Let History Repeat Itself
He decided on the boy because he liked his smile.
He'd seen him a couple of times on television, when the newscasters were waxing poetic about Japan's sudden resurgence in the Go world. For some reason his attention focused on a young professional, who spoke passionately about the game.
"It's a connection to our past," the boy said. "Each Go player builds upon the older generations' work. If we all work together, maybe we'll find the hand of God."
He considered seeking the boy out, to see if he really was the one he was waiting for. The boy had a strong spirit – the kind that jumped off film and was practically tangible. Something about his smile spoke of an old soul, and he was entranced.
There was still enough of the Sumeragi left in him to squish down that desire, but on the third anniversary of Rainbow Bridge's fall, he gave into the urge to seek out the youngster. He found the boy in a park, reclining with his back against a sakura tree. It wasn't the sakura, but it seemed like an omen.
"Excuse me, but are you Shindou-2 dan?" he asked.
The boy opened green eyes, and he knew this was the one he's been waiting for. "Sure am. You a Go fan, ojiisan?"
"I'm a fan of all things that are part of classical Japan," the assassin said. For a second, the few remnants of his conscience urged him just leave the boy alone, but the Sakurazukamori needed an heir, and this boy had the strongest spiritual connection he'd seen among Tokyo's young. "Are you a gambling man, Shindou-san?"
The boy looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I'll make a bet with you-" he said, crouching down beside him to catch Shindou before he could flee. The boy didn't even scream as inverted pentagrams were etched across his hands.