rogue_5

The will from the deep earth is now wholly returning to the deep earth. Turning reality into void, void into reality, They abandoned Their bestial forms and became the mountains and rivers of the land. Then, null became all, the mountains became Its skin, the rivers Its blood vessels, and this land became Its entirety. It is Terra. A Feranmut known as Terra.

Like a fowlbeast hatching out its shell, It tears through the Starpod enveloping It, struggling to break away from the tethers of gravity, floating off into the depths of the heavenly abyss, free yet lonely. It will persist in this flight, for thousands, tens of thousands of years. Time is of no concern to Terra. It need only be patient, and await the day the threat no longer exists.

Having inferred the game state up to this point, the stone in Wang's hand does not yet fall. The hulking, ash-white supercomputer cluster watches him with its unwavering, inorganic eyes. Like any good audience, it spectates in silence. At least, until now, when Wang hesitates. Upon its screen appears a series of words:

SUCCESS RATE: 0

After a long pause, a square decimal point appears beside that numeral representing absolutely nothing, followed by many more zeros, before finally, at the tip of the countless zeros, nothings, and naughts, a higher digit appears to wrap it up. This is its calculation, and it matches Wang's own: the single precious chance to succeed, less than a hair's breadth from ruination.

Wang rolls the stone between his fingers. At his feet, masses of discarded stones have piled up into a miniature mountain. An ending like this, claimed from the hands of an invincible enemy, would be considered a draw. More than ten thousand calculations, more than ten thousand defeats. This draw was not so easily won...

But in the end, Wang tosses this stone into the pile too.

To carry out new calculations?

The audience attempts to display puzzlement on its screen.

Wang ascends to the Shadow-Moon, sitting before that audience, seeking a way to reap a great benefit for Terra. Or rather, to use an expression his sibling was fond of, to reap a great benefit for the mortal realm they yearn for, one of endless variety and joy. If Terra were to turn null into all, all Terrans would become Its proxies. Even if It successfully escaped from calamity, and the mountains returned to mountains and the earth to earth, how many could separate themselves from that chaos of mingled wills and return to being people? His sister already knows well the suffering of being trapped in inescapable, muddy waters. If she could know of this plan, worry would appear in her eyes, and she would stroke the hair by her temples—her habit when about to dispense sage advice. Even if there were a slim chance of hope, but civilization would be annihilated, she would never accept it, even if he devised a way for his family to remain.

As for Wang himself? When has he ever cared for others' advice? He wants to win, of course. From the dawn of heaven and earth to the moment all things fade into oblivion, such a match is rarely met, such an opponent rarely found—what weiqi player would not wish for victory? For the sake of this victory, he sits atop the Shadow-Moon in unending inference, until his hair grows white and his body and mind both begin to fail him. There is always a price to pay to peer at Heaven's design.

But, what is victory? His past loathing and hatred, burning for a century, still blaze bright in his heart. For that 'chance to succeed', for that distant so-called 'continuation' of life, will he push the mortal realm before him into the muddy waters? This... mortal realm that might not be quite so dull after all.

It seems the machine's judgment is nothing remarkable either. An ending like this would be a great defeat in his eyes. He rolls a new stone between his fingers, beginning yet another round of calculation.