Chapter 2
The Cradle of Ōgi

Mayoko holds herself upright, her gaze anchored in that of her listeners. Her eyes reflect a nostalgic light, as if she were contemplating a distant time through the veil of the years.

My native village was a small, out-of-the-way place, she begins, her voice filled with a gentle melancholy. An only daughter, I was curious about everything, always in search of new discoveries. My parents encouraged this thirst for learning.

Her fingers delicately brush the bag lying at her side. When I was eight years old, my father gave me a gift that was to change my life. With precise, respectful gestures, she takes out an old game board and places it in front of her as if it were a precious treasure.

It was a makruk set, a game my father had brought back from one of his trading journeys to Haka— She breaks off, correcting herself with a faint smile. To Fukuoka, forgive me. A Chinese merchant had given it to him, confiding that the game came from a distant kingdom in the south.

Her hands gently caress the time-worn board. My friends and I would spend hours exploring its possibilities, creating our own rules. On its sixty-four squares, we ended up setting out the pieces of shōgi, which everyone then played in their own way, keeping only a single gold general, at the king's side. And our imagination led us to give it a reverse side: once it reached the enemy camp, it turned over and became free. Her gaze lights up. That is how ōgi¹ was born.