I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 115

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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 Worth Money — Chapter 115
Upon the Go Board.
Black and white stones tangled in disarray.
Clinging to each other, their shapes had become hopelessly twisted together.
But looking closely, the fates of black and white were already decided.
Black’s large group extending toward the center.
Misguidedly’s floating group, unable to find an escape route, was slowly withering away.
‘……In a game like this, the more disadvantaged you are, the more helpless you become.’
When facing an adverse position—the breakthrough technique, the risky move.
He was particularly weak at creating such variables.
In other words, he was vulnerable to the decisive plays that could overturn the board.
‘Even being generous, he doesn’t have the skill to beat Jeong Si-hu.’
It had been respectable baduk.
The opening strategy was systematic, and he’d shown accurate move reading several times over.
There was even a moment where he countered my destabilization with an intuitive response.
But that was the extent of it.
The depth to control the game.
The move reading to anchor the center.
The force to read the board position and push forward relentlessly.
All of it fell short.
‘……Even if you play a hundred moves perfectly, baduk is a game where victory is decided by a single stone.’
There are no what-ifs in competition, they say.
I was certain that if Jeong Si-hu 9-dan had played at full strength, this opponent would never have won.
Click.
Kurosawa Ren 8-dan placed his stone after a long deliberation.
A belated move.
A meaningless struggle.
I cut off black’s lifeline without hesitation.
As if suffocating the opponent, I sealed every escape route.
Mercilessly, I strangled the throat of black’s large group.
“……I resign.”
Kurosawa Ren 8-dan declared his resignation.
There was no vitality in his face.
Half-dazed, vacant.
He sat motionless, his gaze never leaving the board.
The fire drained from his eyes.
The look of someone hollowed out by shock.
I bowed quietly.
‘He won’t crawl back again.’
With overwhelming dominance.
So thoroughly that he’d never again dare to challenge me.
Because I had crushed him utterly.
Even if he were to grit his teeth and challenge me again, the terror he felt in this match would—
The trembling in those hands would—
The memory of that entire board would—
Resurface every time we faced each other, making his moves hesitate.
I watched quietly as Kurosawa Ren descended from the stage with a dazed expression, then slowly rose from my seat.
Below the stage.
A large tournament bracket at one side of the Convention Hall came into view.
An organizer was affixing my nameplate to the Semifinals slot.
“Master Kim!”
I turned at the sound of my name.
Park Sang-won, an employee of the Korea Baduk Association, approached with his characteristic charm.
“Wow. That was incredible. You absolutely demolished him—no mercy, no hesitation!”
“……Well, that’s just how it played out.”
I smiled quietly.
Park Sang-won, studying my expression, hesitated before asking.
“You’re not planning to do another interview, are you?”
“Why? Are you worried?”
“That’s…… Yes. Quite a bit, actually.”
At her honest answer, I let out a short laugh.
“I will. Briefly.”
“That makes me even more nervous.”
Leaving Park Sang-won with his worried expression behind, I headed out of the hall.
And in that moment.
The instant I appeared, the heads of every Japanese journalist snapped toward me in unison.
At first glance, their expressions were all decay and hostility.
Several of them carried overt antagonism and ill will in their eyes.
‘……Just like a villain.’
I swallowed a faint smile.
A villain.
It might not be such a bad image after all.
Once Park Sang-won signaled the moderator, I made my way to the photo wall.
Just like this morning, only one question.
And I’d agreed to take it only from the moderator, not the journalists.
Standing there, an uncomfortably vast array of lenses turned toward me.
Flashes erupted without pause.
From within that barrage, the Japanese moderator began reciting her prepared remarks.
“Congratulations, Kim In-ha. Today you’ve advanced to the semifinals by defeating Kurosawa Ren, 8-dan, by resignation. Please share your feelings and briefly express your resolve as you head into the semifinals.”
I took the offered microphone.
No interpreter was needed.
A scripted question, a predetermined answer.
I looked directly toward the journalists.
Brazenly.
As if I’d planned it.
All the Japanese journalists’ gazes fixed on me at once, wondering exactly what I was about to say.
Meeting those stares head-on, I spoke in an even tone.
“I apologize for winning against a Japanese player in a tournament held in Japan.”
I lowered my head lightly.
But my expression had nothing whatsoever to do with an apology.
“…….”
For a moment, silence blanketed the photo wall.
A space holding its breath.
Confusion rolling in.
But it was only for a moment.
As my words reached them through the interpreter, the journalists’ faces contorted all at once.
“……Eh?”
“What did you just say?”
Whispers spread like an explosion.
A sharp blade hidden beneath formal language.
It was the moment everyone caught on.
I didn’t stop.
“I will do my best to take responsibility for my actions.”
The moment I lowered the microphone, the Japanese journalists’ restrained reaction erupted.
An atmosphere on the verge of explosion.
Questions poured forth like a flood.
“Kim In-ha, 9-dan—what do you mean by ‘I apologize’?”
“What responsibility are you talking about?”
“Is that a declaration of championship? We’re reading it as disrespect toward Japan?”
I don’t speak Japanese.
But even without an interpreter, I could grasp what they were saying.
Their eyes, their intonation, their gestures.
They were all demanding answers from me.
The moderator hastily raised her hand.
“Everyone, please calm down!”
In that instant, an uproar flared up like fire.
I turned and left the photo wall without looking back.
That moment.
Beyond the corner, a familiar silhouette flickered across my vision.
Long, straight black hair.
A familiar silhouette.
I recognized her at once.
Park Sang-won followed me as I walked past the photo wall, along the barrier rope.
“Sigh… Because of Kuksoo, I feel like I won’t live to see my natural lifespan.”
“Sang-won, I’m sorry, but would you mind heading up first? I need to take care of something quickly.”
“What? Where are you going? We’re supposed to leave for Kyoto in a bit…”
The semifinals and finals would be held in Japan’s ancient capital.
The tournament was scheduled for Kyoto—a city that symbolized tradition, formality, and Japanese essence.
I smiled lightly and replied.
“It won’t take long.”
I turned my gaze toward the distant lobby.
“…It seems like she came to see me, but she keeps avoiding me—like she doesn’t have the courage.”
Park Sang-won tilted his head in confusion, but I said nothing more and turned in the opposite direction.
Fortunately, the reporters didn’t follow.
The camera shutters fell silent.
I walked quietly in the direction she had disappeared.
Past the hotel lobby, toward the traditional garden.
Soft music drifted through the air.
Garden trees swaying gently.
For winter, the breeze was mild—it brushed the tip of my nose.
And then.
In the distance, the back of someone walking.
Long, straight hair.
A slender waist.
That figure in a winter coat was so achingly familiar.
I quickened my pace.
I spoke quietly toward her small frame.
“Just going to leave?”
She froze.
Close enough to almost touch.
One more whisper across the winter air.
“If you go like this, I think I’d really be disappointed.”
Only then did she stop moving.
But she didn’t turn around.
Standing there as if time itself had stopped.
I stepped closer.
I whispered softly from behind her.
“Yu Jeuh-ha.”
A brief silence.
Beneath the cap, her shoulders trembled slightly.
And very carefully, her lips responded.
“…I’m, I’m sorry.”
Her voice was small.
Careful, hushed in tone.
I asked softly but firmly.
“Sorry for what?”
“Everything. Just… everything. Not being able to tell you, disappearing suddenly… ruining the exhibition match. I know how irresponsible it was to end it all with just one letter…”
I approached quietly and took hold of her wrist.
“If you’re sorry, look at me and say it.”
She hesitated, unable to lift her head.
But she didn’t pull her hand away.
Only a trembling breath came through her long hair.
“I’m so sorry… but then I saw your game and got worried… and I missed you so much.”
I laughed quietly.
As if nothing had happened, I gently tugged her hand upward to make her lift her head.
Swollen eyes.
A face that looked exhausted.
I spoke matter-of-factly.
“Have you been well? I was quite worried about you.”
Yu Jeuh-ha seemed startled and bowed her head.
She couldn’t quite meet my eyes, her restless fingers busy with anxious movements.
I placed my hand on top of her head.
And with practiced gentleness, I pressed her hat down snugly.
“I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I apologize. Forgive me.”
“Stop. I’ve already accepted your apology in your letter, and I’ve accepted it now as well.”
Yu Jeuh-ha nodded, her lips pressed firmly together.
Slowly, her shoulders began to tremble.
There was no sound, but that small quiver spoke for every emotion.
I quietly stroked her hair.
I too am far from being a true adult.
I’m swept away by emotion often, and every moment shakes me.
But.
‘She must have suffered so much.’
The collapse of the father who had sustained her as a professional go player.
In the midst of a suddenly crumbling life, fleeing Korea.
And somewhere in all that, my relationship with her had shattered.
All of those circumstances must have weighed heavily on her.
Knowing that, I didn’t want to resent Yu Jeuh-ha.
At least for now—I thought I needed to be the adult here.
Someone who could hold another’s hand and offer understanding.
And so I stood quietly beside her.

* * *
Outside the darkened hotel.
The night breeze had grown considerably sharper than the afternoon wind.
A large bus was already parked there.
In front of the bus stood a hotel employee and what appeared to be the bus driver, side by side.
“You can leave your luggage here and board.”
I nodded and boarded the bus with Park Sang-won.
I brushed past the empty seats and made my way to the very back row.
At the window.
I set my bag on my lap and settled back into the seat.
Thump. Thump.
Familiar faces boarded the bus one by one.
Zhang Weizheng, 9-dan from China.
Fujisaki Yuya, 9-dan from Japan.
And Su Yaoxun, 9-dan from Taiwan.
The players who had advanced to the semifinals of the Nichirenhai this time.
I fixed my gaze on one of them.
Su Yaoxun, 9-dan from Taiwan.
The biggest upset of this tournament.
A quiet, expressionless player with sharp, penetrating eyes.
Then Park Sang-won, sitting in the seat ahead, turned around.
“You said you were meeting someone earlier—did it go well?”
“Yes. We had a good conversation and parted on good terms.”
I answered briefly and turned my gaze toward the window.
The bus departed.
Beyond the window, the lights of Osaka’s streets flickered past.
Reflected in that mirror-like glass, Yu Jeuh-ha’s face appeared—hatless, smiling brightly.
“If you win the championship, could you spare some time? I’ll be living in Kyoto, you see. I’d like to invite you to our home.”
An unexpected proposal.
Yet in her eyes lingered both hesitation and courage at once.
Eyes like a deer’s.
Fingers trembling with caution.
I couldn’t refuse.
‘Well, a day or so should be fine.’
If I could clinch the championship in games one and two of the finals, my schedule would have room to spare.
Bzzzzt.
Just then, my smartphone vibrated.
I took it from my pocket—it was Jung Soo-yeon.
I quietly pressed the call button.
“Yes, Director.”
—In-ha, things are absolute chaos here right now.
“What?”
The abrupt words caught me off guard.
I puzzled for a moment over what had happened, then it hit me.
‘Oh. The Masked Singer.’
Today was the broadcast day for episode two.
The stage where I’d performed “For Me” and become the first Song King was airing tonight.
—The song you sang, “For Me.” It just entered the real-time music chart.
Director Jung Soo-yeon’s voice was brimming with excitement.
—It’s at number forty-seven right now. Wait, forty-five. It’s climbing in real time. Everyone’s going crazy saying “Checkmate”—is that really Kim In-ha?!
For a moment, I was at a loss for words.
The landscape outside the window drifted silently past, but I barely registered it.
My mind had gone numb.
The response was far hotter than I’d anticipated.
‘……That much?’

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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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