didn't get very far. "I thought you did the league thing already," she said.

"No, that was the Hokuto Cup. That was a special international tournament."

"So . . . does this mean you'll have to travel around the country all the time, like Major League baseball players?"

At that point, he'd just given up.

And as for his father -- well, he'd just kind of said, "Good. Glad your career is going well" and headed off for the bath, then bed, so he could get up early the next morning and go back to work.

Hikaru glanced at the clock -- it was well past midnight. He knew he really should be going to bed as well . . . but he was too wound-up with excitement over what had happened.

The game itself almost felt like a dream now. He knew it had been one of his very best. His opponent had been a tough one, all right -- he had tripped Hikaru up badly in the early stages of the game. But once he gained his footing, he settled into a groove which just got better and better.

By the midpoint of the game, he'd been in *the zone*, he was thinking more than ten moves ahead, he didn't even have to think deeply about where to put each stone -- he just *knew*.

He tore off his jacket and tie, flung them carelessly over a chair, sat down at his goban and began to lay out stones, recreating the game move for move. *If only Sai could have seen this,* he thought.

Aloud, he said, "I did it, Sai. I'm in the Honinbou League . . . I'm right up where Touya is."

Touya . . .

Hikaru felt a stabbing pain of guilt at not calling him. He stopped laying out stones and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. *I'll call him now,* he thought. *I'll apologize for not talking to him before, and . . .*

He put the phone back down on the board, slowly. What was he thinking? It was the middle of the night, and Akira, unlike Hikaru, had decided to go on to high school, so he had classes in the morning.

*Well, it's more meaningful if I tell him in person, right?* he thought. *I'm supposed to meet up with him at his father's Go salon tomorrow anyway. He has to go straight to school tomorrow, so he won't have time to talk to any Go people, or read the Go column in the paper. . .*

He went back to recreating the game, imagining himself doing this in front of Touya, and his rival's reactions. *He'll yell at me for this move for sure*, he thought, *and tell me it was just pure luck that kept me from being cut off right there . . . he'll admit this move was good, but very reluctantly . . . and *here* is where he'll ask me what the hell I was thinking . . .*

It was almost frightening how well he could predict this. He knew Touya all too well at this point.

It struck him as somewhat ironic, though, that he was beginning to see Touya as a good friend. Maybe his best. And that puzzled him. He certainly spent more time with Waya and Isumi, and Akari had known him the longest.

The last few stones were placed in position. He sat back, leaning against his hands, looking at the board. Anyone who had played him, who had any familiarity with his style, would know this was a Shindou Hikaru game, all right. Moves that looked like mistakes, but were actually leading the opponent on, a fierce attack in the end . . .

It was a game he knew he could be proud of.

He began to clear the board, sorting the stones into black and white, putting them in their respective go kes. He'd write up his kifu of this in the morning, and run it down to the Institute. He had no other games or lessons scheduled . . . nothing except the game with Touya.

Again, he imagined the series of reactions he'd get tomorrow, and he smiled.

* * *'

Akira was tossing on his futon.

Sleep was eluding him. He'd fall into a light doze, and then his eyes would snap open again. This usually didn't happen. Especially on school nights.

Except it had happened, a long time ago, when Shindou had first beaten him. And then beat him again.

Shindou. Always Shindou. Only he could disrupt Akira's world, usually as carefully organized and orchestrated as one of his games.

He pulled the covers up almost over his head, as if to close himself off from his thoughts. No chance of that. He still had a mental picture of Shindou sitting amongst his friends, smiling and laughing . . .

*Did he not tell me as some kind of payback for not talking to him the day he became a pro?* Akira thought. *Is it for the same reason . . . because he's giving me a challenge? I'll answer his challenge. I will never let him catch up to me, if my life depends on it. If he contends for the Honinbou title, I will make sure that he doesn't get anywhere near it.*

*I will . . . I will . . .*

But Akira's thoughts were becoming clouded. Sleep was claiming him at long last, dragging him down, down . . .

And reality fell away, and he entered another world. Clouds of mist billowed past him, but there was no chill . . . he felt rather warm, in fact.

There was no sense of anything around him, no feeling of earth under his feet, nothing solid visible anywhere. He had a feeling if he spoke, his voice would just echo on endlessly, because there was nothing for it to hit, nobody to hear it.

He was drifting down, slowly and aimlessly, like a leaf falling from a tree, until his feet collided with something. He blinked, looking around. The mist was clearing away just enough for him to see that he was in some sort of open field.

And then, a shape appeared in the far distance. It looked human, vaguely. It began moving toward him, bit by bit, as if it were bound and determined to reach Akira . . . but was in no kind of hurry.

As it got closer, it began to look like a very tall human wearing some kind of robes.

"Hello?" Akira called out. "Who are you?"

But there was no reply. The figure just continued its slow approach. Now it was taking on the appearance of a man, wearing some kind of ancient costume. Long robes, a tall, bullet-shaped hat . . .

Pictures from Akira's history books flashed into his mind, and he knew this person was wearing clothing from the Heian era. Some kind of nobility . . .

He drew nearer. Akira could make out a bit more . . . the person had long, long hair under his high hat . . .

And there was an *air* about him. An air that was very, very familiar. *I know this person,* Akira thought. *But . . . how can I? If he's from an ancient era . . .*

Again, he called out, "Who are you? I'm Touya Akira . . . "

No reply. And the person just stopped, drawing no closer, deliberately not letting himself be fully revealed. Akira tried to run toward him, but he couldn't move. His arms and legs were frozen in place. He willed himself to walk, but to no avail .

He sat up on his futon, suddenly, gasping.

The first rays of dawn were peeking under his window. He clutched at his blankets, feeling shaky and unsettled -- and he had no idea why.

* * *

Things were no better several hours later in class.

Akira usually had supreme concentration, a skill honed over a lifetime of playing a mentally demanding game. This was useful not only for Go itself, but for allowing him to retain most of what a teacher was saying during class, thus minimizing the need for academic study -- and maximizing the time for the study of Go.

But today, he just couldn't seem to stay in focus.

The teacher was talking about the influx of Western cultural influences into Japan in the first half of the 20th century. But Akira kept seeing a figure in his mind from another era altogether.

*Who was he?* Akira thought. *Why did I feel like I should know him? He had the feel of someone . . . someone I know . . .*

He pushed the thought out of his mind. He had to concentrate -- he didn't want to fall behind in his schoolwork, he didn't have time to play catch-up.

Akira picked up his pen and began to furiously take notes, as if the very act of writing would inscribe the teacher's words in his own mind as well as on the paper. But he was seeing the form of the man in ancient dress again, floating somewhere among his own hirigana and katakana.

*Could I have been experiencing a memory of a past life?* he thought. *That's never happened to me, but I've heard of it happening to other people. But why now. . . what could have possibly happened to trigger such a thing . . .*

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and looked back up at the board. The teacher was writing down some dates, and Akira began to copy them.

*This isn't like me,* he thought. *Even all those times when I couldn't stop thinking about Shindou, I could stay focused on my schoolwork . . .*

And then, he remembered the night before, and his stomach clenched. Shindou making the Honinbou League, standing toe-to-toe with him in the Go world at long last . . . Shindou going out to celebrate with his friends, and not telling him . . .

*Is that why I had that dream?* he thought. *But what does that person from the Heian era have to do with Shindou? You'd think I would have dreamed of playing Shindou . . . or having him chase me . . . or . . .*

Or what? He knew there was another answer to that question, something lurking just below the surface of his mind . . . and he was suddenly seized with an uncomfortable feeling, something akin to fear. And that confused him even more than the dream had.

He grabbed his pen and started rapidly scratching down notes again.

* * *

Hikaru nearly ran into the familiar lobby of the building where the Touya Go salon was. He'd waited all day for this. He pushed the elevator button, thinking that the car couldn't get there fast enough.

*I can't wait to see the look on his face when I tell him,* he thought.

He'd spent most of the day fielding phone calls. He'd gotten in touch with Akari before she went to school, and she'd informed all of his old Go Club friends. Tsutsui had then called him at lunchtime, and then, surprisingly, Kaga had as well. He hadn't heard from Mitani . . . but, he hadn't really expected to.

Then, there'd been the calls from Nase, who promised to take him out when she got home . . . and the people from his study group . . . and from the Go salon where he'd played the summer he took the pro exam.

But as glad as he was to talk to all of them, there was just one person he *really* wanted to share his news with.

The elevator pinged as it reached its floor. Ichikawa, the young woman who ran the salon for the Touya family, looked up from the pot of tea she was pouring and smiled at him. "Hello, Shindou. Congratulations!"

Hikaru frowned. Even she knew? Did that mean she'd told . . .

"You didn't say anything about it to Touya, did you?"

"No, he's not here yet. Why . . . didn't you tell him?"

Hikaru shook his head.

"Well, if he doesn't know, he's the only person who doesn't!"

At a nearby table, one of the regulars, a suit-and-tie wearing salaryman, turned around and said, "Hey, I heard about the big win, Shindou! Congratulations!"

Hikaru laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "Thanks!"

"So, are we going to see you in a title match one of these days?" said the salaryman's opponent, an older man wearing a headwaiter's uniform from a nearby restaurant.

"Not that he'd ever beat Touya," the salaryman mumbled under his breath.

"Well, I . . ."

"SHINDOU!"

Hikaru turned around slowly at the familiar voice. There stood Akira, still in his school uniform, clutching his bookbag so hard his knuckles were white, and giving Hikaru his full glare . . . the kind designed to bore holes in the recipient's skull.

"Touya!" Hikaru said, tentatively. That glare . . . did it mean he knew already?

"Why didn't you tell me?" Akira said, not moving a centimeter, his glare remaining focused on the other boy like twin laser beams.

Hikaru swallowed hard. "You . . . found out?"

"I saw you and your friends celebrating. Why didn't you call me? I thought you were going to let me know afterward!"

Hikaru cringed for a moment. What was he going to tell him? The way he looked now, he wasn't going to take "Waya and Isumi dragged me out with them before I got a chance to" as an answer.

But he decided to take a direct route. Folding his arms over his chest, he said, coolly, "Excuse me for trying to make this personal."

"WHAT?" said Akira, the bag falling to the floor with a thud. Hikaru thought he could literally see flames dancing in his rival's eyes.

Around them, there was the sound of murmurs, the scrape of chairs as players turned to face the pair at the doorway. They knew what it meant when there were raised voices between Shindou and Touya. It was like holding a lit match over a barrel of TNT . . . an explosion was inevitable.

"I wanted to tell you in person!" Hikaru snapped.

"So why didn't you call after the match to see if I was back yet? You could have told me then." Akira took a step toward Hikaru, as if to throttle him.

"In the middle of the night?" Hikaru shouted, taking a step back.

"It wasn't too late for you to be out with your friends!" Akira shouted, leaning in toward him.

"What was I supposed to do, just run out on them?" Hikaru retorted, clenching his fists.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Akira shouted, clenching his fists as well. "You always do this!"

"Do what?" Hikaru's voice could be heard clear across the salon by now, and probably on the next couple of floors.

"Not take anything seriously! I don't know how you got as far as you did!"

Now it was Hikaru who took a step toward Akira. "I take plenty seriously! You don't think I took the Hokuto Cup seriously? You have NO IDEA how much that match meant to me!"

Ichikawa had heard enough. She knew she should have been used to the two of them fighting and disrupting the salon by now, but this was getting even louder than one of their usual fights. She stepped out from behind the counter and tried to get between them like a referee, shouting, "All right, if you're going to do this, take it somewhere else!"

The two boys glared at each other from around her, like pro wrestlers ready to go to the mat.

Then, Hikaru said, "Well, then, I guess we're not playing today."

"Fine with me!" Akira said, storming away across the room.

Hikaru violently stabbed at the elevator button. Once again, the car couldn't get there fast enough . . . but for a very different reason than when he was going up.

___________

Hikaru no Go is property of Yumi Hotta, Takeshi Obata and Shueisha. No profit is being made from this fanfic.