I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 118

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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 Many Profitable Talents — Episode 118
Trickle.
Hot water filled the teacup.
A clear, quiet bitterness brushed against the tip of my nose.
A cup steeped with care — Yu Jeuh-ha had brewed it herself.
I brought it carefully to my lips and took a sip.
Warmth traveled down my throat, spreading slowly through me.
Like the lingering aftertaste, the flow across the Go Board was seeping into my consciousness.
‘My rhythm now.’
The Universe Style had been broken once.
But while White’s floating group clung to life, I had completed another Universe Style of my own.
Central force.
Not merely territory — the skeletal framework of a flow that wrapped around the entire board.
Another layer of force, overlaid upon the first, began to exert an unseen influence.
That move White had played on the fifth line earlier.
The move Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan had placed to check my force.
In this board state, it meant nothing.
No material advantage.
No force.
It had scattered into the air like a helpless cry, defending neither.
‘Just one move.’
Yes — I had rendered a single move useless.
One wasted move.
In this phase of play, that single futile move had become a critical variable that shifted the board state against him.
‘Material advantage is now evenly matched.’
Now only one thing remained.
Using the central force as a foundation, to shatter White’s shape.
Penetrating.
Shaking.
Breaking it apart.
That primal act.
And that was…….
‘exactly what I do best.’
Click.
I placed a Black Stone at White’s lower right corner, testing his response.
Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan, reading the board’s unfavorable state, pushed back forcefully.
I withdrew my hand.
But I left a taste behind.
Any moment, I could use that single move to gain advantage along the edge.
This time, I penetrate the edge itself.
Though it was White’s force, I trampled through it as though it were my own hall.
Black Stones rising to a two-point head, twisted like a bulge.
There, another sky had opened.
A black universe spread across the center.
Beneath that sky, White could never be free.
Click.
Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan withdraws.
I, who had been waiting for that moment, pressed in with relentless persistence.
And using the thin weakness on the outside as a stepping stone, I advanced from within.
Click.
White does not retreat either.
He knew that if he surrendered material here, it would be over.
Instead, he attempts an exchange.
A provocation — trying to trade my force for material advantage.
I stole a brief glance at Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan’s face.
‘As expected — not so simple.’
His expression betrayed no emotion.
Unwavering composure.
Though any player might waver here, he showed no sign of it.
But the tide had already turned.
Even as they traded influence and material advantage, neither relinquished control of the board’s momentum.
So long as he made no mistakes, this lead would never crumble.
How long had he held on like that?
Despite the relentless resistance, Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan’s mouth fell open—unable to overturn the tide.
“I resign.”
As he conceded defeat, no emotion flickered in Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan’s eyes.
Japan’s pride: the Universe Style opening.
To lose to a modified version of that legacy—the bitterness must run deep.
Yet he betrayed none of it in his expression.
‘That emotional control deserves respect.’
I didn’t want unnecessary provocation either.
It wasn’t that I disliked him.
Rather, as a baduk player, he commanded admiration.
I bowed my head in courtesy.
“Well played.”
Fujisaki Yuya 9-dan nodded quietly, then rose slowly to his feet.
As he left the Tatami Room in silence, his figure showed no sign of being crushed by defeat.
‘I can’t afford to relax.’
I’d only cleared one hurdle.
If possible, I wanted to clinch the championship in two matches, not drag it to three.
I steadied my breathing, then stood from my chair.
At that moment, Park Sang-won, who had been waiting, approached my side.
“Congratulations on the first-game victory, Kuksoo! I never thought I’d live to see the day someone resurrected that dead opening, the Universe Style, and actually won with it.”
He was a Korea Baduk Association staff member, ranked 3-dan Amateur.
At over forty years old, he clearly understood the Universe Style opening well enough.
“It was a modification. If I’d played it straight, I would have lost.”
That wasn’t false modesty speaking.
I hadn’t simply dusted off an old opening.
A double structure, reforged in my own style.
Baduk that shattered the existing framework and rebuilt my own thought-architecture upon its ruins.
Park Sang-won scratched his head.
“Which is exactly why I’m asking—could you go easy during the interview? I’m genuinely afraid something might go wrong.”
I smiled and gathered the thermos and teacup.
Then I opened the bag I’d brought and retrieved a fresh set of clothes.
A hoodie.
With the Red Eagle logo—a soaring eagle in crimson—emblazoned dead center across the chest.
I quietly removed my jacket and changed into the hoodie.
My outer coat and shirt I folded neatly and placed in the bag.
The tournament officials and referees inside the playing hall visibly stiffened at the sight.
If it were just a quick change before the awards ceremony or photo shoot, that would be one thing.
But switching into something this casual was a first for them.
“Wait… you’re not seriously going out there dressed like that?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No, it’s not that, but……”
“Don’t worry. I confirmed with the organizers beforehand—this doesn’t violate the rules.”
I smiled, reassuring Park Sang-won’s anxiety away.
Before departure, I’d already checked with the tournament organizers and confirmed there were no dress restrictions outside of the actual match and awards ceremony.
With all preparations complete, I stepped out of the Tatami Room.
Flash!
The moment I crossed the threshold, camera flashes erupted.
But that moment didn’t last; I felt the reporters’ gazes shift from my face to my clothes.
Across a black field.
A crimson eagle blazing across the chest.
Red Eagle.
A brand that explained everything with a single logo.
Only then did the reporters’ faces register shock as they grasped what I’d just done.
“Sponsor advertising at a moment like this?”
The near-stunned expressions of the journalists said it all.
A reaction of pure bewilderment: ‘What on earth is this?’
I hadn’t broken any rules, but it was borderline underhanded promotion.
The Hoodie I was wearing, the logo exposed.
Once the article ran, photographs and video footage would naturally follow.
I felt no guilt whatsoever about using the journalists this way.
‘It’s only right to put them to use.’
Buzz.
Attention.
And a victory in the finals, Game One.
With everything falling into place so perfectly, this moment—right now—was the only window that mattered for this performance.
In other words, the timing for publicity was ideal.
“Today, I’ll take three questions from the press.”
That way, the frequency of exposure would increase.
Park Sang-won nodded at my words.
He relayed it to the moderator, whose face brightened noticeably for the first time.
“Kim In-ha, 9-dan, you’ve secured a precious victory in Game One of the finals. First, we’d like a brief comment on your impressions and your resolve for the coming games. I understand you’ll then take three questions from the press.”
At those words, the eyes of the Japanese journalists lit up at once.
How impatient they must have been.
My silence, my indifference—they’d grown thoroughly sick of it.
I picked up the microphone quietly.
“……Fujisaki Yuya, 9-dan, was not an easy opponent. However, I emerged victorious. I’m pleased to have secured favorable ground heading into Game Two.”
Respectful, measured words.
This wasn’t what they’d hoped to hear.
Yet the journalists weren’t disappointed.
Instead, a subtle tension filled the air as the moderator picked up the microphone.
“Now we’ll take three questions from the press. First question.”
A Japanese journalist who’d been pointed to took the microphone.
“You won Game One using the Universe Style opening strategy. Was this a pre-prepared strategy?”
I nodded without hesitation.
“Yes. It was a researched opening. A strategy that considered force upon force……and as you can see, it worked.”
The journalist’s eyebrow twitched slightly.
A textbook answer.
My response clearly didn’t sit well with them.
But the question had already passed to the next journalist.
“The Universe Style is a symbolic opening in Japanese Baduk. What was your reason for deploying such a strategy specifically at a Japanese tournament, and against a Japanese professional no less?”
The tone carried a slight edge of aggression.
Beneath the words lay a cutting sharpness.
I met it head-on.
“Personally, I’m drawn to the Universe Style. It’s a captivating strategy, and it suits my Baduk style well.”
The journalist raised the microphone again.
“Truly nothing more? You had no other intention?”
There it was.
The question I’d anticipated.
I’d known someone here would ask it.
A gaze that looked beyond simple post-game impressions, probing for the “intention” embedded in this match.
And it was a question that reflected the curiosity of nearly every journalist in this room.
I steadied my breathing and opened my mouth deliberately.
“Intention……”
I continued with a slight smile.
“It was merely an attempt to carry forward past openings into modern Baduk. That is my style, and the spirit I aspire toward.”
A model answer.
Baduk that bridged past and present.
Yet the expressions of several sharp-eyed journalists shifted subtly.
The brand philosophy that Red Eagle pursued.
The aesthetics of boundary-pushing, of action and challenge.
They reacted as though they’d never imagined I’d deliver such an oblique promotional message at an occasion like this.
I smiled one final time.
“That concludes the three questions.”
As I set down the microphone, the moderator concluded formally.
“Thank you. This concludes Kim In-ha, 9-dan’s interview.”
Leaving disappointed expressions among the journalists in my wake, I stepped down from the photo wall.
That was the end of today’s schedule.
All that remained was tomorrow’s final match, Game 2.

* * *
At that same moment.
Fujisaki Yuya’s hotel room.
Click.
He locked the door and made his way to the bathroom in silence.
A layout with the toilet and shower stall separated.
Still in his formal suit, he stepped into the stall and turned on the faucet.
Whoosh.
Water cascaded from the ceiling-mounted showerhead above his head.
Fujisaki Yuya stood motionless within the spray, eyes closed, for a long time.
His jacket, his shirt, his underclothes—all soaked through, yet he did not move.
Bang!
Then his fist, clenched tight, struck the wall.
The water swallowed the sound, but the impact still resonated.
His fingers flushed red.
“That’s where I faltered. That was the losing move.”
His voice came soft, but clear.
“I should have pressed harder. I should have held on.”
He was speaking to himself.
But his mind was replaying the game he’d just played.
This was how he always parsed his defeats.
The moves he’d hesitated over.
The moments he regretted.
The instants that could not be undone.
The world praised Fujisaki Yuya as a player of refined, perfectly calibrated Baduk.
A master of emotional restraint. A model of clarity.
But that composure was only the fruit of his constant effort to maintain his equilibrium.
Fujisaki Yuya burned with heat and stubbornness.
He was pure pride and competitive hunger—a man made entirely of it.
A man tormented by even a single loss, unable to accept it.
“Losing to something as archaic as the Universe Style—I won’t allow it.”
His lips trembled.
Defeated by unorthodox, thoroughly researched opening strategy?
All of it was excuses.
Fujisaki Yuya stepped toward the mirror.
Water dripped steadily from his wet hair.
He studied his reflection quietly, then struck his own cheek twice, hard.
Slap! Slap!
His face flushed red in the mirror.
He stood there, head raised, breathing slowly and deliberately.
This was his ritual.
He did not force himself to forget the loss.
He did not suppress what he felt.
Instead, he embraced it fully with his whole being, then washed it away in cold clarity.
“Tomorrow, I’ll hold Black.”
When he held Black, he felt secure.
His recent tournament winning percentage was overwhelmingly higher when he played Black.
Not just in the Nichirenhai, but even in the Master’s Title tournament—he hadn’t lost a single game.
“I’ll win tomorrow. With the resolve to die trying.”
The World Professional Baduk Tournament held in his home country.
As a Japanese player, and for his career and ambitions alike.
It was a title he could never yield.

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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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