Chapter 3: The Elder's Shadow

Vienna's early morning was shrouded in a thick layer of white fog, like a cold shroud laid over the old city. Lukas sat in the narrow hotel room, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing that ancient Harmonizer stone, the suffocation he had felt in the Berlin pipes the night before still not dispersed.

Viktor's tendrils of thought extended through the darkness. That icy calculation made him shiver all over, and he realized that by his own strength alone he could not stand against the enormous machinery of capital — he had to find that retired elder. The Markus in his memory was no distant idol, but an old man of flesh and blood who bore a heavy past.

Outside the window, mist from the Danube seeped in through the gap in the curtains, bringing damp cold with it. Lukas took a deep breath, pressed down the last trace of anxiety, rose, and straightened his collar, preparing to head for the old town. Hidden there was the key to breaking this game — and a blind spot that Viktor's forces could hardly penetrate.

He had to complete this meeting before Viktor realized where he was going, or time would no longer be on their side.

The café sat on a narrow medieval stone street, its wooden shutters half closed, letting out a dim yellow light. Lukas pushed the door open and entered. Elena was sitting in a corner, a thick archive volume spread open before her, her brow tightly locked. Hearing the footsteps, she raised her head, her gaze complicated as she studied Lukas's pale face.

She did not ask for any details of the previous night's escape. She only swiftly adjusted her sitting posture and lowered her voice.

"Viktor's people are all over the city. Follow me." Lukas walked to the table and sat down, his fingertip tapping the tabletop lightly, signaling that this place was not safe.

"The archive's blind corner — only I know it. Tonight." The two exchanged a look and reached a silent consensus amid the noisy crowd. They had to act separately, to evade the surveillance network Viktor had laid in Berlin, and Vienna's old town was the last dead corner.

Elena closed the archive volume, a flash of resolve in her eyes. She stood, nodded to Lukas, then turned and disappeared into the alley leading toward the municipal archive, leaving Lukas alone to face the cup of black coffee that was gradually cooling.

Lukas crossed several quiet alleys and came near the Viktor family's old residence in Vienna. It was a private courtyard with Baroque ornamentation — walls towering, neatly trimmed holly shrubs blocking the view inside. He did not knock at once, but stood waiting in the shadows.

Before long, the courtyard's iron gate creaked, and a woman in an exquisite suit walked out. It was Sophia. She looked at the young man before her, soaked through, a contemptuous arc at the corner of her mouth, her eyes full of professional coldness and impatience.

She did not recognize Lukas's identity — or rather, she did not care who this young man was at all. In her eyes, people like this were nothing but futile chasers of fame and profit. Sophia crossed her arms, lifted her chin slightly, and spoke in a lofty, condescending tone.

"This is a private residence. Get out." Her voice was crisp yet barbed, like a tiny awl of ice trying to pierce the calm Lukas had so carefully maintained.

Lukas did not argue, nor did his face show any anger at being slighted. He simply stood quietly in the rain, his gaze resting calmly on Sophia, as if appreciating a still oil painting, waiting for some opportunity.

Watching this young man's posture as he stood in the rain, Sophia felt an inexplicable irritation rise in her heart, but even more than that, disdain. She was about to speak again to drive him off, but she saw Lukas take an old Go stone from his bosom and slowly place it on the stone table behind him.

The stone was no precious marble; it was black ebony bearing the patina of years, its surface warm and smooth as jade, glimmering with a faint yet steadfast light under the gray sky. Sophia's gaze froze on that stone. It was the symbol of everything she had once loved deeply, yet had been forced to put down.

An indescribable silence spread between the two of them. The rain wet Sophia's lashes, but it could not wash away the stirring that flashed through her eyes. She was silent for a moment, then finally stepped aside, opening the path that led into the courtyard.

"Take it away." The gesture was stiff, but it no longer carried the earlier sharpness, as if, before that stone, a fine crack had appeared in her line of defense. Lukas picked up the stone. He did not look at her, only crossed the threshold silently and stepped into the classical inner courtyard, where the air was filled with the faint scent of cedar and old paper.

Deep in the courtyard, beneath an ancient ginkgo tree, Markus was playing a game against himself alone. Before him lay a mottled wooden board, black and white stones interlaced like frozen time. Lukas stood far off, not daring to make the slightest sound, his gaze greedily absorbing the essence of the old man's every move.

Markus's style of play was not mere sharpness; it was the tenacity of dead wood meeting spring again, and the depth of a still abyss without waves. Every stone fell with the calm and helplessness of one who had weathered many vicissitudes. This bearing of a master shook Lukas's heart — he seemed to glimpse what he himself might one day become.

Markus suddenly stopped, the stone held in his hand. He did not raise his head, yet his sharp eyes locked onto Lukas through the curtain of rain. Silence stretched out in the rain; water droplets fell from the eaves and struck the stone pavement with crisp sounds. Markus finally spoke, his voice hoarse and low, carrying an authority that brooked no doubt.

"Did you come to win, or to hate?" He was asking the purpose of this young visitor — whether he too had come for those illusory profits, or whether he harbored other designs. Lukas stood firm in the rain, water dripping from the tips of his hair. He took a deep breath, preparing to give his answer.

Lukas met Markus's scrutinizing gaze and spoke slowly. "To live — so that the way of Go can still breathe." His voice was not loud, yet it was especially clear amid the sound of rain, carrying an urgency and firmness that could hardly be concealed. He laid out the predicament he faced, and the conspiracy behind Viktor that devoured the geniuses of the Go world.

He was not doing this for victory or defeat, but for survival — for the pure way of Go being strangled by capital. Hearing this, Markus let out a short, cold laugh that echoed in the empty courtyard, sounding especially desolate. He shook his head and refused, claiming he had long since withdrawn from the martial world and was unwilling to be dragged into filthy games again, and he told Lukas to get back to Paris.

Facing this final ultimatum, Lukas neither retreated nor argued back. He forcibly opened his mind-reading ability and pierced through the tightly shut gate of Markus's heart. In an instant, an enormous guilt surged in like a tide. What churned in Markus's mind was not coldness at all, but regret over having missed the crucial opportunity to stop Viktor ten years ago.

That guilt had long since transformed into a deep fear of Viktor. He was afraid of failing again, afraid that his own hesitation would get the young man before him killed.

Lukas read all of this. He did not choose to expose that fragility, but turned his understanding into silent companionship. He stood firm in the rain, his posture humble yet steadfast, sending the old man signals of trust and respect. Markus's inner defenses collapsed at that moment — he saw that there was no pity in the young man's eyes, only the pure light of the way of Go.

The old man finally spoke, his voice much softer than before, agreeing to let Lukas enter the house.

"Come in." The two sat down across the board from each other, the atmosphere still grave. Markus set out a complex endgame position, the meaning of a final test in his eyes. He declared that if Lukas could solve this position, he would hand over Viktor's core secrets; otherwise, Lukas should get back to Paris and never disturb his peace again.

Lukas gazed at the board. His mind-reading ability let him see clearly every psychological trap and logical knot Markus had set. He did not rush to place a stone; instead he felt the tension between the stones, searching for that single point of breakthrough, while the rain knocked against the window outside, as if counting down this silent duel.

Lukas's fingers hovered above the board, his fingertips trembling slightly — that was tension, not fear. He had read the knot Markus had set: a seemingly unsolvable killing position that was in fact a labyrinth hiding a way to live. He placed his stone decisively, and the instant his fingertip touched the stone, a clear stream of air spread across the board.

His line of play did not directly solve the endgame position. Rather, through his own moves he hinted at the road of revenge Markus had left unfinished back then, every step landing precisely on the old man's psychological pain points and blind spots.

Markus's pupils contracted sharply. He saw the branch he had never taken ten years ago, saw that if he had taken one brave step back then, Viktor would never have grown to what he was today. The stone in the old man's hand hovered in midair, his knuckles white with force, his eyes revealing an incredulous shock and regret.

"So... that was it." At this moment, victory and defeat no longer mattered. What mattered was the resonance between the way of Go and humanity in the midst of the rainstorm. Markus slowly withdrew his hand, his gaze turning deep and complex. Looking at Lukas, the gate of his heart — shut tight all along — opened completely at last, revealing beneath it that old game record with its hidden layer, buried for ten years.

Lukas kept his posture after placing the stone, watching Markus in silence. Even the sound of the rain in the air seemed to have vanished. The old man said nothing, only reached out with a trembling hand for that old game record pressed beneath the board. As the record was slowly unfolded, beneath the thin sheet of paper appeared a piece of dark red brocade embroidered with intricate golden patterns.

It was the crest of the Viktor family — a vulture with wings spread, its gaze sinister, as if it could pierce through the paper and look into Lukas's soul. Markus's fingers brushed across that crest; the texture beneath his fingertips was rough and cold. He murmured under his breath, as if confirming a fact long sealed away in dust.

"What must come will come, in the end." Lukas held his breath, waiting for the old man's next move. He understood that this crest not only revealed the source of the conspiracy, but had also become the key link connecting past and present, revenge and redemption. The rain in the courtyard grew heavier, splashes of water blurring his vision, yet nothing could mask the dangerous aura radiating from that crest.