I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 112

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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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A Talent Too Profitable 112
I opened my eyes.
Slowly, I extracted my body from the bedding and rose from the bed.
As I drew back the curtain, the foreign cityscape unfolded before me alongside the morning light.
Osaka Castle, veiled in a light mist.
Even on second viewing, it resembled an ink-wash painting.
A beauty altogether different from the night before.
The landscape was serene yet somehow dreamlike, unreal.
I settled onto the sofa and picked up my smartphone.
Unlocking it, I accessed my SNS out of habit.
“……No messages.”
Yu Jeuh-ha.
Yesterday, I’d sent her a DM saying I’d arrived in Japan.
But she’d left it marked as read, with no reply.
I was about to send another DM when I stopped myself.
‘Let me wait a bit longer.’
The words from the handwritten letter she’d left.
Why she’d departed without a word before the Fair Baduk Tournament.
And that sentence where she’d said she wanted to apologize with sincerity.
At least I wanted to believe that feeling wasn’t false. So I decided to wait.
I took a breath to calm myself, then changed clothes.
Simple training attire.
The Red Eagle logo was naturally emblazoned on it.
I left the room, took the elevator down to the first floor.
After confirming the location, I entered the hotel breakfast restaurant. Familiar faces were visible at a table in the back.
“Good morning.”
At my greeting, both of them looked up.
Park Sang-won, Korea Baduk Association staff.
Jeong Si-hu, 9-dan.
But the expressions on both their faces were odd.
“……Have you seen the articles, In-ha?”
“What articles?”
At my response, Park Sang-won, the Korea Baduk Association staff member, pulled out a tablet and turned the screen toward me.
My familiar face.
Unfamiliar Japanese.
Headlines that appeared to be articles caught my eye.
“What is this?”
“Yesterday, your interview……it looks like the Japanese press twisted it and ran with a distorted story.”
“Distorted?”
Park Sang-won scrolled through the tablet screen with his finger.
He read the article headlines clearly, one after another from top to bottom.
—Kim In-ha 9-dan, cold response to Japanese journalist: “Fujisaki? Never heard of him.”
—Rude remarks at Japanese invitational tournament? Kim In-ha: “Japanese Baduk isn’t a priority.”
—”Not worth studying,” Kim In-ha attacks Japanese ace Fujisaki in controversy.
The further I scrolled, the more sensationalized the articles became.
Sentences I’d never spoken.
Statements with context stripped away.
Words that never appeared in the interview.
All of it had been twisted into articles.
“What I said yesterday really spread that far?”
“……Yes, it looks like the tabloid press broke the story, but in Japanese communities it’s already creating outrage. There are massive amounts of article screenshots circulating on SNS.”
Park Sang-won continued carefully.
“The situation is more serious than expected. Some communities are even inciting anti-Korean sentiment.”
I shifted my gaze.
The restaurant interior.
I felt the stares of those serving themselves from the buffet, those eating quietly.
Glancing eyes.
People who hastily averted their gaze when our eyes met.
There was even a table where they appeared to be whispering openly.
Most of them were people who knew me, workers involved in today’s tournament.
One thing is clear.
Those eyes no longer held any warmth toward me.
Reading the atmosphere, worry etched itself across both their faces.
“Should we prepare a clarification interview? We have the footage from yesterday, so if we just say it’s a misunderstanding…….”
I hesitated for a moment, then shook my head.
“No.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s no point trying now. People will only see what they want to see and hear what they want to hear.”
The Chinese press had already shown me that.
What the journalists wanted wasn’t truth.
It was public reaction.
Sensational headlines that stirred emotion, provoked anger, and drove up view counts.
No matter how much truth I spoke, they wouldn’t print it.
Not when there were people who wanted the fire to keep burning.
I’d learned this lesson thoroughly already.
‘……I know how to handle it, too.’
Unlike me, Park Sang-won looked anxious.
“But if we don’t do something…….”
“I’m not saying we won’t do anything. Just not now.”
I smiled.
Because I knew that anger and panic wouldn’t change a thing.
Experience had granted me composure.
The wisdom to step back when it mattered.
All of it shone through in that calm smile.
“Things are playing out in an interesting way.”
Park Sang-won blinked at my words.
“I don’t think this is really a situation to laugh about.”
“Then what, should I cry?”
I shrugged with a slight chuckle.
Then I added something more.
“Besides, I’m used to things like this.”
I rose slowly from my seat.
Both their gazes followed.
Turning toward the buffet, I spoke quietly.
“Actually, I like it. This gives me one more reason to win.”
Of course, that meant first defeating Jeong Si-hu 9-dan in the quarterfinals.
But defeat had never been a scenario in my head to begin with.
I glanced back at them with a brief smile.
“……People can’t ignore what the winner has to say.”
With those words, I turned slowly toward the breakfast buffet.
I picked up a plate and began filling it, one by one, with dishes that were quite substantial for breakfast.
For victory in today’s game.
Eating well was as important as anything else.

* * *
Back in my room, I finished my shower.
I changed into formal clothes and came down to the lobby in good time.
The lobby.
A noticeably larger crowd than yesterday was visible.
Media logos that clearly belonged to outlets dealing in tabloid sensationalism and inflammatory stories.
Most of them were reporters.
“Hey? Isn’t that Kim In-ha over there?”
The moment I was recognized, the reporters rushed toward me as if they’d been waiting.
Flash.
Shutter clicks.
Some reporters threw questions at me in halting Korean.
But I ignored them outright.
‘No need to engage.’
I gave them neither answer nor a glance.
I stiffened my neck and squared my shoulders.
She walked forward confidently. There was no reason to hesitate.
Of course she understood.
The more she insisted, the more the controversy might spiral.
But.
‘Well, stirring up a fuss is rather my specialty anyway.’
To field questions here, explain herself, refute the accusations—it didn’t suit her nature.
She would speak through Baduk. Prove it through Baduk.
That way, her voice would carry real weight.
After passing through security, she headed straight for the convention hall.
Today’s Round of 16 match would take place here.
Inside the hall, she spotted Jeong Si-hu sitting in a chair.
He was resting with his eyes closed, one hand pressed lightly to his temple.
“A headache again?”
She approached and asked. He gave a forced smile and nodded.
“Yes. I’ve taken medication, so it should pass soon.”
……
She said nothing more. Or rather, couldn’t.
Baduk is a sport of the mind.
A contest of calculation, judgment, concentration.
All of it demanded acute sensitivity.
And yet—a headache.
This wasn’t something to dismiss with a casual reassurance.
She watched him quietly.
The brightness in his eyes that said he was fine.
Yet something in his expression that said otherwise.
The gap between the two nagged at her, but she kept it to herself.
Pressing further here might look like overstepping interference.
Just then, a tournament official approached and spoke in Korean.
“The match will begin shortly. We ask that all players take their seats.”
She nodded and spoke lightly to Jeong Si-hu.
“See you in the quarterfinals.”
……Yes.
She turned away from his weak smile.
Her eyes went first to the Baduk board on the broadcast table above the dais.
It was always the stage where she sat, but today she would not play from there.
Zhang Weixian, 9-dan.
Fujisaki Yuya, 9-dan.
And against Jeong Si-hu would be Kurosawa Ren, the young Japanese genius at 8-dan.
She made her way to the unbroadcast match area below.
Between Baduk boards arranged in a row.
She took her seat before the nameplate that read “Kim In-ha.”
Timing clock, black and white stones, a pristine board.
The familiar scene she saw every time, yet somehow it felt foreign today.
Was it because this was Japan?
Even the air felt slightly different.
Scrape.
Moments later, a tall man pulled back the chair across from her and sat down.
Mateuki Kaminski, 2-dan.
A Western professional player from Poland.
A chess FIDE master.
From the game record of the Ciel Bank Tournament finals two years ago, he was a player who favored AI-based, stable Baduk.
Soon the signal for the match’s start was given.
Whoosh.
Drawing stones.
‘Black.’
She’d drawn black for the first time in a long while in an official match.
The initiative to attack, the chance to lead the game.
They exchanged light bows to each other.
Click.
First move: star point in the lower right.
Mateuki Kaminski, a 2-dan, responded in kind.
Tap.
Top-left star point.
An opening that bore the unmistakable imprint of AI style.
Baduk centered on territory and profit.
Yet the structure created no weaknesses.
Looking at the flow alone, the development was flawless.
But.
‘……Could he play like that even in the middlegame?’
I lifted the black stone in my hand slowly.
A move outside the standard sequence.
Deliberately complicating the sequence of play.
It might diverge from AI’s optimal moves.
But this kind of destabilization was precisely what I needed to disrupt my opponent’s rhythm and flow.
The surest way to shatter standardized baduk.
Mateuki Kaminski’s eyes narrowed for the first time.
He leaned forward, drawing the board closer for a better look.
Tap.
After a long pause, he played a space toward the center.
An attempt to escape the destabilization.
He sought stability by prioritizing position evaluation and calculation.
But I would not allow it.
My destabilization was like a quagmire.
The more one struggled to escape, the deeper one sank.
The board began tilting, slowly, very slowly, toward my favor.
‘He plays well, certainly. But……not quite at the level I’d hoped for.’
His effort to internalize AI-style baduk was evident.
His practical sense was respectable.
Yet there was a gap between him and the top-tier professionals I’d faced recently.
‘Still, I have to credit his tenacity and grit.’
The position was already tilted by the middlegame, but he refused to concede.
He fought for any thread of reversal, agonized over each move for a better choice.
Like the endgame of chess.
Even with the outcome darkening, his stubborn push toward a draw stood out.
That was when it happened.
Scrape.
The sound of a chair sliding on the commentary platform above.
I lifted my head reflexively.
Jeong Si-hu, 9-dan.
He rose quietly from his seat and descended from the platform.
‘Is his match already over?’
Our eyes met briefly.
But he averted his gaze, turning away sharply.
His departing figure moved with quick steps.
Something felt off.
In contrast, Kurosawa Ren, 8-dan, had color rising in his face.
A flush of excitement.
His eyes gleamed.
‘Surely not?’
I turned my head reflexively toward the large bracket display.
A tournament official was placing the winner’s name in the quarterfinal slot.
It was in Japanese, so I couldn’t read all of it, but the final character was unmistakable.
8-dan.
8-dan.
‘……Kurosawa Ren?’
My breath caught.
A single conclusion crashed down on my mind.
‘Jeong Si-hu…… lost?’
This was a result I hadn’t accounted for.

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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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