Chapter Eighteen: The Final Move

The method of sacrificing pieces to secure victory was something the young Emperor Wen and his companions had neither experienced nor contemplated. Yet, for Mo Cangli, everything unfolded exactly as expected. Trading injury for life, sacrificing to win—how familiar this sensation was to him!

Mo Cangli sacrificed a piece, capturing one of his opponent’s, resolving the crisis and turning the tide of the game once more. Emperor Wen and the others watched in awe as the great dragon alternated between slaughterer and slaughtered. As pieces were captured, vast spaces opened on the board.

They continued to place their stones, attacking and counterattacking in localized skirmishes. Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of stones hitting the board and the occasional cough from Jing Ri Gu Ming.

One battle ended, another began—ranging endlessly between capturing and recapturing. A small board of nineteen lines by nineteen lines, with 361 points, could never be filled under their hands. Spectators each perceived something different: to Emperor Wen, it was the opening, the clash of swords, each move striking at vital points, each formation intercepting flaws.

Killing and being killed, attacking and counterattacking, all reversed in the blink of an eye. Every skirmish carried the echo of the previous move, yet was entirely distinct. Between them, they met attack with attack, defense with offense, sometimes sacrificing a piece to open a new front, only to be unexpectedly counterattacked.

Sacrificed stones came back to life, turning crises into victories; the rapid exchange of pieces seemed endless.

To Luo Bi’s eyes, it was a battlefield—troops emerging unexpectedly from nowhere, striking directly at critical vulnerabilities. Yet both players seemed to anticipate every possible change, deftly neutralizing any lethal move.

Trapped with seemingly no escape, reinforcements suddenly burst forth; isolated troops on defense transformed into decisive killers, striking at vital targets.

On this tiny board, their assault and defense unfolded every conceivable possibility. No matter how many surprises or sudden peaks emerged, they were always effortlessly dissolved between the two.

Between them, the small board was like a warzone, where a severed tail one moment sought survival, the next transformed into a scorpion’s sting, delivering a life-or-death blow.

What appeared to be a fatal strike was suddenly blocked by a pair of soldiers appearing from nowhere.

If either side were to slip even once, the game would have ended long ago. Yet they played like flawless machines, stone by stone, entwined in endless struggle.

Time passed, and the coughing from Jing Ri Gu Ming grew more frequent. Canglang and Qianxue looked on with concern.

Yet neither dared to disturb Jing Ri Gu Ming, fearing a single lapse might lose the game. Even those less skilled in the art of Go understood this was a rare match—perhaps a final masterpiece that would never be repeated.

No one wished to break this historic moment.

With the passage of time, when they had placed the one thousand one hundred eighty-first stone, Jing Ri Gu Ming finally spoke:

“Do you still want to continue? Cough, cough…”

Mo Cangli seemed not to hear the coughs, his voice calm as ever:

“Are you going to admit defeat?”

“Don’t you have any mercy? Uncle Zu Wang is coughing so badly!”

Little Canglang glared angrily into the mist.

Mo Cangli turned to Canglang:

“Mercy?”

The fog obscured his expression:

“Seems your Uncle Zu Wang didn’t teach you well!”

“Cough… cough…”

King Bei Jing coughed, covering his mouth:

“Little King is tired.”

“Nineteen lines, three hundred sixty-one points, and we’ve already placed over a thousand stones; continuing won’t change anything.”

“Our talents cannot be fully displayed on such a small board.”

“If you want to settle victory or defeat with me, why not play a match… cough… cough…”

Without waiting for Mo Cangli’s reply, Jing Ri Gu Ming rose and left.

Qianxue Gu Ming and Canglang supported Jing Ri Gu Ming as they departed. The mist that had shrouded the place suddenly contracted and vanished in an instant.

Only Emperor Wen and the Mirror Keeper remained, still entranced by the game.

When they finally came to their senses, the place was empty.

…

“Cangli, what did King Bei Jing mean when he left?” the Plague Doctor pondered the unfinished words.

Mo Cangli looked up at the sky, his expression a mixture of mockery, ridicule, and resignation:

“You only need to know that this game ended in a draw.”

In Mo Cangli’s view, both sides had their concerns and responsibilities.

The draw was never on the board—it was in the circumstances binding the two players, which could only remain balanced.

King Bei Jing’s last words implied a challenge: if you want to decide victory or defeat with me, then let us wage a war across the nine realms!

It was a declaration of war, a threat; yet Mo Cangli could only accept it. His sect’s teachings since childhood emphasized maintaining peace across the nine realms, and that peace was his duty.

Still, he deeply wished to measure himself against King Bei Jing.

A figure flashed through Mo Cangli’s eyes—Emperor Wen.

Emperor Wen was the closest to the two, and after watching their match today and verifying progress over recent years, reaching such a realm was no longer difficult.

Miao Territory was flourishing indeed!

…

At Miao King’s Palace, after finishing state affairs, Hao Qiong Gu Ming reviewed the intelligence sent by King Bei Jing’s residence.

“Hmm~ A Jin Bei challenge? Ha!”

“Good, Uncle Wang has something to do!”

At first, Hao Qiong Gu Ming was indifferent, but as the game unfolded, his expression grew increasingly solemn.

“No wonder Grandfather praised him as a prodigy—facing ten opponents alone, yet easily defeating them all; Uncle Wang is truly clever!”

Though praising, no joy touched Hao Qiong Gu Ming’s face. His eyes were dark and inscrutable; none could guess his thoughts.

With the report of the game against Emperor Wen and the analysis, a hint of killing intent appeared in Hao Qiong Gu Ming’s eyes:

“Uncle Wang, you’re so clever—what am I to do? Emperor Wen, Qianxue’s friend, it seems Qianxue has made some remarkable connections!”

Thinking of Qianxue, softness flickered in Hao Qiong Gu Ming’s gaze. Perhaps out of guilt toward his elder brother Tianque Gu Ming, he doted on his younger brother Qianxue Gu Ming. Seeing Qianxue’s acquaintances brought only comfort, no worry.

Yet after watching the third match against Mo Cangli, Hao Qiong Gu Ming fell silent for a long time, his killing intent vanished.

If Jing Ri Gu Ming had been the sole standout, Miao King would have sought to kill him. But there was an unknown figure matching Jing Ri Gu Ming in wisdom.

The frail Jing Ri Gu Ming thus found his purpose—to serve as a counterbalance without being an overwhelming threat.

At this moment, Hao Qiong Gu Ming was grateful for Jing Ri Gu Ming’s existence, grateful that his greed in uniting the Three Treasures had damaged his heart meridians.

And this—was exactly the situation Jing Ri Gu Ming needed!