The Cloud-Walker and Friendship
The Meijin title was Satsugen’s (察元), but the silence beneath it was uneasy.
He had climbed higher than anyone thought possible—outlasting scandal, betrayal, and death. For nineteen years, he stood as the uncontested peak of Japanese Go.
But a storm was gathering. And like all real threats, it came without fanfare.
The Rise of Senchi (仙知)
In 1780, a 17-year-old boy stepped into the Go world. His name was Yasui Senchi (安井仙知). He was quiet, composed, and deceptively simple—like a still lake hiding deep waters. Officially, he held only the 2-dan title. But those who faced him quickly realized the truth: this wasn’t some eager apprentice. This was a knife with no handle.
His style was unlike anything the Honinbo or Inoue had prepared for. His games cut deep, each move designed to corner, to trap, to bleed. Even veterans stepped back.
In his first castle game appearance, Satsugen (察元) himself granted Senchi a two-stone handicap. It was meant to be ceremonial—an elder meeting a promising youth.
Instead, Senchi dismantled the Meijin.
He killed the central group cleanly. Satsugen resigned in the middle game.
The room was silent. Not out of respect. Out of disbelief.
The Meijin later said:
“He’s not one of us. He’s something else.”And he was right.
Senchi rose like wildfire—4-dan at age 19, 5-dan at 20, 6-dan shortly after.
And then came the moment that should have changed everything.
The Rival No One Claimed
In 1801, Retsugen (烈元), Satsugen’s successor, and Senchi were promoted to 8-dan jun-Meijin. Equal in rank. Equal in theory.
But theory meant nothing on the board.
In the fourteen games between them that survive today, Senchi won twelve.
Retsugen won two. The difference was not subtle—it was seismic.
And yet Senchi never made a move toward the Meijin title.
No declarations. No demands. No public challenges.
He didn’t want the throne.
He just wanted the game.
Instead of fighting for power, Senchi spent his days teaching, studying, and walking the countryside. He wore the Meijin crown invisibly. And from his quiet world, he raised a student—Yasui Chitoku (安井知得)—whose strength would one day outshine his own.
Senchi, sensing the shift, made a rare decision:
He stepped down from leadership. Quietly, without ceremony.
No feud. No scandal. Just silence. And a legacy passed forward.
The Duel That Never Had a Winner
Yasui Chitoku (安井知得) was a genius.
He was faster than Senchi. Bolder. Hungrier.
If Senchi was mist, Chitoku was lightning. But like so many legends in Go history, he was born at the wrong time. Because across the board from him stood Honinbo Genjou (本因坊元丈).
Genjou was Satsugen’s intellectual heir. A towering player, exact and terrifying. He was the kind of opponent who would give you what looked like freedom, only to shut every exit two moves later.
Chitoku and Genjou played seventy-seven games over their lifetimes.
They were almost perfectly even. Move for move. Win for win.
And though neither would ever reach Meijin, their rivalry gave birth to something more enduring than titles: a golden age.
In one of their most famous games, Chitoku placed a “terrible” move—Black 69.
Observers whispered. “What a mistake.”
But Genjou’s face changed.
Because that “mistake” shut down three threats at once—an eye shape, a cut, a ladder.
It was brutal. Silent. Perfect. Genjou resigned a few dozen moves later. The move became known as “The Brilliant Blunder.”
It lives in textbooks to this day.
The Ghost of Meijin
The title of Meijin remained empty.
Chitoku deserved it. Genjou deserved it.
But Go was political, and Japan had changed. The weight of the title no longer inspired—it intimidated. Neither man stepped forward. Neither man demanded the crown.
Instead, they dueled.
Not for rank.
Not for power.
But to see who could walk furthest into the mystery of the game.
The Honinbo and Yasui houses, once at each other’s throats, now watched as their two greatest players became friends. They studied each other. Laughed together. And made each other stronger.
Later, Honinbo Jouwa (丈和), Genjou’s own successor, collected thirty of their games in a legendary volume. He wrote:
“In seven of them, there is not one wasted move. Not one error.
They are Meijin games in all but name.”And perhaps, that was enough.
When Titles Become Shadows
Senchi stepped back.
Chitoku never asked.
Genjou never needed to.
Together, they redefined what greatness could look like—not as a title carved in paper, but as stone after stone placed in quiet brilliance.
The Meijin seat sat empty.
But the board had never been more alive.
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Copyright Notice
This English adaptation is based on Japanese Go Stories (《日本围棋故事》, 2016) by Xue Zhicheng (薛至诚).
For non-commercial use only: Shared for educational purposes under fair use.
Rights retained: All copyrights belong to the original author and cited sources.
Modifications: Minor narrative adjustments were made for readability; all historical content remains accurate.
No affiliation or endorsement: This work is independent and unaffiliated with the original author or publishers.
Contact: For verification or takedown requests, please email help@zeejyan.com.
References
Adapted from:
Xue Zhicheng (薛至诚), Japanese Go Stories (《日本围棋故事》), 2016.
Cited in original work:
Watanabe Hideo (渡辺英夫), Shin Zaigin Dansō (《新坐隱談叢》)
Watanabe Yoshimichi (渡部義通), Kodai Igo no Sekai (《古代囲碁の世界》)
Lin Yu (林裕), Weiqi Encyclopedia (《围棋百科辞典》)
