I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 113

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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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Talents That Are Worth Money — Episode 113
“Thank you for the game.”
Mateuuki Kaminsugi, a 2-dan player, quietly returned his stones.
The match had begun to slip away from him around the midgame.
His persistence—refusing to yield even as the board turned against him—had been impressive, but he couldn’t hold on any longer.
“Thank you for the game.”
I bowed my head in acknowledgment.
He gave a light nod in return, then pointed with his finger toward the lower edge of the board.
Post-game review.
The crucial battle along the lower edge—the moment the match’s outcome had been decided.
From that point forward, the gap had widened, and Mateuuki Kaminsugi’s game had begun to crumble.
I reached out and carefully traced my thoughts on that move.
I methodically laid out alternative sequences—how a defensive play might have unfolded, whether other possibilities existed.
“Oh!”
He let out a small exclamation.
Immediately after, his face grew serious as he immersed himself in analyzing the variations.
Though our languages differed.
Though words wouldn’t bridge the gap.
Baduk alone was enough to let us understand each other.
At least for that moment, it was.
But I couldn’t focus on the review any longer.
‘I need to know.’
My entire attention had shifted to Jeong Si-hu’s result.
Whether what I’d seen was real, or if I’d misread the board, or if it was all just a mistake.
I hurriedly finished the review and stood quietly from my seat.
I walked straight toward the wall where the tournament bracket was posted.
The names were there.
The Quarterfinals.
Kurosawa Ren, 8-dan.
‘That… that’s really happened?’
Jeong Si-hu had lost.
A result that was hard to accept so readily.
Of course, baduk is a game inherently full of variables.
And Kurosawa Ren, an 8-dan, is himself one of the world’s elite players.
Even the world’s number one can fall at any time in this world.
Haven’t I myself defeated top-ranked players multiple times and taken championships?
‘Still… I can’t quite accept it.’
I couldn’t bring myself to believe it outright.
Doubt lingered in my mind, refusing to be erased.
And then, someone quietly approached me.
“Kim In-ha.”
Park Sang-won, a Korea Baduk Association staff member.
“Good thing you’re here. Actually, I was hoping to ask—could you help me get Si-hu’s game record?”
“A game record? Just a moment.”
He went over to the officials’ area and said something to them.
A moment later, he returned with a handwritten copy of the game record.
“Here it is.”
“Thank you. Did Si-hu go up already?”
“Yes, he went up first.”
I nodded silently in response.
“I should go up as well.”
“Let’s go together.”
He followed along beside me.
His expression seemed dejected somehow.
It was only natural.
Korea’s representative—and the world’s number-one ranked player, Jeong Si-hu at 9-dan—had been eliminated.
“Is Si-hu planning to return home tomorrow?”
“Yes, that’s what I understand.”
I nodded and exited the convention hall.
The photo wall beside the entrance caught my eye.
In the center of it all, a man surrounded by journalists, giving an interview.
The architect of this upset.
Japan’s Kurosawa Ren, 8-dan.
“I was fortunate. But thanks to that, I’ve gained confidence.”
Beyond the cluster of reporters came Kurosawa Ren’s voice.
Park Sang-won translated quietly for me.
“He says he won through good fortune… but that he’s gained confidence because of it.”
I listened without comment.
There was no need to know, but I was curious what he’d say.
Park Sang-won continued translating.
“He mentions losing repeatedly in Korean tournaments as a child—says he felt deeply frustrated and wronged. He called this match a chance to shake off that resentment.”
For a young player, he was surprisingly candid, especially for a Japanese professional.
And brimming with confidence.
“He wanted to break through the difficult circumstances of Japanese players at this world championship held in Japan, and he’s glad to have proven it with results.”
I let out a silent laugh.
His words were humble on the surface, but between the lines ran something else—his feelings toward Korea.
Something that had been suppressed burst forth, raw and fierce.
‘That’s rich. And he hasn’t even won the tournament.’
It felt excessive.
Just as that thought refused to leave my mind.
“Your opponent in the Quarterfinals will be Korea’s Kim In-ha, 9-dan. He’s been at the center of controversy for various reasons lately—would you care to comment on your preparations?”
At the question, Kurosawa Ren paused, choosing his words carefully.
That moment.
He looked past the journalists, straight at me.
Our eyes met, just like that.
“……!”
It was only for an instant, but I was certain of it.
He was absolutely conscious of me.
With the Japanese reporters watching, he slowly opened his mouth.
“……Setting aside the controversy, I believe I must not lose. This is Japan, after all. I’ll do my best.”
The moment he finished, the sound of camera shutters erupted.
Polite, yet overflowing with confidence.
A slightly charged atmosphere.
Throughout it all, he kept his gaze on me, not the journalists.
‘Interesting.’
That look in his eyes. That tone.
I caught the meaning beneath it all.
A clear provocation.
“Let’s go.”
There was no reason to stay any longer.
No point in trading barbs here.
Wasting emotion felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.
What mattered now was this single Game Record in my hands.
A reporter’s voice called out: “There—that’s Kim In-ha, 9-dan!”
The journalists had spotted me too late, but I ignored them.
I made my way quietly to the lobby elevator.
The moment I was back in my room, I shed the formal wear and unbuttoned my shirt.
Then I unfolded the Game Record on the desk.
Beside the Go Board provided by the hotel lay containers of Black and White Go Stones.
On my laptop screen, I had the DeepStone reference page open.
Click.
I began my Post-Game Review.
The early moves were unremarkable.
Jeong Si-hu’s characteristic AI-based Opening Strategy.
A slow but methodical assertion of control.
Kurosawa Ren hadn’t neglected his AI research either—he stayed competitive throughout.
But.
As the game entered the middle phase, the momentum gradually shifted toward Jeong Si-hu, like water seeping through cloth.
“Here. This move.”
The problem lay in the midgame.
Kurosawa Ren’s 8-dan’s surprise attack at a key point.
A move that struck at weakness.
“One of the Blue Spots.”
Instantaneous insight and intuition.
You could see that Kurosawa Ren’s strength was no mere upset.
“……But it wasn’t beyond recovery.”
If this was the Jeong Si-hu I knew, he wouldn’t throw away this advantage.
And yet.
What came next was strange.
Slower than usual.
He couldn’t break the flow, and his pivot was clumsy.
In Baduk, there’s something called Momentum.
Since the AI era, it isn’t discussed as often as before, but in actual play it still exerts decisive influence.
That momentum was completely broken.
The initiative had passed over entirely.
“So…… the headache was the problem after all.”
Before the match, the way he’d been clutching his head inside the hall.
He’d said it was nothing, but he looked far from fine.
Aftereffects of a traffic accident.
And it had to be a headache, of all things.
It was far too lethal for a professional Baduk player.
I quietly closed the Game Record.
A long, deflated breath escaped me.
“……It’s regrettable, but we’ll have to postpone the match.”
In a way, it was a relief.
I didn’t want to play against Jeong Si-hu in this condition.
Even winning wouldn’t feel right.
Not until he was fully recovered…….
Until then.
This match is postponed.

* * *
Morning broke.
I stretched and rolled my neck.
Not a bad condition.
My head was clear.
Standing at the window and drawing back the curtains, Osaka Castle spread out like a painting.
“Today’s the last day.”
Win or lose, this was my final morning at the hotel.
If I lost, I’d go straight home.
If I won, the Semifinals and Finals would be held in Kyoto, Japan’s ancient capital.
I put on my running shoes and did a slow lap around the hotel.
A warm-up.
I had a light breakfast and, after showering, changed into formal clothes.
“All right. Let’s go.”
I was straightening my clothes in the mirror and just about to leave the room.
—Ding-dong!
The doorbell rang.
When I opened the door, a familiar face stood in the hallway.
It was Jeong Si-hu.
“I came to say goodbye.”
He was pulling a carry-on and smiling quietly.
Caught off guard, I asked him.
“Weren’t you flying back tomorrow?”
Players eliminated in the Round of 16 and Quarterfinals were supposed to return the next day, and the organizers’ airline tickets were arranged accordingly.
But he shook his head slightly and said.
“I moved up my schedule. I want to rest…… and I’m planning to visit a hospital.”
‘Ah.’
Our eyes met for a moment.
He was smiling, but the exhaustion showed through everywhere.
There was no need to ask what he meant anymore. I already understood.
“…Let’s head down together.”
“Yes.”
We walked side by side down the corridor, waiting for the elevator.
We didn’t exchange many words.
No comfort, no excuses.
That’s just how the world of Baduk is.
When we reached the lobby, we said our quiet goodbyes.
“Travel safely. I’ll see you in Korea.”
“You too. Come back as champion.”
I nodded and turned away.
Journalists were already stationed in the lobby.
Ignoring the cameras, flashes, and shutter clicks that followed me, I headed toward the convention hall.
The moment I reached the entrance, Park Sang-won approached as if he’d been waiting.
“I’ve already informed the moderator that we won’t be taking questions from the press—just a brief statement of resolve.”
“Thank you.”
I gave a light nod and walked toward the photo wall.
The moment I stepped under the spotlights, a female moderator’s voice rang out.
“9-dan Kim In-ha will face Japan’s 8-dan Kurosawa Ren in today’s Quarterfinals. We’d like to hear a brief statement of your resolve.”
Dozens of camera lenses turned toward me simultaneously.
Eyes gleaming like jackals circling prey.
I drew a slow breath, then opened my mouth clearly.
“Baduk is…a sport where home advantage matters very little.”
I left a brief pause in my words.
Quiet silence.
The air waiting for what came next.
My voice steady, I continued.
“I’ll play as I always do. With uncompromising Baduk. I’ll maintain my unbeaten record—even here in Japan.”
When I finished, my expression unchanged, I slowly lowered the microphone.
Park Sang-won looked at me with visible alarm.
“Really…is it okay to say something like that?”
Instead of answering, I nodded firmly, my eyes resolute.
Japanese public opinion wasn’t favorable to begin with.
My words could easily be seen as provocation.
‘I don’t care.’
It’s like pouring oil on a burning house.
But I don’t care.
The controversy is already ablaze.
Since it’s come to this, I might as well feed the flames outright.
‘…Besides, it suits my nature anyway.’
Make the stakes larger.
When you press, press decisively.
And besides, it was 8-dan Kurosawa Ren who started the quarrel first.
And the Japanese tabloid press, who twisted my words so cleverly and used me like a tool to promote him—them too.
I was simply…responding.
“God, this is insane.”
Park Sang-won, who’d been hesitating, began the interpretation as if to say, whatever happens, happens.
“いつも通りに打ちます。負けない碁で……日本でも……無敗の記録を続けます。”
“…!”
In an instant, the journalists’ expressions revealed their emotions in real time.
Some with hardened faces, some bewildered, some desperately concealing their anger.
Camera shutters erupting without pause.
Questions pouring in rapid-fire Japanese.
I surveyed the scene slowly and smiled, very slightly.
‘This should be enough.’
Now only one thing remained.
To speak through results.
I turned away from the torrent of questions and chaos.
‘Now then, let’s go win.’
Like someone who’d already decided everything from the start.
I stepped quietly into the convention hall.

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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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