I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 10

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Too Much Talent to Be Profitable, Episode 10
[Thank you for participating in the 17th National Amateur Sudambae. With your division confirmed, we notify you as follows.]
I reviewed the text message from the Sudambae organizers carefully.
The division, tournament format, venue, date and time—everything looked fine.
The only problem was that the tournament venue was farther away than I’d expected.
Assuming I took the subway, it was an hour and forty minutes from home.
‘…Don’t complain. Where else would I find a tournament I could actually enter?’
Though I didn’t learn this until later, Sudambae was actually a fairly prestigious amateur Go tournament.
The divisions alone were subdivided extensively by gender, age, region, and rank.
It awarded rank certificates and offered substantial prize money.
If I hadn’t applied immediately after hearing the tip from Ahn Sung-hyeon, a 7-dan player,
early registration closure would have left my tournament participation in doubt.
Whoosh.
At the sound of the automatic door opening, I quickly tucked my smartphone into my pants pocket.
I put on a welcoming smile and moved to greet the customer.
“Welcome to Ciel Bank. How can I help you—oh? Kwak?”
“How’ve you been?”
Early forties, neat appearance, the slight paunch that passes for an average office worker.
Kwak Yong-gu—the team leader of the security dispatch company I worked for.
Banks sometimes hire security directly, but most of us, like me, are sent from a contracting agency. He’s responsible for managing those personnel.
“What brings you by without warning?”
“What do you mean? Your branch manager called me in.”
Kwak drew closer and spoke to me in a low voice.
“You haven’t gotten into any trouble or anything like that, right?”
“…No, I haven’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
What trouble could I possibly cause?
My days were just an endless repetition of the same routine.
“Well then, what’s this about signing up for something? Anyway, let me go take care of this.”
Kwak headed toward the branch manager’s office with quick, purposeful strides.
I watched his departing back for a moment, then quietly returned to my post.
Not long after that,
Kwak emerged from the meeting with a darkened expression and approached me.
“In-ha, got a minute? We should talk.”
We moved to the smoking area outside the bank building.
Kwak put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
“Phew. Your branch manager’s got quite a few complaints about you.”
“About me?”
“Yeah. Says you lack company loyalty.”
“Company loyalty?”
I let out an incredulous laugh.
What era is this? What could they possibly expect from a contract employee?
Kwak exhaled cigarette smoke.
“The branch manager wants you to show more enthusiasm. Attend the company dinners. And apparently he’d like you to actively encourage waiting customers to install the app.”
“The app?”
Each branch promotes the mobile banking app to customers, and the installation numbers count toward the branch’s performance metrics.
The problem is,
‘Is that even a security guard’s job?’
Other employees at least get performance bonuses for their efforts,
but I’m on contract—my salary doesn’t change no matter what I contribute.
I wonder how much they actually expect from me.
“I know it’s hard on you. But what can we do? You’ve got to do it.”
“Sir, you know this too—our branch is next to the marketplace, so our main customers are older. They’re just not receptive to it.”
“I know. I know that. But there’s no way around it.”
The conversation went in circles.
Neither of us had any real power, and no other options were offered.
“In any case, at least make it look like you’re trying. Oh, and I hear there’s a company dinner tonight. Attend it unless you’re planning to quit. Come on.”
Kwak wrapped up the meeting during just one cigarette and left abruptly.
I returned to the branch with heavy steps and took a quiet breath.
‘Should I quit?’
It was a thought that had been nagging at me for some time now.
With Go skills at this level, why shouldn’t I be able to do anything I wanted?
Even as a private Go instructor, I’d be better off than I am now.
-Ding!
That’s when a familiar notification chimed.
[!!]
An ominous exclamation mark window.
I reached out and opened the system window.
[You have not yet met the conditions to maintain your talent.]
‘What?’
Why now? Why this warning?
Could the maintenance condition be linked to my primary job somehow?
Just as that thought chased its own tail, something clicked.
A switch flipped somewhere deep in my mind.
‘Wait. Think about this differently.’
If I satisfy the maintenance condition the system demands, this talent becomes mine—truly mine.
Permanent. Literally a ‘possession.’
The fact that there’s a standard means there’s a clear line to follow.
Maybe it’s actually a game tilted in my favor.
Because I already had an inkling of what the system’s talent maintenance condition was.
“If I can keep the talent, what reason do I have to stop working?”
Strange—even though the situation made no sense, my mind felt suddenly clear.
A concrete condition.
Clear rules.
Exactly what I’d been looking for.

* * *
Cheonwon Comprehensive Sports Complex.
It took nearly two hours by subway to get here.
‘Thank goodness the dinner ended early.’
Yesterday, the whole branch had gathered for a company dinner.
Normally I would’ve found some excuse to skip it, but with Kwak’s offer and the welcome party for Yu-na, I had no choice but to attend.
The familiar distance.
Conversations I couldn’t join.
That floating-outside feeling never left.
I was just there to fill a seat.
The one saving grace was that the Branch Manager had left early, citing today’s schedule.
Which meant the dinner broke up earlier too.
-This is Cheonwon Comprehensive Sports Complex. The exit is on the right.
I walked about ten minutes after getting off the train.
Banners hung all along the approach, and street vendors lined the roads in rows.
The Provincial Go Federation was hosting the national amateur Go tournament, Sudambae.
This city, famous for its rice, buzzed with the energy of a festival about to begin.
“Wow, this is impressive.”
The gymnasium where the tournament would be held was already packed with participants.
Children, students, and middle-aged and elderly people.
They gathered—different ages, genders, atmospheres all mixed together.
‘Twenty different divisions, if I remember right.’
Carefully segmented categories so players of all skill levels could compete fairly.
Now I understood why Sudambae was counted among the largest amateur Go tournaments in the nation.
“I’m Kim In-ha. My registration number is…….”
After receiving my participant badge from the staff member, I looked around for my division section.
Children’s division, seniors division, women’s division, team events.
Just as many subdivisions, the Go boards in each section were arranged in neat, orderly rows.
It took me some time to find my board because of that.
“There it is.”
[Gyeonggi Province Strongest Division]
The Sudambae division I was entering today.
Eligibility: “Residents of Gyeonggi Province with Go rank between amateur 4-dan and 6-dan according to Baduk Samgukji standards.”
My current rank is amateur 5-dan. It perfectly met the qualification criteria for the Gyeonggi Province Strongest Division.
But—
‘……I wish it were more.’
By official standards, this is where I belong.
Yet my gaze kept drifting across the way.
[National Strongest Division]
The eligibility requirement was possession of an official rank certificate of amateur 5-dan or higher.
The amateur elite who could match professional 1-dan or low-dan players on handicap or giving two stones.
Truly, only the finest amateurs gathered in that division.
‘I want to go there.’
Honestly, I was confident I wouldn’t lose to anyone.
I wanted to compete on the same footing as them.
For that, I needed a rank certificate.
An official certificate of amateur 5-dan or higher that met the National Strongest Division’s standard.
—The opening ceremony will commence shortly. Participants are requested to take their seats…….
A brief address followed from the provincial governor, the county magistrate, and Kang Hoon, a 9-dan professional Go player from the region.
The closing remarks covered the tournament awards ceremony schedule and special events.
Once the explanation ended, an announcement rang out signaling the start of the main games.
I lifted my head and fixed my gaze on the man seated across the board.
A middle-aged man who appeared to be in his mid-forties.
My opponent in the Round of 64.
“Thank you for the game.”
I, holding black, made the first move.
Upper-left small corner.
Unlike me, my opponent secured both star points, building thickness.
It was an explicit declaration of fighting Go.
‘Exactly what I wanted.’
Before the probe phase could even finish, black and white collided.
An intense battle unfolded with neither side yielding.
‘……He plays well enough, but that’s all.’
Though it was unfair to my opponent, there were no sharp moves or moments that demanded my full focus.
It was typical 4-dan to 5-dan strength—the kind I’d faced frequently at Baduk Samgukji.
In the end, my opponent, unable to hold on, threw down his stones.
“I concede.”
First victory.
Not a bad start.
Warmed up, I overwhelmed my opponent in the Round of 32.
In every position, I moved half a beat faster than my opponent.
The initiative on the board was mine from beginning to end.
‘Too easy.’
Unfair as it was to say, I never doubted for an instant that I’d lose.
As tournament experience accumulated and online Go games increased, my practical sense sharpened.
‘The game against Jang Yu-na was the turning point.’
That match had been the catalyst for understanding my strength objectively.
Most importantly, I’d gained the flexibility to adjust pace and tempo based on my opponent’s rank and style.
“With komi, that’s thirty-eight and a half points.”
“……Fifty-seven points. Thank you for a good match.”
“Well played.”
We reached the counting, but the gap was large.
Even knowing the outcome plainly, my opponent—out of persistence, perhaps—hadn’t resigned until then.
Next came the Round of 16.
Definitely stronger than the two opponents before.
He knew his Go’s strengths and weaknesses precisely and played accordingly.
‘But that became his undoing.’
Relative to his skill, my opponent crumbled faster.
When his Go stopped working, desperation drove him to reckless moves that sealed his defeat.
“I’ve lost.”
My Round of 16 opponent, shaking his leg nervously and clutching his head in anxiety, threw down his stones.
‘That’s the end of the morning rounds.’
The quarterfinals would proceed in the afternoon, after lunch.
The tournament required participants to rest, especially since the rounds from the Round of 64 through the finals were all held in a single day.
“You can pick up your lunch box over there.”
After confirming my name on the tournament bracket in the Round of 8, I collected the lunch box.
The weather was warm, and the idea of stepping outside to eat in the sunshine felt perfect.
Just as I was about to leave the gymnasium.
“……!”
In the distance, a familiar silhouette was walking toward me.
‘Wait… surely not?’
My unease took on a clearer shape with each passing second.
As the figure drew closer, the face became unmistakable.
Swish.
I reflexively turned my head away.
‘What is the Branch Manager doing here…?’
Could the reason he’d cut the company dinner short, citing a prior engagement, have been because of this tournament?
With each narrowing of the distance, my shoulders hunched tighter.
I angled my body slightly, evading his gaze.
One chance meeting of the eyes and I’d be exhausted.
Starting with questions about why I was here.
When I’d learned to play Go.
Why I’d hidden it from him all this time.
Even though I’d done nothing wrong, the interrogation would be inevitable.
‘Better to pretend I haven’t seen him. That’s the right call.’
Work and home.
The office and private life.
I hated nothing more than watching that boundary blur.
I turned away and waited quietly for the Branch Manager to pass.
Today’s tournament.
Playing well mattered—but staying undetected had become just as crucial.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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