The autumn wind blew dry leaves across the courtyard's cobblestones as the doors to the main hall opened with restraint. There was no bang, no fanfare; only the precise sound of wood yielding to the will of a man who needed no announcement.

Jinpachi Mishima crossed the threshold with a firm stride, his back straight as a banner, his arms crossed behind the worn belt of his ceremonial karate gi. The white of his beard fluttered faintly in the breeze, and his deep, serene eyes scanned the room with the slowness possessed only by those in no hurry to impose their presence.

He carried with him a polished wooden box: the Go board that had once belonged to his wife, wrapped in red cloth. Not as an offering, but as company. He had walked long miles, not to discuss politics or seal alliances, but to remember that there were still places where steel did not dictate the tone of every word.

He stopped a few steps from his host and bowed his head, just for a moment, with the respect characteristic of the ancient clans. That gesture, simple but laden with solemnity, carried with it twenty years of paternal silence, of iron discipline, of nights spent training a son who had never known the warmth of a mother.

He didn't say his name immediately. He didn't need to. His presence alone spoke for him: shoulders as broad as temple doors, hands hardened by war, and an aura of time-tested dignity.

He had come as a man, not a general. As a father, more than a patriarch.

To share a game.

And, perhaps, some forgotten story between cups and stones.