Old memories come flooding back.
Among countless scenes in black and white, that one spot alone was tinged a pale red. In his own vision—dimmer than anyone else's—that single point shone with vivid clarity.
Red-painted nails gleaming on the fingertips that gripped Go stones and shogi pieces.
With flawless technique and a flow devoid of hesitation, everyone raised both hands in surrender. The haughty woman who watched it all with an air of boredom—that was Housen, a courtesan.
He had visited the pleasure quarters on occasion out of obligation, but honestly, he couldn't have cared less. He couldn't drink, and neither the erhu nor the dancing held any interest. No matter how gorgeously they dressed up, to him they were nothing but white-painted Go stones.
It had always been that way.
He couldn't tell one human face from another. Though it had gotten somewhat better over time.
He used to confuse his mother with his nanny—not to mention being unable to tell men from women.
His father decided he was no use and began seeing a young concubine.
That was where he went.
His mother, meanwhile, paid no mind to a child who couldn't even recognize her face, and instead plotted to somehow win back the husband who had run off to his mistress.
And so, despite being born the eldest son of a prestigious family— the firstborn— he had managed to live freely. Truly a stroke of luck.
He threw himself into the Go and shogi he'd picked up during his calligraphy lessons, listened eagerly to gossip, and occasionally played pranks.
That was how he spent his time.
The blue rose he had made bloom in the court—that, too, was something he tried after hearing his uncle's tale about it.
His uncle, brilliant though not exactly the most shrewd of men, was the only one who ever truly understood him.
I was told to remember people not by their faces, but by their voices, mannerisms, and builds. People close to me were easier to understand when I matched them to shogi pieces. Before long, those I had no interest in became go stones, while those I grew gradually closer to became shogi pieces whose faces I could see.
When my uncle appeared as the Dragon King piece, I was able to confirm once more that he was indeed an exceptional man.
You cannot imagine how lonely I felt when I heard that uncle was going west to study abroad. That was how few understanding people there were around me.
I never expected to demonstrate my talent through go and shogi, which were merely extensions of play.
Thanks to my family name, despite having no talent for battle, I was suddenly made chief— and that was my good fortune. Even if I was weak, as long as I used my subordinates without waste, things would balance out. In a game of shogi where people become the pieces, it was undoubtedly the most captivating kind of game.
During my unbeaten streak in both games and work, a malicious colleague goaded me into facing off against a rumored courtesan. Fengxian, undefeated in the pleasure quarters, and me, undefeated in the military.
Whichever of us lost, the audience would be in for a treat.
After all, I was nothing but a frog in a well.
As if to cut through those very thoughts, Fengxian defeated me. Though I held the white stones and played second, the disparity in our territories was overwhelming. Her fingers, tipped with elegant nail polish, proceeded to shatter my pride without mercy.
When was the last time I had lost? Rather than bitterness, I felt a strange freshness at her merciless strike. What must have bothered her was that I had been looking down on her. I could tell from the fact that she hadn't uttered a single word, her gestures cold and curt.
I couldn't help but clutch my belly and laugh. Seeing that, the people around me started clamoring that I had gone mad.
Through tear-filled eyes, I looked at the merciless courtesan's face, and instead of the usual white go stone, there was an irritable woman's face.
Just as her name suggested — she had eyes like a hibiscus. Eyes that seemed as though they'd shatter at a touch, eyes that kept the world at a distance.
So this is what people actually look like.
It was the moment I first recognized something so obvious.
Fengxian, waiting at my side— Baldy.
He whispered to him.
The young girl came trotting in with a shogi board.
Not even letting me hear her voice for a first meeting, haughty, the courtesan silently challenged me to another match.
I would not lose this time.
I raised my sleeves and arranged the pieces on the board.
Nothing but the earnest repetition of go and shogi — those trysts, how many years did they last?
Yet the frequency gradually decreased.
When a talented courtesan became popular to a certain degree, she would be kept from general availability.
Fengxian was one such courtesan.
She was sharp, but her caustic manner wasn't suited for everyone — though she apparently appealed to a certain set of connoisseurs.
There really were some peculiar people out there.
Her price was driven up as well, and I could only see her once every three months at best.
When I visited the pleasure house after a long absence, she was painting her nails red as always, wearing the same unsociable expression.
A red garden balsam flower and a small herb sat on a tray.
When I asked what they were, she told me they were "nekoashi." It was used in herbal medicine and was apparently effective for detoxification and insect stings.
Interestingly, just like the garden balsam, when you touched its ripe pods, the seeds burst and scattered.
Thinking I'd try touching it this time, I reached for a yellow flower when — "When will you come again?"
Fengxian said.
It was unusual—that woman who had only ever sent formulaic promotional messages.
"Again, in three months' time."
"Understood."
Fengxian had the nail polish stripped bare, put aside, then began arranging the shogi pieces.
That was when she first heard talk of ransoming Fengxian.
It wasn't so much about the courtesan's worth—it seemed the rival simply drove the price up because he couldn't stand the competition.
For someone like him, a military officer who had risen through the ranks only to have his position as heir snatched away by a half-brother, it was not an amount he could ever hope to match.
What was she to do?
A dark thought briefly crossed her mind, but she dismissed it at once.
It was something she must not do.
When she returned to the brothel after three months, Fengxian was sitting before two boards—go and shogi—laid out side by side.
The very first thing she said: "Shall we make a wager, just this once?"
If you win, I'll give you whatever you want, she said.
If I win, I'll take whatever I want from you, she said.
"Please, choose whichever board you like."
In shogi, the advantage was hers—that much she was sure of.
And yet, she sat down before the go board.
Fengxian sent the young attendants away, saying she wanted to focus on the match.
After that, neither could say who had won, and before she knew it, their hands were overlapping on the board.
Fengxian offered no sweet words or anything of the sort. She herself was no different—in a sense, they were kindred spirits.
However, Fengxian murmured against his arm that she wanted to play Go.
He himself had been thinking the same thing—that he wanted to play shogi.
Was the misfortune what came after that?
His uncle, with whom he had been on good terms, was removed from his position. He had always been a man lacking in tact.
His father cursed him as a disgrace to the family name.
Although the taint had not reached their household, it seems his father resented him for having been influenced by his uncle, and ordered him to travel about on itinerant duties, telling him not to come back for a while.
He could have ignored the order, but it would only cause more trouble down the line.
His father, a military officer, was both his parent and his superior.
Managing only to send a letter to the pleasure district saying he would return in about half a year was the best he could do.
It was after he received a reply that he learned the arrangement to buy out Fengxian's contract had fallen through.
For a while, he had been complacent, thinking it would work itself out.
He never imagined it would take three full years to return.
When he finally made it home, his dusty room held a haphazard pile of letters that had been left there without care.
The branches tied to them had withered completely, conveying the weight of the years.
His eyes fell upon one of them whose seal had already been broken. Inside was a familiar formal letter. However, in the corner of the page, there was something that resembled a dark, reddish-black stain.
He peered into the half-open drawstring pouch lying nearby. That too bore the same dark, reddish-black stain.
Opening it, he found two small objects wrapped in soiled paper—whether they were twigs or clumps of earth, it was hard to tell. One was so tiny that pinching it between his fingers might crush it.
Upon examining the tips of the twigs and confirming what was attached to them, he finally understood what they were.
By the time he realized they were the same things—ten of them, no less—that adorned his own hand, it was already far too late.
He had heard that a curse tied to pinky promises was going around.
He rewrapped the two small twigs, tucked them into the drawstring pouch, slipped it inside his robe, and rode at full speed toward the pleasure district.
The familiar pleasure district, clearly more rundown than before, had nothing left that could be seen as anything more than plain stones. The woman who had been like a hibiscus flower was no longer there— A broom struck him, and by her voice he knew it was the madam, still as formidable as ever.
Fengxian was dead.
The Grand Establishment A courtesan cast off twice over, her name dragged through the mud, her credit sunk to the bottom of the earth — there was no path left for her but to take clients like a night hawk.
It was something anyone could have figured out with a little thought, but for a man whose head held nothing but go and shogi, it was an answer he could never have reached.
Just prostrating himself on the ground and wailing without caring who saw — that wouldn't turn back time.
Everything was his own fault for being so shortsighted.
Still clutching his throbbing head, Rakan raised himself from the bed.
The simple, familiar room — the rest chamber in the military quarters that he occasionally used when playing hooky.
He'd assumed the liquor couldn't be that strong, given how quickly his daughter had gulped it down.
Rakan couldn't tell one type of alcohol from another.
A single gulp was all it took — it burned his throat like fire.
There was a water pitcher nearby, so he brought it straight to his lips without bothering to pour it into a cup.
A harsh bitterness spread through his mouth, and he spat it out involuntarily.
It was probably a hangover remedy, but he sensed malice in the way it had been administered.
Beside the pitcher sat a paulownia box.
Long ago, Prank had sent it with a note as a trophy of conquest.
He never knew that even dried, flowers could hold their shape like this.
Katakuri — he thought of the girl with paws like a cat's.
After that, he had knocked on the gates of the Ryokuseikan time and again, and each time the shrewd old madam— Chastisement I took the beating.
"There's no baby here—go home!" she cried, striking me with a broom. A truly fearsome old woman.
Blood running from my temple, I sat there languidly when I noticed a child nearby, rummaging through something.
The grass growing beside the building bore familiar yellow flowers.
When I asked the child what they were doing, they said they were gathering it for medicine.
A face that should have resembled a go stone instead had the sullen look of a child.
The child grabbed the grass in both hands and ran off. In the direction the child ran, something shuffled along with the gait of an old person. A face that would normally look like a go stone now resembled a shogi piece—and not a pawn or a knight, but a major piece: the dragon king.
One letter lay open, and I finally understood who had opened the dirty drawstring pouch.
My uncle, who had vanished without a trace after being expelled from the rear palace, Luomen, was there.
The child with cat-like feet who trailed after him like a chick was called "Maomao."
Rakan drew from his bosom the dirty drawstring pouch. Having carried it with him everywhere, it was thoroughly worn.
Inside were two small things like twigs, wrapped in paper.
Maomao's hand as she moved the piece was clumsy. It was partly because she wasn't accustomed to shogi, but I could also tell she had been playing with her left hand.
Looking at her red-dyed nails, only her little finger was crooked.
She had every right to resent me.
I had done that much to her.
Even so, I wanted to keep her by my side.
I was tired of a life surrounded by nothing but go stones and shogi pieces.
To that end, he had built up his power. He wrested the family headship from his father, cast out his half-brother, and took his nephew in as an adopted son.
He had negotiated with that shrewd woman time and again, and after ten years, finally finished paying twice the amount in compensation.
Now they had come to be known as the Three Princesses.
Baldies — and his uncle told him to respect Maomao's wishes.
Unfortunately, Rakkan was never one for reading people's emotions, and every attempt he made continued to backfire.
Rakkan tucked the drawstring pouch back into his robe.
This time, he would let it go. This time.
Even if they called him clingy, he could not simply give up.
Besides, above all else, that man standing beside his daughter got on his nerves.
Wasn't the fellow too close for comfort? During the match, he had placed his hand on his daughter's shoulder three times. Each time, she had brushed it off, which was satisfying enough to see, but— Now then, what could he do to vent his frustration?
Rakkan picked up the water pitcher and, as he drained the bitter medicine, began to think.
No matter how awful it tasted, it was still his daughter's handiwork.
For now, he would focus on one thing only: shaking the insect off the flower.