I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 116

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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 That Pays — Episode 116
Kyoto.
A luxury ryokan boasting four hundred years of history.
The room was suffused with the subtle fragrance of refined wood.
The only decoration: a hanging scroll on one wall.
A space where black ink strokes seemed to swallow even breath itself.
Tick. Tick.
A wooden timing clock quietly parsed the seconds.
Before it sat two professional players, facing one another.
Black: Kim In-ha, 9-dan.
White: Su Yao-xun, 9-dan.
Click.
Su Yao-xun placed his stone, holding white.
Su Yao-xun, 9-dan, was the pride of Taiwanese Baduk.
Ranked first in Taiwan’s Baduk standings.
Holder of Taiwan’s Kuksoo title.
For years, counted among the most reliable Taiwanese players on the international stage.
He sat quietly, hands resting on his knees.
Calm on the surface, yet plainly unsettled—his gaze wavering.
Staring at the center of the board, Su Yao-xun felt it clearly.
‘……He plays beautifully.’
Kim In-ha’s Baduk was nearly flawless.
It showed from the opening itself.
Simple yet profound.
He borrowed the kind of moves humans called efficient—the algorithm’s choice—yet wove through them something distinctly human.
Not the machine’s calculated best move, but the human’s intuitive optimal play.
‘I can understand it……but I cannot replicate it.’
There was no reason to lose.
Today, he was certain he had played the finest Baduk of which he was capable.
With sensitivity of this caliber, he felt he could hold his own against Jeong Si-hu or Zhang Wei-tian.
But then.
A single gap in the center. A wedge.
Just one move.
From there, the flow fractured.
He had tried to respond with care, but the board state crumbled with irreversible violence.
When he fought to save groups, they were captured. When he fled, they pursued.
Every response he made was already contained within his opponent’s design.
‘Every stone I place is being read.’
He could not breathe.
Walls closing in from all sides.
The sensation of swimming in a net.
He was accustomed to losing on the international stage, but to lose after pouring forth every ounce of his skill—that delivered a despair unlike any other.
He looked up.
“…….”
The Korean player sitting across from him: Kim In-ha, 9-dan.
Only in his second year as a professional.
Three years younger in age.
Yet the eyes regarding the board were unwavering—possessed a mastery that surpassed any opponent he had faced before.
At last, Su Yao-xun quietly set down a captured stone onto the lid.
“……I concede.”
Silence.
Kim In-ha bowed his head lightly.
His expression held no emotion whatsoever.
‘……To play so well and still lose.’
Strangely, his mouth felt bitter.
The fact that he had lost despite playing his finest—it clung to his throat like a lingering regret.
Then.
Kim In-ha’s index finger quietly indicated a single point on the board.
“If you had played atari there and extended upward, I would have been in danger. Since your stones would have been severed, I would necessarily have been forced into that exchange.”
An unfamiliar voice.
Fluent Mandarin Chinese.
Su Yao-xun’s initial surprise faded as he studied the point Kim In-ha had indicated.
‘The move I abandoned out of fear.’
Playing it would have meant inevitable loss.
A chaotic flow where one cannot predict even an inch ahead.
There was no reason to take such a risk from a winning position.
So he had not played it.
Gambling on a battle without odds—that was not his style.
Yet now, Kim In-ha had said that move had to be played.
‘……His very way of thinking is different from mine.’
It was not simply a matter of playing well.
The stride with which he advanced toward victory, the picture he drew—it was different.
Unlike himself, who would not risk danger under the weight of winning and losing, Kim In-ha knew how to bear that risk.
No fear. No hesitation.
Baduk brimming with certainty.
Admiration rose in him.
He watched silently as In-ha rose from his seat.
‘Not a game won…… but a game that made winning inevitable.’
He smiled ruefully and licked his lips.
He lingered for a moment, swallowing the aftertaste of defeat, then stood.
As he exited the Convention Hall, he spotted Kim In-ha standing before the photo wall.
‘What nonsense will he spout now.’
An interview was another arena where he wielded advantage.
He’d heard that Chinese players had suffered nervous breakdowns from Kim In-ha’s interviews.
But then.
“Su Yao-xun is a most excellent player.”
A familiar tongue.
Su Yao-xun looked up.
‘……Chinese?’
An unbelievable sight.
This Korean was conducting his interview in Mandarin.
“It was an honor to face such a brilliant player today. I believe this match will remain in my memory for a lifetime.”
Camera shutters clicked.
Flashes erupted like machine-gun fire.
Yet through all that tumult, his words remained measured and clear.
His tone never wavered.
If anything, it was almost overly formal.
“I conducted this interview in Su Yao-xun’s native language precisely because of that. I wanted to show respect for my opponent.”
In that moment, Su Yao-xun felt oddly disarmed.
A victor who refrained from taunting.
Instead, speech marked by dignity, as though consoling the defeated.
It was unexpected.
Those interviews of his that always drew attention.
They bore no resemblance to the blunt, controversy-courting figure of before.
‘……I don’t think I could ever dislike such a player.’
He had lost.
Yet strangely, his mood was not bitter.
Rather, a desire kindled within him—to repay today’s defeat one day, without fail.
With that resolve, he bowed from a distance and turned away.

* * *
A quiet Kyoto morning, where the wind dared not stir.
I opened my eyes quietly in the tatami room.
A traditional ryokan suffused with the faint scent of wood.
As I rose, the rustle of the yukata felt unfamiliar.
For someone accustomed to bed life, even the air here felt strange.
“……I was worried, but fortunately I slept well.”
The quality of sleep was directly tied to concentration.
I stretched and rose, heading toward the private open-air bath connected to the inner part of the room.
Creak.
The moment I opened the door, winter’s chill brushed across my face.
I slowly lowered myself into the bath.
My body warming gradually.
A languid sensation mixed with a pleasant, tingling alertness.
“Music is essential.”
I inserted my Airpods and a playlist began playing in chart order.
And then.
A familiar melody.
A familiar voice.
The masked singer version of “For Me” streamed through.
The song I had sung.
I hesitated for a moment, tempted to skip it.
But before I knew it, I was listening with my eyes closed.
“……This is actually pretty healing.”
Listening to my own song was a strange kind of comfort.
The feeling that the music was filling my emptiness.
The feeling that it was whispering my success.
More than that—the very fact that I had sung this song.
The fact that people were listening to it.
That it had become more than just an audio file—a song existing in someone’s playlist.
Strange and peculiar, yes… but somehow, it felt good.
Swipe.
I accessed the Japanese portal site Park Sang-won had told me about on my smartphone.
I turned on the auto-translator and searched for articles about me.
The expected reactions were pouring in.
[Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan Defeats China’s Zhang Wei-tian 9-dan, Advances to Nichirenhai Finals]
[Kim In-ha 9-dan Advances to Finals, Gives Chinese Interview to Taiwan Reporter… Ignores Japanese Press?]
[‘Double Standard’ Controversy…… Kim In-ha Shows Respect to Taiwan but Mockery to Japan?]
[Kim In-ha 9-dan’s ‘Smirking Interview’ Enrages Japanese Fans…… Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan Seeking ‘Revenge’?]
[Will Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan…… Restore Japan’s Tarnished Honor?]
“I really struck a nerve.”
I let out a laugh despite myself.
A Chinese interview?
If you asked whether I intended it—yes, I did, to some degree.
But Su Yao-xun’s baduk was equally brilliant.
That one-space jump at the center, followed by the wedge that came after.
Had I not found that move, I might well have lost.
To someone playing at such a high level.
To his baduk, which displayed world-class strength despite Taiwan’s barren competitive environment.
Expressing respect was only natural.
On the other hand.
I had no more patience for the Japanese media’s blatant distortions and sensationalist articles.
‘People are, in the end, defined by comparison.’
I slowly rose from the outdoor bath.
After showering and eating a light breakfast, I returned to my ryokan room and stood before the mirror.
It was time to check my formal attire.
Ding.
A DM from Yu Jeuh-ha had arrived.
-Please stop by the front desk before the match! Absolutely!
“……The front desk?”
I tilted my head in confusion and headed toward the lobby.
At the front desk, a kimono-clad staff member was waiting.
After confirming my name, she carefully presented a wrapped bundle from beneath the counter.
‘What is this?’
I quietly unwrapped it.
A neat tea cup and a warm insulated bottle.
Between them lay a thin letter.
-It’s Kyoto’s traditional matcha. It’s supposed to be good for concentration. Please, you must win!
At those words, I found myself chuckling again.
Yu Jeuh-ha’s tidy handwriting.
Tea steeped with her own hands.
The care of rising early to visit the Ryokan quietly this morning.
That effort and encouragement came through at my fingertips.
‘……Since the Branch Manager, this is the first time.’
Someone pushing me forward like this.
More than what the words support or encouragement could explain—a warmth that wrapped around me.
‘I have to win this. I really do.’
Me, treated as a villain in Japan.
The fact that she, a Japanese woman, was rooting for me became strangely powerful.
I carefully wrapped the cloth again and headed toward the Convention Hall.
I felt the gaze of several reporters, but I didn’t turn my head.
As I reached the entrance, Park Sang-won spotted me and hurried over.
“Master Kim! Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan is being interviewed right now.”
“Is that so? Nothing noteworthy?”
“No, well…… he said he understands the hearts of Japanese Baduk fans, and that he’ll do his absolute best to win. That sort of thing.”
As expected.
A response befitting a Japanese person who values propriety.
Even before the finals, he hadn’t lost his composure.
‘But why is the Japanese media like that?’
They twist a single phrase, a single word, and change it into an inflammatory headline.
They’d maliciously reinterpret things to stir up public sentiment—it was quite a sight.
“What? Kim In-ha 9-dan?”
Several Japanese reporters recognized me and turned their heads.
Cameras shifted rapidly, focusing in.
They were eager to capture me and Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan in the same shot.
Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan, standing at the end of the photo wall, looked at me.
A brief, expressionless exchange of glances.
He spared his words and went straight into the match hall.
Then the reporters rushed toward me.
“Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan said he would win. How do you feel?”
“Kim In-ha 9-dan has consistently shown a dismissive attitude toward Japanese Baduk. Is that still the case now, before the finals?”
“You spoke Chinese with Su Yao-xun 9-dan, but why have you avoided communicating with Japanese reporters?”
Questions poured out before I even stepped onto the photo wall.
Likely a backlash from having avoided questions until now.
Yet I gave not a single answer.
With just a slight bow of my head, I ignored their stares.
Let silence itself be the most cutting response.
The moment I stepped onto the photo wall, the moderator hastily launched into his formal remarks.
“Kim In-ha 9-dan. You’re about to face the finals today. In every tournament you’ve entered, you’ve maintained an undefeated record. Can you do the same today? We’d like to hear your resolve.”
I slowly raised the microphone.
In that instant, the air shifted.
Shutter clicks, held breaths, tense gazes—all focused into one.
“……I know my undefeated record will be broken someday.”
My tone was surprisingly calm.
Yet my words didn’t waver.
The next phrase that followed pierced through their chests with precision.
“But I don’t think it will be today.”
A moment where breathing seemed to stop.
Over that brief silence, one more line was laid.
“Losing to a Korean-versus-Japanese match…… is something that will never happen to me.”

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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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