In shōgi, both sides have a king. But if you look closely at the pieces, you'll notice a difference: one bears the character 王, the other 玉. Between them, a single dot—点 (ten) in Japanese.

This dot transforms "king" into "jewel." Or more precisely, it transforms the symbol of royalty into that of a precious stone. The king becomes the jeweled king.

Tradition dictates that the higher-ranked player receives the King (王), while their opponent plays with the Jeweled King (玉). This is not a handicap—both pieces move in exactly the same way. It is a mark of deference, carved into wood.

The one who holds the jade acknowledges, before the first move is even played, that their opponent surpasses them. The dot is a gesture of humility.

As far as the rules are concerned, this distinction does not exist. A shōgi engine sees only two kings, interchangeable. Capturing one or the other ends the game in the same way. The dot has no bearing on the calculation of legal moves.

And yet, for centuries, craftsmen have continued to carve two different characters. Players still check, before sitting down, which of the two kings is theirs.

There is something fascinating about the persistence of a detail that nothing requires. No rule obliges anyone to distinguish between the two kings. No arbiter will penalize a player who takes the wrong one. Whether played on wood or on screen, the game would work perfectly well with two identical pieces.

But it would be a different game.