Semifinal Storm — Genius vs. Ghosts of the Past

The day of the semifinals dawned crisp and quiet.

Unlike the previous rounds, which were held in spacious public venues filled with murmuring audiences and clicking cameras, the semifinal stage took place in complete isolation. The room—bare and sealed—was built to filter out every trace of the outside world. No ambient sounds. No shifting crowds. Not even staff members except for the referee.

In the quiet sanctum of that match room, only three people existed.

Two players.

And one judge.

Outside, thousands of viewers crowded around screens. Commentators whispered play-by-plays in hushed, reverent tones. But in here, nothing but the tick of the chess clock and the soft click of pieces.

Yukima Azuma sat on one side of the standard seven-sun shogi board, expression unreadable, hands calm. He exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the moment.

Across from him sat his opponent—a man in his late forties, dressed in a formal kimono, fingers twitching slightly over the board. A veteran 9-dan professional, but one whose name barely stirred recognition in Azuma's memory.

Unlike Kiyotaki Kousuke, who had long since retired in triumph with titles under his belt, this man still clawed desperately for a seat at the table.

Azuma narrowed his eyes.

He knew many of Kousuke's old rivals. His teacher had taken him around Japan as a child, introducing him to legends of the shogi world. But this man? This man had never come up. Not even once.

The match referee gave the signal.

The formal bow.

The ritual greeting.

"I look forward to your guidance," they both intoned.

And then—

The first move.

From the very beginning, something felt off.

The movements, the formations, the tempo of the pieces across the board—it was like facing a ghost.

No—a shadow.

Yukima Azuma recognized the patterns. The sequences. The footwork of strategy. They were eerily familiar.

This man's style…

It was Kiyotaki Kousuke's.

Or at least, a high-fidelity imitation of it.

Not just 70% similar. Not even 80%. But easily over 90%—a carbon copy of Kousuke's signature maneuvering, down to the subtle trap placements and tempo control.

For any other player, this would be intimidating.

But for Azuma?

This was homework.

His brow furrowed slightly, not from pressure, but confusion.

Why had he never heard of this man from Kousuke-sensei?

Then, mid-match, he understood.

This man had the technique, yes.

But he lacked the soul behind the moves.

Where Kousuke played like a patient predator, this 9-dan's playstyle felt… impatient. Aggressive. Impulsive, even. As if trying to force every advantage. He chased flashy sequences rather than trusting in solid foundations.

Even his strengths—like his powerful middle-game transitions—were marred by overreach.

By the 230th move, Azuma had already led the game into the endgame on his own terms.

Clean.

Controlled.

Then came the final exchange. A crisp clang of rook drop.

The veteran's eyes twitched.

He paused.

Then slowly placed his piece down in resignation.

"…I resign."

No anger. No ceremony. Just bitter silence as he stood up, sleeves swishing as he turned and left without another word. No blood spat, at least. But the sting of defeat lingered in the air like static.

In the waiting room, Yukima Azuma sat back with a light sigh. Kiyotaki Kousuke was waiting, sipping tea.

Azuma turned toward him and asked bluntly, "That guy… He's got mental issues, doesn't he?"

Kousuke nodded without missing a beat.

"Correct. His mentality's been unstable for decades. Never changed. That's why I didn't want you learning from him—or even meeting him. There's nothing he could teach you that I couldn't."

Azuma's eyebrow twitched.

"…Alright then."

After a brief rest, the second game began.

But something had shifted.

Perhaps the first loss had shaken his opponent's core. His play was rushed. Unfocused. The moment Azuma spotted a minor blunder—an exposed diagonal—he advanced his rook (飛車 / hisha) and shattered the man's defense like paper.

The third match came.

Then the fourth.

With each game, the veteran's moves grew more erratic, more desperate.

He played like a man drowning in his own pride, dragging every match into unnecessary complications. But Azuma didn't flinch. His moves grew simpler, cleaner, and somehow sharper with each game.

Finally, it was over.

4–0.

A clean sweep.

A young upstart had crushed a 9-dan pro in straight matches.

"Shishou, you're amazing!" Hinatsuru Ai's voice practically exploded through the screen.

She bounced in place, ahoge flailing like a wild antenna. "You totally obliterated a 9-dan!"

Next to her, Sainokami Ika scrolled through her phone.

"Oh? The other semifinal just finished too. Also a 4–0. That 2-dan guy won."

Everyone froze.

Two 9-dan players had just been eliminated.

Along with multiple 8-dans earlier in the tournament.

This year's Ryuuou Finals would be a duel between two young players.

Genius One… and the so-called Potential Man.

Viewers and analysts across Japan were in shock.

Betting pools scrambled to adjust odds.

Some unlucky gamblers were already looking for rooftop breezes to contemplate their life choices.

When Azuma returned from the post-match interview, Sora Ginko was waiting with her arms crossed.

"Your opponent for the finals," she said, "is that 2-dan you faced during the qualifiers."

Azuma's face twitched.

"…You mean that guy?"

Yup.

The one who'd talked about 'surpassing his limits' and carried himself like a walking shounen protagonist.

Azuma exhaled slowly.

"This really is turning into a manga."

He stared off dramatically.

What if I get reverse swept from 3–0 to 3–4?

What if he yells something like, "With this treasure, I summon…!"?

Nope.

Azuma shook his head, deadpan.

"If he summons anything—I'm out. I'm not sticking around to get punched by a ☸Big Daddy in white☸ yelling ☸'Nah, I'd adapt.'☸ I have my limits."

Sora Ginko just stared at him, unimpressed.

Come to think of it…

Since the beginning of the Ryuuou tournament—

Yukima Azuma hadn't lost a single match.

Not one.

From the qualifiers to now—perfect victories, flawless progress. He was undefeated. Unstoppable.

Not even the Meijin had managed that in recent years.

No one in modern shogi history had won the Ryuuou tournament with a clean record from start to finish.

And now, it was within reach.

The press was ablaze. Every news outlet scrambled to print headlines. Keyboard keys were worn down from the flurry of activity.

The potential headlines wrote themselves:

"Undefeated Prodigy Claims Ryuuou Crown!"

"2-Dan Challenger Ascends to Greatness!"

No matter who won, history would be made.

And yet…

The main character himself?

Was on a film set.

On Set: Hikaru no Shogi Begins

The production crew for Hikaru no Shogi had reached out weeks earlier. Azuma had agreed to participate—on the condition that filming not interfere with his matches.

They accepted instantly.

If Azuma won the Ryuuou title and then appeared in their show?

Their marketing campaign would go supernova.

Laplace Corporation, ever efficient, handled the contracts. Azuma even reduced his actor's fee in exchange for creative input.

When he arrived at the studio, the entire production team came out to welcome him personally.

"Yukima-sensei!" the director—a film legend in his fifties—grasped his hand with both of his. "Thank you for coming!"

Set construction was mostly finished. But filming hadn't started yet—some key roles still needed casting.

There was, however, one actress already present.

Kurokawa Akane.

The moment the director called her over, she put down her script and approached.

"This is Yukima-sensei," the director explained. "He's new to acting, so please support him."

"Akane-san is one of the most promising actresses of her generation," he added. "She's talented, hardworking—truly a prodigy."

Azuma smiled.

Akane smiled back.

As the director left, a faint tension passed between them.

"…So," Azuma said, "the famed Guardian is a genius, huh?"

Kurokawa Akane gave a quiet snort.

"Genius? Don't joke. I just practice more than anyone. If anyone's a genius, it's you. You played me like a piano that day."

Azuma scratched the back of his head, sheepish.

Truth be told, he did feel bad.

Yes, he had faked his death to protect her.

Yes, he had saved her life.

But still—fooling a girl, stealing her first kiss under emotional duress?

There was just no clean way to explain that.

"…Let's go outside and rehearse in private," Akane said.

Her eyes were calm.

But her lips twitched, ever so slightly.

Azuma followed, stepping beside her under the lights of a set that had yet to roll its first scene…

But already shimmered with the beginning of something new.