By the autumn of 1985, Father’s skill at go had surpassed all boundaries, and we could no longer find a willing partner to challenge him to a game. Because his reputation had spread beyond our town, occasionally uninvited guests would come in search of him – but as we expected, not only did their arrival not make Father happy, it actually often made him angry. Unimaginably angry; furious even. He had no desire to engage in a match of go with these average players and he abhorred the idea of letting them win. Could anyone still consider Father to be anything other than remarkable? No one. For over a year now, Father had immersed himself in studying the game, in learning its various techniques; he clearly understood its mysteries. He had competed with connoisseurs from all directions, and had learnt by constantly comparing notes with them and engaging them in battle. These contests had forged his talent, and he had reached an incredibly high level, at least for this city.