Time itself seems to hold its breath—until all that remains is the soft, measured music of weiqi stones meeting wood.

The warm amber glow of an old oil lamp spills gently across the former junshi of Great Yan. He sits unnervingly still, arms folded, his form carved in silence. Beneath the quiet light, those mismatched eyes—one dark, one pale—rest upon the board, as though gazing across some distant battlefield veiled by time.

With unhurried elegance, Wang sets another stone upon the board, severing the final breath of a black cluster.

“…Most men believe fate to be a wall standing before them.”

His voice is calm and even, sharp and quiet as moonlight drawn across black stone. His strange eyes rise at last, settling on the silent figure across from him, studying not merely his opponent, but the quiet weight of what remains unspoken. The game endures, though its ending already lingers like a shadow at dusk.

“In truth, it is a board beneath their feet,” Wang continues, “laid in careful pattern long before they ever learn the rules.”

Black and white have nearly swallowed the board whole, yet neither yields an inch. With every passing move, what began as a game grows crueler—less contest than quiet war.

“Have you decided how this match will end, Doctor?” Wang does not break his gaze, nor does he speak with expectation—only a still, patient presence, waiting as one waits for fate to reveal its hand. “Will you continue sacrificing stone after stone… or will you, at last, find a way to overturn the board?”