“Contestant, please keep quiet,” the referee softly reminded the boy on the verge of breaking down. His gaze drifted to the board between them and he froze for a moment.
The boy’s skill didn’t seem bad at all. From the formation of his patterns and the precision of his moves, it was clear he had trained for years. His technique and mentality should have been at least average.
But…
The referee studied the black stones’ formation and raised his brows slightly as he mentally traced the purpose behind each move.
Brilliant truly brilliant.
After watching a few key moves, the referee’s eyes widened in surprise. He couldn’t hide his astonishment as he looked at the player with the black stones.
In Go, there are three types of moves: common, proper, and brilliant.
Common moves focus only on local advantage seemingly reasonable, yet detrimental to the overall position. Proper moves are standard and solid, flawless but unremarkable like the boy’s white stones.
But brilliant moves, those are strokes of genius, unexpected yet precise, breaking convention with unmatched elegance.
A single brilliant move in a game could be unforgettable for both players. Yet in this match, black had played one brilliant move after another, each more dazzling than the last.
The referee found himself drawn into the game. The more he studied it, the clearer it became, black had been on the offensive from the very start. His formation was elegant and fluid, like a master swordsman dancing across the board, each move a precise strike that effortlessly cut down white’s forces.
The difference in skill was simply overwhelming.
Glancing at the tearful boy, the referee suddenly understood why he had broken down.
They were about the same age, yet the gap between them was so vast it couldn’t be bridged even with decades of practice. Feeling despair was only natural.
The game had only reached the midstage, but white’s forces had already been wiped out. Continuing was meaningless.
The boy clearly knew this too. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he held a white stone that he couldn’t bring himself to place.
After two minutes of hesitation, realizing there was no path to victory, he clenched two stones and gently placed them by the board’s edge.
He resigned.
“Board sixty-two: black wins by midgame resignation,” the referee announced, handing the confirmation sheet to the defeated player. The boy signed with his head down, gripping the pen tightly before looking up at the young man opposite him.
“I… I wonder if I’ll ever reach your level someday?”
“I only know this,” Nian Le said calmly, looking straight at him. “If you didn’t waste your energy forming cliques, you’d already be playing better than you are now.”
The boy stared blankly at the board, lost in thought, as Nian Le rose and walked away never glancing at the curious gazes around him.
Even without asking, Xueqi knew her big brother had won again. Halfway through the tournament, he had achieved four straight victories, completely undefeated. Her grandfather’s judgment had truly been sharp.
Time passed quietly. The boy sat before the board, staring at it for who knows how long, until a hand suddenly patted his shoulder. He looked up, unsettled, and saw his “boss” standing before him with a stern expression.
No—he wasn’t really a boss anymore.
“Don’t be upset. I’ll avenge you next time,” the so-called boss vowed earnestly.
The boy brushed off his hand and looked around at the gathered teammates, a dazed look in his eyes.
“Brother Cheng… I’ve decided to quit.”
Cheng Xu stared at him for a few seconds, then chuckled in disbelief.
“What, one loss and you’re scared stiff?”
“I’m not scared. I’ve just woken up.” The boy lowered his gaze to the board. “I’ve played against you, and you’re not as strong as him. You’re not even one ten-thousandth of what he is.”
“One ten-thousandth?” Cheng Xu smacked the back of his head and glanced at the others. “Cut the nonsense. You’ve really lost your mind, haven’t you?”
“Brother Cheng,” the boy said quietly, “that’s the last time I’ll call you that.”
He stood up, his eyes gradually firming with resolve.
“There’s no reason for me to stay here anymore. I’ll talk to my teacher, withdraw from the tournament, and leave Mianhai Dojo. My family isn’t rich like yours,I don’t have many options. Go is the only path I have. Otherwise, I’ll be washing dishes to survive. I’m transferring to another dojo to focus on improving. I’m done here.”
With that, he walked away without looking back, leaving the rest standing frozen in silence.
×××
Huo Weiran stood at the doorway. Outside was a cleaning staff member, fully equipped with a mask, gloves, and cleaning tools, pressing the doorbell again.
He glanced back into the villa, one hand resting on the doorknob but he couldn’t bring himself to open it.
It was like some strange illness, an aversion to letting others into his space, a resistance to contact with outsiders. He barely noticed if his home was messy or not, but the idea of a stranger stepping inside made that anxiety flare sharply.
“Hello, I’m from QuanJie Cleaning Services,” the man said, holding his work ID up to the camera. “Please open the door.”
“Xiaoran, I’ve hired a cleaner to come by tomorrow around noon,” a gentle voice echoed in his mind, Nian Le’s voice from yesterday. “If I’m not around, remember to open the door for them…”
Recalling Nian Le’s soft reminder, Huo Weiran steadied his breathing.
Nian Le had only left recently. He couldn’t possibly fail at such a simple thing.
He glanced at the dishwasher still running, pulled on a mask to cover his face, and quickly opened the door.
The cleaner, after waiting for quite a while, finally saw the door open. Carrying his cleaning tools inside, he gave a quick look around the first floor of the villa before his gaze lingered on Huo Weiran, as if trying to confirm something.
The feeling of discomfort grew stronger. Huo Weiran frowned, turned around, and headed upstairs toward his room.
“Oh my god.”
The cleaner suddenly noticed something and, eyes wide with amazement, walked toward the exhibition room. Seeing the massive spiral racetrack model and the rows of miniature cars displayed upon it, his breathing quickened.
“Is this a solid gold Lamborghini model?” he exclaimed, pulling off his gloves in excitement, wanting to touch it then hesitated and withdrew his hand reluctantly.
“There’s a tycoon in the Middle East who has one just like it, it cost him forty-five million! I didn’t expect you to be this rich.”
Huo Weiran stopped mid-step on the stairs and looked down at the cleaner.
“Is that a Ford Escort Mark 2?” the cleaner’s eyes lit up as he spotted another car. “If I remember correctly, the body and chassis are solid silver, and the brakes and spoiler are gold!”
He leaned closer to the display. “Diamond headlights, ruby brake lights, and a sapphire Ford emblem! I remember its original price was six hundred eighty thousand, but by now it’s probably worth several times that!”
“Who are you?” Huo Weiran’s frown deepened. Something felt off.
“I’ve seen your interview with the Australian press,” the cleaner said eagerly. “You mentioned that after every race, your grandmother would give you a car model as encouragement. I thought you meant plastic toys, I never imagined they were priceless models like these.”
His eyes burned with excitement as he looked up at Huo Weiran.
“Huo God, I’ve been your fan for years! When I saw you renting cars for races, I thought you were struggling financially. I didn’t know your family was this wealthy!”
Fan?
Huo Weiran’s expression turned to ice. His muffled voice came through the mask: “You’re my fan?”
“I’ve followed you for five years!” the cleaner said, eyes gleaming with joy. “I’ve watched you grow, race after race, until you dominated the season and earned an F1 test license. I’ve always been so proud of you.”
Huo Weiran’s gaze stayed cold. His left hand gripped the stair railing tightly.
“You shouldn’t have come into my house like this.”
“After the accident six months ago, there’s been no news about you. But you look fine now—when will you return to racing?” The cleaner ignored his warning and continued talking to himself.
Huo Weiran stayed silent, reaching slowly for his phone.
“When will you go back to the track?” The cleaner pressed on, stepping quickly to the bottom of the stairs. “Next month? Or the month after?”
“Next lifetime,” Huo Weiran said, voice low and cold. “Now please leave my house.”
“Next lifetime?” The cleaner froze, disbelief flashing in his eyes. “You’re retiring? So the rumors were true? Are you insane? Do you know what you’re throwing away!?”
“What I do has nothing to do with you.” Huo Weiran’s sharp gaze cut through the air above his mask.
“Nothing to do with me? I’ve supported you for five years!”
The cleaner’s face twisted with anger, voice rising. “Other drivers get hurt worse than you and still come back after a few months! You only broke an arm, you’ve been resting for half a year! And now you’re retiring? What a damn drama queen!”
Fighting through the growing pain in his chest, Huo Weiran looked at him icily.
“I was a racer, not a celebrity. I never took sponsorships or endorsements. You haven’t spent a cent on me. What gives you the right to judge me—your so-called admiration?”
The cleaner’s eyes turned bloodshot. “Didn’t spend a cent? I paid good money for your private updates! God, I was blind to waste five years on you!”
In a sudden fit of rage, he turned and smashed the racetrack display, grabbing his cleaning tools and beating them furiously against the model, stomping on the fallen cars.
“So what if you’ve got money! Big deal!”
The next instant, his collar was yanked back with crushing force. The choking pressure lifted him off his feet and slammed him to the ground.
He looked up into a pair of cold, gray eyes that seemed to burn like fire.
Australia was a country of mixed cultures, blue eyes were common, as were green, brown, and gray.
The cleaner had always known Huo Weiran’s eyes were gray but this was the first time he’d seen them this close.
They were like gray crystal, like polished diamond reflecting shards of light and fury, brilliant and terrifying.
A crack echoed through the air. The cleaner looked down just in time to see an elbow drive brutally into his chest, leaving a deep dent. The next moment, a clenched fist rose and—bang!, a clean, powerful hook struck him across the face.
Sirens blared through the quiet villa district. A bloodied man was carried out of the house after an attempted assault, while the villa’s owner, his arm in a cast calmly signed his statement for the police.
The broken car models were collected as evidence. People poured in and out of the villa, one group after another.
When everyone was gone, Huo Weiran sat on the sofa, silently staring at the wrecked exhibition room.
No one knew how long he sat there before he finally stood, using one hand to lift the toppled racetrack, trying to piece the broken sections back together. But with one good arm, every time he fixed one side, the other fell apart.
Some car models had survived but were damaged again as the racetrack collapsed. He picked one up—its door immediately fell off.
Setting it on the table, Huo Weiran tried to reattach the door, but with only one hand, he couldn’t align it properly.
He pressed the model down with his cast, trying again carefully, holding his breath but the latch wouldn’t catch. A slight shift of pressure, and the model slipped from under the cast, rolled across the table, and—crash!—fell to the floor.
Huo Weiran stared at the broken pieces on the ground, gripping the tiny car door tightly in his hand.
The light in his eyes slowly dimmed into silence.
[mfn] If you enjoy my translations, you can show your support by leaving a comment or donating to my Ko-fi. It will be much appreciated. Thank you! [/mfn]
