Why Did He Keep Playing Even After Losing to His Student? – Cho Hun-hyun from “The Match”
He never allowed the word “defeat” to cross his lips. Cautious, composed, and unwavering—that was the name the world knew. They called him “Kuksu,” the national hand of Go. And he believed it too. He had to.
There was a time when he stood above all. Each move on the board passed through dozens of simulations in his mind. He read the game faster than anyone. Commentators tried to predict his thoughts; spectators held their breath at his brilliance. On the board, he was most alive.
But no one knew how often he trembled inside. How many moments he hesitated, doubted, regretted. And what he feared most was not defeat— but losing to the student he had raised himself.
That fear wasn’t rooted in pride alone. It was the fear that the moment he passed everything on, his era would end. That his identity would be sealed as “former.”
Lee Chang-ho was like a quiet wave. Always bowed, always calm— but every move was razor-sharp. He mirrored Cho’s mannerisms, his expressions, even his silences. But beneath that quietude, a new era had already taken root.
When he first met Chang-ho, Cho felt something stir. He played beautifully. For the first time, Cho admired another player’s game. And in that admiration, he saw the future— one that might eclipse his own name.
He loved his student. But he also feared him. The shadow that used to follow now led. He knew this moment would come— just not so soon.
Defeat was clear. No commentator, no fan, not even he could deny it. But Cho asked for another match. And another.
It wasn’t pride. It was something deeper. He needed to know he hadn’t fully collapsed. That there was still one move left in him.
And words failed him where Go did not. So he focused not on winning, but on expressing something quiet and human with one final move.
Across the board, he was no longer a teacher. No respect, no hierarchy, no title— just one man facing another, using the only language he trusted: Go.
“I want to win.” What he meant was: “I want to still exist.” His greatest fear wasn’t being surpassed. It was being forgotten.
Losing to his student wasn’t just a game. It was time catching up to him. It was stepping away from a seat he’d occupied for decades. He didn’t know how to walk away. He only knew how to play.
Some may have said, “It’s okay,” “It’s time.” But he answered those voices not with words— with another move.
Even after the game ended, he stared at the board. It was no longer about outcome. It was about memory. For others, it was just a match. For him, it was everything.
The world called him a god of Go. But he was never divine. He was always human. Always restless. Always trying to prove that he still mattered.
And so he placed one more stone. In that single move, he held his pride, his pain, his solitude, and his quiet, enduring love for the game and the student who had once looked up at him.
