The Gungi board rested between them like an ancient relic, untouched by time yet burdened with countless invisible histories. Its surface bore the quiet scars of past matches, grooves worn by fingers that had trembled, hesitated, or moved with absolute certainty. Around it, the remains of the battlefield stretched endlessly — broken stone, collapsed pillars, scorched earth — all silent witnesses to a war that had already passed into legend. And yet, in that moment, none of it mattered. Not the ruins, not the dead, not the future pressing faintly against the horizon.
Only the board mattered.
Komugi sat opposite Ging Freecss, her posture modest, her hands folded gently on her knees. The wind brushed against her hair, carrying dust and ash, but she did not react. Since regaining her sight, the world had become unbearably loud to her eyes. Colors clashed. Shapes demanded attention. Distance itself felt intrusive, as though reality had grown impatient with her former way of existing. For most of her life, she had inhabited a smaller universe — one built on sound, intuition, and rhythm — and now that universe had been forcibly expanded.
Ging noticed her hesitation long before the first piece was moved. His eyes, sharp and observant, lingered on the subtle tension in her shoulders, on the way her fingers hovered above the board without committing.
"You're not comfortable," he remarked casually, though his tone carried no judgment. "Is it the place? Or the game?"
Komugi inhaled slowly. Then, without answering, she closed her eyes.
The world vanished.
For an instant, Ging froze, genuinely caught off guard by the gesture. Closing one's eyes in Gungi — especially against an opponent like him — was unthinkable. Vision was not merely an advantage; it was considered essential. And yet, the moment her eyelids shut, something shifted. The air itself seemed to settle, as if relieved.
"I play better this way," Komugi said softly, her voice calm, unembellished, as though stating a simple preference rather than defying all conventional logic.
Ging studied her closely now. "You're serious?"
She nodded gently, her chin dipping just enough to be noticeable. "I wasn't always able to see," she continued. "For most of my life… I was blind."
The words did not tremble. There was no sorrow clinging to them, no pride either. They were not a confession, but a memory — something long accepted.
Ging leaned back slightly, one hand scratching the back of his head as realization dawned. "So you built your entire understanding of the game without sight," he murmured. "No board. No pieces. Just instinct."
Komugi's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Not instinct," she corrected gently. "Trust."
Meruem watched in silence.
Since his transformation, his senses had changed in subtle, unsettling ways. He no longer perceived the world as a battlefield to be dominated, but as a network of delicate tensions — emotions, intentions, histories overlapping and resonating. As Komugi closed her eyes, he felt something familiar stir within him, something dangerously close to reverence. The same sensation he used to feel when she sat across from him, fragile and unyielding, bending the game — and him — to her quiet will.
The match began.
Ging moved first, his opening clean and orthodox, a respectful acknowledgment rather than an attempt at dominance. Komugi responded almost immediately, her fingers gliding across the board with a precision that bordered on the uncanny. She did not hesitate. She did not fumble. It was as though the board existed somewhere behind her closed eyes, perfectly mapped.
As the game progressed, Ging's curiosity deepened into something sharper — admiration, perhaps, or caution. He tested her with layered strategies, feints disguised as retreats, pressure disguised as patience. Each time, Komugi adjusted, not reactively, but preemptively, as if she had already seen the outcome several moves ahead.
Inside her mind, the world narrowed.
There was no battlefield.
No ruins.
No spectators.
Only rhythm.
Six.
A structure stabilizing itself, breathing evenly.
Four.
A tension introduced — subtle, controlled, necessary.
Three.
The edge of imbalance.
Ninja…
The word echoed in her thoughts like an old companion, a mental marker she had used countless times before. It was not a term taught in manuals, but one born from experience — the moment when the board itself seemed to inhale, preparing to shift.
Meruem sensed it too.
Though he had no formal understanding of the game's deeper theory, he felt the flow — something akin to Nen, yet purer. This was not power meant to dominate, but intent refined through repetition and sacrifice. Komugi was not forcing the board to obey her. She was listening to it.
Ging's brow furrowed as the pressure mounted. He attempted to tighten his formation, to close off options, to corner her into a narrow corridor where calculation alone would decide the outcome. For a moment, it worked. Komugi's position became constrained. The board held its breath.
She welcomed it.
Her fingers paused, hovering above the pieces, and she remembered.
The dim rooms of her childhood.
The hushed whispers of crowds.
The countless matches where defeat was never an option — because defeat meant disappearance.
She had never lost.
Not once.
Not because she was invincible, but because she had never allowed herself the luxury of failure.
She moved.
One piece fell into place, then another, their alignment deceptively simple. Ging's eyes widened as the realization struck him too late. The structure he had built collapsed inward, not violently, but gracefully, folding into itself like a completed thought.
Silence followed.
Gin stared at the board, unmoving, as though hoping it would contradict what he was seeing. Then he exhaled, a slow breath carrying equal parts disbelief and respect.
"…Incredible," he said at last. "I've never seen anyone play like this."
Komugi opened her eyes.
The world returned — harsh, bright, overwhelming — but she endured it.
"I only play the way the game taught me," she replied.
Meruem stepped forward, his presence cutting through the moment with quiet authority. "Now," he said, his voice even, controlled, "tell us what you promised."
Ging's expression shifted. The playful curiosity vanished, replaced by something heavier. He turned toward Meruem fully, meeting his gaze without fear.
"You asked about origins," he began. "About where you come from."
At those words, something stirred deep within Meruem — an ache he had never named, a pull that had nothing to do with power or conquest.
"Your mother," Ging continued, "the Chimera Ant Queen, did not originate on this continent. She drifted here from beyond, carried by the currents of the Dark Continent."
The name alone sent a ripple through the air.
"That place," Ging said quietly, "holds the answers you're looking for. About your existence. About this world. About things even humans were never meant to understand."
Meruem felt it then — that dangerous, intoxicating desire to know. The same desire that had driven humans to explore, to conquer, to destroy themselves in search of meaning. And for the first time, he understood it.
He looked at Komugi.
Then back at Ging.
"…We will go," he said.
And somewhere, deep within him, a new journey began.