A Strategist Joins the Losing Club

A single notice goes up in the after-school science room: “Mind Games Club — win at least one match at this tournament, or the club closes.” Last year, club captain Ibuki lost every single game. He arrived earliest, stayed latest, stared at the board until the janitor chased him out — and still lost. Now he takes a deep breath and turns the dusty strategy board to face you. “You. You're our strategist.”

“Hi. I'm Saya, the club recorder.” The notebook she hands over is as thick as a brick — every move of every loss from last year, written down without mercy. “At the New Games Championship, the game itself isn't announced until the morning of the tournament. Which means you can't get strong by practising it.” She pushes up her glasses. “But records never lie. Strategist, this is yours now. It's the only treasure this club has.”

Tournament morning. The city hall is a sea of team colours. “Today's new game is — MITSUBOSHI!” The stage curtain rises on three rules, and only three. Take turns placing one stone of your colour on any open square. Line up three — across, down, or diagonally — and you win. A placed stone can never be moved. “Look, that's the team that lost every game last year.” A giggle drifts over from somewhere. The tips of Ibuki's ears go red.

First match. Ibuki attacks the way he loves to — straight ahead, full speed, racing for his line of three. And he is stopped, easily. By the time he sees it, the opponent's three stars are already shining on the diagonal. “…Sorry.” While Ibuki hangs his head, Saya's pencil never stops. The winner's moves, the loser's moves — all of them march into the notebook, side by side. This loss isn't treasure yet.

Lunch break. You lay the first match out on the strategy board, move by move. The opponent was playing Mitsuboshi for the first time today too — so how did they block without a moment's doubt? “Everyone has the same rules. So then—” Saya murmurs, almost to herself. “Maybe strong players aren't reading the board. Maybe they're reading the player.” On the board, the losing moves wait to be rearranged into something useful.

The second-round pairing goes up: Kagami. Last year's semifinalist, this year's favourite. Saya's notebook already holds all three of Kagami's games from this morning. You spread the three little boards side by side and look. …Something snags. Three completely different games — and yet somewhere, somehow, they feel the same. That “somewhere” doesn't have a name yet.

Round two begins. Kagami is strong. Every time Ibuki builds a threat, the very next move seals it shut — one threat made, one threat closed. On the board, the blue roads grow narrower and narrower. Three minutes left on the clock. Ibuki's hand stops in mid-air, and the noise of the hall drains far away.

Time-out. Saya spreads Kagami's three games across the whole board. “Look — I marked our newest blue move in each game. Now watch where red answered. Right beside it. This game too… beside it. And the third —” Three boards, the same shape, three times. Three scattered games snap, all at once, onto a single line.

“Found it. …The snap-back habit.” Kagami always answers right beside your newest stone. Always — like a reflex. Ibuki lets out a long breath and spins the strategy board around to face you. “One threat gets sealed. But — hey, You. What if there were two?” The buzzer sounds for the restart. “One move. It's yours.”

Back to the board. Two blue stones sit on the diagonal; two red stones answer them. Three squares are calling. The guarding square — safe, but a step too slow. The straight-line square — a strong threat, but only one. And the square near the middle: place there, and a column and a row wake up at the same time. Two threats at once. The snap-back habit can only play beside your move… beside which threat?

Ibuki's fingers hover, a blue stone held tight. The hall has gone quiet. The snap-back habit — always beside. Then the answer is already sitting there on the board. Place your move.