I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 119

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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 Lucrative Talent — Chapter 119
Morning broke.
I opened my eyes without waiting for an alarm.
At this hour, my body responds before my mind—faster than any machine could.
Beyond the curtain, Kyoto’s dawn light filtered through the window.
“…My condition feels solid.”
I’d slept well.
On a day like today, before a match this significant, the quality of sleep matters more than anything.
I yawned and stretched beneath the covers.
To my side, a laptop sat open on the low table.
Beside it lay a stack of A4 pages.
The cover read:
[God’s Perfect Move (Working Title) – Revised Draft]
Director Kang Yoon-hyeok’s screenplay, based on my story.
It was a film that unfolded my entire Baduk life—from contract security guard at a bank to where I stood now.
I was curious and apprehensive in equal measure, wondering what lens he’d used to adapt my existence, what perspective he’d chosen for my life.
Half-eager, half-worried, I’d begun reading the screenplay.
But once I started, I couldn’t stop.
There were certainly alterations.
Dramatic moments invented from nothing; plot details that diverged from what actually happened.
“…It’s my own story, so why does it grip me like this?”
Last night, it had been the perfect distraction.
Before a match of this magnitude, sinking too deep into Baduk can actually pull you under.
Sometimes stepping back is the wiser path.
And it turned out to be exactly the right choice.
Both body and mind.
Now, facing Game 2 today, my condition was at its peak.
“The way Yu Jeuh-ha was portrayed wasn’t bad either.”
When I first heard about the screenplay, I’d drawn a line in the sand.
I was worried it might cause her unwanted trouble.
Fortunately, Director Kang had handled it with finesse.
In the film, she becomes the one who first recognizes Kim In-ha’s potential.
She’s portrayed as a symbolic figure—a guiding force in the professional world.
“…I wonder if she’d be pleased to hear about it?”
That my story was being made into a film.
And that a character inspired by her carries real weight and resonance within it.
It seemed like the right moment to tell her.
I rose from bed.
Since arriving in Kyoto, I haven’t missed this ritual once.
I immersed myself in the hot spring.
A moment of quiet clarification.
The instant body and spirit settle into calm.
After leaving the spring and drying off, I dressed with care.
Following breakfast, I put on my formal clothes and descended to the lobby.
My first stop was the front desk.
“Here it is, sir,” the staffer said softly.
A staff member who spoke Korean carefully extended a wrapped bundle toward me.
A small note lay atop it.
—Today it’s green tea. Please win the championship!
I folded the note and slipped it into my inner jacket pocket.
The care that had gone into preparing it felt palpable.
I picked up the thermos and headed toward the Tournament Venue.
A photo wall loomed in the distance, and beyond it, Fujisaki Yuya in the middle of an interview.
“You’ve arrived, Kuksoo Kim,” Park Sang-won greeted me as he approached.
Park Sang-won had drawn near.
“Nothing unusual happened, I trust?”
“No, just his resolve to win today shone through every word.”
I’d expected as much.
Fujisaki Yuya was the embodiment of what a “Japanese professional” looked like.
“We’ll skip the pre-match interview today. Sang-won, you’ll handle the commentary.”
“Yes, don’t worry!”
I passed by him as he answered with a half-smile and entered the Playing Room quietly.
The same place as yesterday.
But the air felt different.
A weight—the gravity of decisive play.
The weight that came with a final match.
I sat down and slowly opened the thermos lid.
Steam rose in thin wisps.
The subtle fragrance of green tea tickled the tip of my nose.
The tension I’d been holding in my shoulders seemed to ease slightly.
‘…The scent is lovely.’
Tea that Yu Jeuh-ha had brewed and prepared with her own hands.
As I took a sip, a quiet peace spread through my mind.
The perfect state for immersing myself in baduk.
A presentiment flickered through me—that after today, I might find myself savoring tea regularly.
Shortly after, the signal came to begin the match.
I lifted my head and looked across at my opponent.
Fujisaki Yuya, 9-dan.
Calm eyes, an expressionless face.
Yet I felt it.
Within that composure lay a resolve utterly different from yesterday—a determination forged in desperation.
A bow.
We bowed simultaneously in greeting.
And the match began.
Tap.
Black’s opening move.
Upper right star point.
A safe, solid start.
Quintessentially Black.
I responded with my own star point.
The second move followed with a small point opening.
A flow designed to maintain a stable board state.
But I, as if waiting for this moment, introduced variation with my next move.
Tap.
Both star points.
The opening gambit of the Uyushu 3-Star Opening.
In that instant, Fujisaki Yuya’s eyes wavered almost imperceptibly.
‘He’ll have much to think about now.’
Only four stones deep into the game, yet he fell into prolonged contemplation.
And the move he chose.
Two spaces off the small point opening.
A move securing solidity and thickness.
A moment that laid bare his baduk style.
Baduk that eschewed combat, seeking instead a stable structure.
Tap.
I responded at once with a four-line extension one space from the star point.
A move choosing influence over territory.
Then he immediately played a 3-3 Invasion.
From the opening, we had entered a standoff—territory against influence.
The pace was far swifter than yesterday.
My influence was spreading wide across the board.
That was when it came.
Tap.
A Splitting Attack.
A black stone burrowing through the heart of my influence.
An attempt to prevent my expanding power from crystallizing into territory.
A move he’d played frequently in the past, but rarely since DeepStone’s introduction.
That he would play it now meant one thing.
‘Yesterday’s defeat still weighs on him.’
And that was precisely the current I wished to ride.
Tap.
I opened one side of the board and loosened my grip.
White’s star point immediately fell to a 3-3 Invasion.
Influence and territory splintered across the board state.
No completed formation. No joseki to speak of.
But this tangled pattern—it was exactly the picture I wanted.
‘Perfect conditions for my game.’
From that moment, the board came alive.
Move after move.
No predetermined sequence.
Only reading, intuition, instinct—responding with every sense.
When my opponent refused convention, I met him outside the frame.
Tap.
Black turned toward the left side.
I placed my stone on the right half a beat faster.
Order without rules.
Certainty within uncertainty.
In a board state where I couldn’t see a single move ahead, I revealed myself more and more.
Where convention and joseki had vanished.
This game was a battle of who could hold the center longer, who could advance without wavering.
And I.
Had never lost a single game like this.

* * *
Park Ji-man’s baduk broadcast.
The live viewer count had just broken thirty thousand.
Coffee donations pouring in by the handful.
Park Ji-man’s energy was skyrocketing.
“In-ha, you know this, right? Even if we lose everything else, we can’t lose the Korea-Japan Match.”
His words carried weight.
Korea-Japan Match.
A final between rival nations, national pride on the line.
Back in the seventies and eighties, maybe. But in modern professional tournaments, such national sentiment rarely mattered.
Yet someone had leveraged the media to frame it that way, fanning the flames—and that someone was Kim In-ha.
Tap.
A black stone was placed on the board.
Splitting Attack.
“Wait, what? Fujisaki’s actually scared of In-ha right now?”
Park Ji-man’s eyes gleamed as he spoke.
Modern professionals grew up under the influence of AI opening strategy.
Fujisaki Yuya, 9-dan, was part of that current.
Yet he had chosen the Splitting Attack.
By AI standards, an unconventional move that could spark uncertain battle.
In other words—a human move.
The fact that he picked it meant he was still trying to check influence.
It was evidence that ‘yesterday’s game still clung to him’.
“This is what makes In-ha strong in consecutive matches.”
Park Ji-man smiled with quiet confidence.
“Converting yesterday’s victory into today’s weapon. Knowing how to use it to pressure your opponent.”
He thought to himself.
‘Most people wouldn’t feel what’s happening here.’
Former professional player.
National team director, a senior among seniors.
He understood.
The weight of the invisible psychological warfare that Kim In-ha was constructing right now.
The real pressure and burden seeping into Fujisaki Yuya’s fingertips.
“…Wait. What’s he doing now?”
Park Ji-man’s brow twitched.
“Fujisaki’s going straight for a fight?”
Fujisaki, who had been playing safely while securing territory.
Suddenly he broadened the board.
Into the chaos of the position, he plunged first.
“Is this for real? You sure about this?”
Park Ji-man burst out laughing.
“In-ha, don’t drag this out. Win it quick with a resignation, and let’s plant the Korean flag in Kyoto. You got it?”
The live broadcast had maintained a cheerful atmosphere throughout.
The flow driven by Kim In-ha.
To anyone watching, the position he preferred.
A complex board state.
Baduk that wrote across the entire board, constantly destabilizing and dragging the game into conflict.
“Yeah, this is exactly In-ha’s style of Baduk.”
Park spoke with evident satisfaction.
“Move Reading through sensation and intuition. And then crushing it all with pure instinct!”
Unbecoming of a championship match, the broadcast carried an almost buoyant air.
Park Ji-man pulled up articles on the monitor relating to Kim In-ha’s activities in Japan.
Distorted reports from the Japanese press.
Controversy over the Uyushu Opening Strategy.
The business of giving an interview while wearing a Red Eagle Hoodie.
Browsing through all those articles, he laughed and chattered with the viewers.
But then.
“……Huh? Fujisaki’s sense is sharp today?”
Park fell silent for a moment.
“He’s responding with Blue Spot precision.”
The best move recommended by the AI.
So-called Blue Spot.
The kind of place human intuition rarely finds.
Click.
Another black stone placed.
“……Blue Spot again?”
The smile vanished from Park Ji-man’s face.
The DeepStone reference flashed repeatedly on screen.
Blue Spot.
Blue Spot again.
Four moves in a row.
“This…… the flow feels wrong.”
A strange tension crept into Park’s voice.
A complex board state.
A position that pure Move Reading alone could not handle.
And yet Fujisaki Yuya’s moves remained flawless.
‘……It’s dangerous. The risk in Destabilization is building.’
If the Destabilization proved wrong, it would translate to a overreach, a forced move, heavy losses.
Perhaps unsurprisingly.
White’s expected win rate on DeepStone began to plummet sharply.
Park Ji-man stared at the monitor with an uneasy expression, muttering to himself.
“Could today be Fujisaki’s day?”
And then.
Click.
Another stone placed.
Blue Spot again.
A brilliant move worthy of the AI’s admiration.
At this point, even Park Ji-man couldn’t deny it.
“Ladies and gentlemen…… in Baduk, there are days like this.”
Park Ji-man spoke as though thinking aloud.
“Days when the board seems narrow, and you see every single move.”
Sensation at its peak.
Move Reading flows without pause, and the shapes of the stones seem to unfold before you like a script already written.
Concentration at its height.
Immersion bordering on flow state.
‘I’ve experienced it exactly once.’
The day he’d beaten the world’s strongest, Lee Sang-ho 9-dan, by three and a half stones.
Moves he’d made himself, yet it felt as though he hadn’t made them at all.
Whenever he recalled the sensation from that moment, chills still ran down his spine.
That one day—every professional had experienced it at least once.
In his view, today was that day for Fujisaki Yuya, 9-dan.
Click.
A stone placed at an uncanny moment.
No hesitation—just the natural, fluid movement of a hand.
And then, the Blue Spot again.
Uncertainty had transformed into certainty.
Park Ji-man’s voice had grown quiet and careful.
“Today might be… difficult for Kim In-ha.”

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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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