Chapter 17
The Price of Excellence

Did that impromptu game affect your preparation for today's match? The question, thrown out by a journalist whose impeccable suit betrayed her ambition, cut through the air like an arrow.

Takeshi turned towards her with calculated slowness. His shoulders straightened imperceptibly, his stature asserting itself in the space like a rook on an ōgi board. You seem worried about me. The tone was gentle, almost paternalistic, a condescension carefully concealed behind a façade of politeness.

The journalist's fingers tightened on her notebook. The champion went on, his voice carrying that assurance which only a decade of victories can confer: Ōgi is my domain. Every game, every configuration... He left the sentence hanging, his gaze sweeping over the gathering. Let us say that certain moments of play deserve to be lingered over.

A murmur ran through the crowd of journalists. The champion's familiar arrogance showed in every syllable, in every measured gesture. Even this veiled admission of a night-time game bore his mark, turning what might have been a weakness into a demonstration of superiority.

The true art of ōgi, he resumed, adjusting his tie with a precise gesture, is knowing that every configuration is unique. A half-smile played on his lips, as if he were savouring a secret his questioners could never understand.

The questions kept coming, but Takeshi had already turned away, his back as straight as a blade. In his wake, speculation rose like a swarm, but he ignored it with the same indifference he reserved for all those who dared to doubt his absolute mastery of the game.