Ginko paused, then smirked faintly. "Not taking students?"
Hiroshi burst out laughing. "You still remember that?"
"Of course I do. Those three words made four-year-old me ride a train for two hours just to find you."
"So quit daydreaming and give this game your all, you idiot!" She snapped her fan shut and swung it down, smacking him on the head.
Hiroshi winced, nodding hastily. "Okay, okay, I'm focused now."
…..
Ten minutes later, Ginko stared at the board, her expression tight. "Seventy moves…"
After a long silence, she sighed heavily. "I lost again."
Hiroshi wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "You're amazing, Ginko. Stronger than anyone I've ever faced."
She rose and walked over to him, her face clouded with displeasure.
Hiroshi blinked up at her. "What's wrong?"
Ginko loomed over him, barely taller than he was even while he sat. Then, without warning, she lifted her foot and pressed it firmly against his thigh.
"Do you know why I'm stronger than anyone you've played?"
Hiroshi gave an awkward laugh. "Because you're just that good?"
"No. It's because, besides me, you haven't played anyone else in years!"
She pressed harder, though her strength barely registered. Still, he played along, clutching his leg dramatically. "Spare me, Queen Ginko!"
She huffed, pulling her foot back and sitting down across from him again.
"Hiroshi… do you understand what it means to win in just seventy moves?"
"Please enlighten me, Your Majesty."
"Stop calling me that." She flicked his forehead with her fan. "A typical shogi match lasts around 130 moves. Seventy moves… that only happens when there's a huge skill gap, like a first-dan pro crushing an amateur."
Hiroshi tilted his head. "But don't you often end games in minutes?"
Her eyes narrowed sharply. "Are you comparing me to those women's league players?"
He backtracked fast. "No, no! I just meant you've got incredible talent."
Her glare softened. She could tell he was scrambling to flatter her.
Truth be told, Hiroshi knew exactly what she meant. Ginko was a prodigy, dubbed the most gifted female shogi player in a millennium. At fourteen, she was already the strongest in the women's league. Give her a few more years, and she'd be the greatest ever.
The Snow White of Naniwa, her title said it all. Still, Hiroshi didn't get why she was hung up on the seventy-move mark.
"By the way," he said, shifting gears, "isn't your junior about to challenge for the Ryuuou title?"
Ginko nodded. "Two weeks from now, at the Tokyo venue."
She couldn't deny it, her junior, Yaichi Kuzuryuu, was a talent to behold. But there were always bigger players out there.
She stole a glance at Hiroshi. In her mind, Hiroshi, who'd been her shogi partner for a decade, was the strongest of their generation. Maybe even of all time.
She wasn't exaggerating. Circumstances had kept Hiroshi in a bubble, cut off from the wider shogi world. No formal teacher, no structured lessons; his skill seemed to grow out of thin air.
Shogi demanded constant study and practice, yet Hiroshi had never read a book or learned beyond the basics he'd picked up from classmates in elementary school.
For ten years, Ginko had been his toughest opponent. It was hard to describe him any other way: a hidden titan, lurking unseen.
If the shogi world was an ocean, amateurs were minnows, pros were predators, and talents like Ginko were sharks or whales; apex rulers of the deep. But Hiroshi? He was something else. A mythic serpent, coiled in the abyss, vast and untouchable.
Ginko watched him tidy the board, imagining what would happen if he joined the Shogi Association. He'd overwhelm everyone, his shadow eclipsing the entire scene.
But he had no interest in that. As he'd said, he played only for her.
That thought warmed Ginko's heart, a rare smile tugging at her lips.
"What's on your mind?" Hiroshi asked, catching her expression.
"Nothing," she said, quickly masking it with her usual cool demeanor.
Hiroshi didn't push. He was feeling good himself, already counting the overtime pay she'd promised.
But Ginko had other ideas. After three relentless hours of nonstop play, Hiroshi was a wreck, slumped over the board like a drained shell.
"I can't… I'm done…" he groaned.
His legs were numb after playing for three hours straight without any breaks, he had no clue how Ginko kept going.
She stretched her wrist and stood. "That's enough for today."
Hiroshi jolted upright, chasing after her as she headed for the door.
"Be safe getting home," he called.
But Ginko didn't leave. She grabbed a paper bag from the entryway and turned back.
Hiroshi blinked, puzzled, then realized what was up. This wasn't new.
"Ginko, I'm a teenage guy in good health. Are you sure it's fine to crash here with no precautions?"
She pulled out a pair of pajamas from the bag, giving him a sidelong glance. After a beat, she smirked. "You? I'm not worried."
Her tone dripped with mockery. Hiroshi clutched his chest theatrically. "Ouch. Fine, I'll get your futon ready."
Grumbling aside, he set up her bedding. His apartment was small; the guest space was just a corner separated from his room by a thin sliding door. Every sound carried.
Wiped out from the marathon session, Hiroshi flopped onto his own futon and passed out.
When Ginko stepped in, now in her pajamas, she saw him sprawled out. She knelt beside him, tapping his cheek lightly. No response. With a soft sigh, she untied the band holding his long hair.
"Why does a guy have hair this long?" she muttered. It rivaled hers, maybe even surpassed it when loose.
Still, she took his hair tie, secured her own hair, and settled into the futon he'd prepared.
Then a thought struck her. She pulled out her phone, glancing at Hiroshi.
For all their years together, Hiroshi was strict about payment. She'd been his "client" for nearly a decade, his rates climbing from a few hundred yen an hour to tens of thousands now.
She studied his sleeping face, lost in thought. To her, Hiroshi lived lean, scraping by on odd jobs and her support.
Whenever she sent his pay, he'd look torn, awkward, avoiding her eyes, like he hated taking it but couldn't refuse.
She sighed. "With your skill, you could easily claim titles like Ryuuou or Meijin…"
It wasn't just bias. She was certain: if Hiroshi joined the Shogi Association, he'd be a pro in months.
The idea of professional shogi players stirred a twinge of melancholy in her. In a thousand years, no woman had ever made it. She was a 2-dan now, two ranks shy of the 4-dan needed to turn pro.
Her master had once said she could be the first woman to break that barrier.
She'd brought it up with Hiroshi before. Each time, he'd smile and say, "With your talent, going pro should be easy. And if it's not, I'll just become the Eternal Seven Crowns and promote you myself."
He'd say it like a joke, but the thought of him climbing to shogi's peak just for her sent a thrill through her.
It felt like a storybook promise, and she couldn't help but smile.