I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 131

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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 Profitable Talent · Episode 131
The next day.
Perhaps it was the habit of athlete village life, but my eyes opened of their own accord at six in the morning.
Leaving Jeong Hae-sung sleeping soundly beside me, I went out for a light run alone.
This was an Olympic year. I had to maintain my carefully built physical condition consistently.
After showering, I sat by the window, and the Huangpu River came into full view beyond the glass.
Tour boats cut through the water, and across the river stood the Oriental Pearl Tower.
“The atmosphere here is different from Japan.”
If Japan had felt composed and pristine, China was a city where past and future overlapped within brilliance.
Either way, a texture of culture entirely foreign to Korea.
That difference deepened the feeling of being on foreign soil.
“……Cheating at the master level.”
During the Ciel Bank final, the system had hinted that Lu Chuiyuan was a 9-dan who had committed fraud.
Looking back, it was nearly miraculous that I’d won the second game despite allowing cheating twice.
Whatever else could be said, he remained one of the world’s elite players.
Yet that very Lu Chuiyuan had dropped out of major Chinese tournaments successively this year.
Eliminated in the Round of 32 of the Ronghua Cup main draw.
An upset loss to an unknown Chinese player in the Bainan Cup preliminaries.
The quality of play was abysmal.
What was interesting was that these matches all came after radio blockers had been installed in the Game Hall and restrooms.
‘I’ll know once I play him directly.’
Even if he couldn’t cheat, the fact that he possessed world-class strength didn’t change.
I rose from the seat and approached Jeong Hae-sung, who was still sleeping soundly.
“Hae-sung, wake up. We should have breakfast.”
I gave his shoulder a light shake, and his eyes snapped open.
“…… Yes? Oh, breakfast! Of course. The hotel’s pride is its breakfast—we absolutely must eat it!”
Jeong Hae-sung kicked off the bedding and hastily began pulling on his clothes.
A quiet laugh escaped me.
In moments like this, I thought—if I had a younger brother, it might feel like this.

* * *
After breakfast, we rested for a moment upstairs, and Jeong Hae-sung spoke with energy in his voice.
“I think you’re ready to head down now, sir!”
I checked the time and nodded.
The elevator doors opened, and Chinese journalists were already waiting in the hotel lobby.
The moment they saw me, they surged forward as if they’d been waiting all along, clicking shutters.
“…… Uh, what?”
Jeong Hae-sung’s face went blank with surprise as he stepped in front of me.
He’d been dazed at the airport yesterday too—he clearly wasn’t accustomed to this atmosphere.
Still, the way he stood guard ahead of me, prepared for any unforeseen trouble, was reassuring.
I turned my gaze away from the journalists and moved my steps toward the Game Hall.
Nothing came but the sound of camera shutters; no one forced their way closer.
Standing before the photo wall, the interview began in front of the backdrop bearing the red “Shenhuo” lettering.
Following the female moderator’s direction, questions from the journalists flowed forward.
“A face-to-face match with Lu Chuiyuan has been set for the opening match. His recent record hasn’t been good—do you have confidence in victory?”
I answered calmly in Chinese.
“Yes. I never lose to an opponent I’ve defeated once.”
The camera flash flickered again.
A statement brimming with confidence.
Yet at the same time, it was also a promise to myself.
‘I cannot lose to cheating.’
That was something absolutely unforgivable for a professional Baduk player.
“You’re currently undefeated against Chinese players. Does a record like that influence your confidence?”
“Your question is flawed.”
The journalists’ eyebrows twitched.
“Pardon?”
“When I speak of competition, I don’t distinguish by nationality. Regardless of my opponent, I win. My record proves it.”
The sound of rapid typing spread.
Soon another journalist posed a question.
“Lu Chuiyuan said he will definitely win. What are your thoughts?”
I let the corner of my mouth rise slightly.
“Victory isn’t decided by resolve alone.”
After finishing the interview and descending from the photo wall, Tian Wei-lin approached and spoke.
“I’ve only seen you as a player, but hearing you speak in person—you have remarkable rhetoric. If you weren’t on our team, I’d have been provoked myself.”
“An interview is just an extension of the game, after all.”
He laughed aloud at my reply.
“I’ll be counting on that first victory.”
“That’s why I came.”
Leaving Jeong Hae-sung behind with both fists clenched in a fighting gesture, I headed into the Game Hall.
A Go board draped with Chinese-style screens that glowed in reddish tones caught my eye first.
As I sat before the board placed there, Lu Chuiyuan—9-dan—looked up and met my gaze from across the table.
His eyes were calm and settled.
Yet deep within them burned the flames of a desire for revenge.
‘He wants to win.’
After catching my breath, the signal for the game came down.
Time limit: two hours.
Handicap: seven and a half points.
By prior system draw, I held Black.
‘The handicap is demanding, but… it’s entirely doable.’
Korea and Japan typically award six and a half points in handicap.
But Chinese professional tournaments value the difference in territory-counting method and Black’s first-move advantage more highly, deducting seven and a half instead.
I opened the Go stone container and lifted my first move.
Tap.
Small point opening in the upper right.
Lu Chuiyuan responded immediately.
Tap.
Star point in the upper right.
I answered with a diagonal small point opening.
A formation where Black and White’s corners split apart.
A structure far more inevitably combative than standard opening strategy.
And that was.
‘The Baduk I play best.’
Solidifying the small point with eye shape, and on the opposite side, a pincer attack.
Rather than the AI Joseki of 3-3 Invasion, I chose the star point pincer, opting for variation.
A declaration of intent to draw the board state into combat.
He immediately withdrew with a 5th Line Pincer Attack.
An attempt to concede the corner and build outside strength.
But I had no intention of compromise.
With a double pincer, I bound one white stone.
‘There’s no escape.’
I rejected the mundane.
I chose the path of amplifying chaos, increasing uncertainty, and drawing my opponent into my domain.
Tap.
White refused to yield either.
Strong moves collided with strong moves.
I paused and lifted my head, quietly observing Lu Chuiyuan.
‘With skill like that…’
Possessing the sense and Move Reading worthy of being called the world’s finest, yet committing fraud with eyes blinded by the hunger for victory.
That was what I could not forgive.
The board descended steadily into melee.
Then came the moment.
Tap.
Lu Chuiyuan’s move.
White leaning against and attaching to the black stone.
My eyes widened.
‘At this timing?’
A powerful move that pierces the upper side simultaneously with the right-side breakthrough.
Instinct sent a signal. Danger. A trap lurks.
I deliberated for nearly ten minutes.
After repeated Move Reading, I reached my conclusion.
‘I hate to admit it, but that was a good move.’
It was a brilliant play that gathered white’s scattered influence while still securing actual territory.
But now that I’d read his intention, I couldn’t simply accept it.
Click.
A two-point jump on the 4th line.
The strongest counterattack.
Lu Chuiyuan responded immediately with a two-point jump on the 2nd line, as if the 9-dan had been waiting for this.
In that instant, bewilderment flickered across my vision.
‘What in the world is that move?’
It looked elegant, but it was riddled with flaws.
A bizarre choice that surrendered both territory and influence.
A quiet retreat to the 2nd line would have been far more threatening.
He could target a ko to cut off my stones, or secure influence while claiming territory in one stroke.
Anyone would naturally choose that move.
But seeing something entirely different left me unsettled.
‘Is there some hidden intention behind this?’
I sank back into deep move reading.
One minute, two minutes, three minutes… five minutes.
Time passed, but no matter how far ahead I read, the meaning of that move eluded me.
Unease crept in.
Was I missing something?
I shook my head quickly.
‘No, that can’t be it.’
I trust my move reading.
No—I trust my Baduk itself.
Because of that trust, I’ve made it this far.
Then there’s only one conclusion.
‘I found the answer, but I can’t solve it?’
Cheating.
Baduk played by stealing the answer key.
That habit had already seeped in deep.
Even when I found a good move, I lacked the strength to support it to the end.
For one who’d always relied on answers at every critical juncture, independent judgment had long since vanished.
Click.
As I placed a stone on the board, I felt it with sudden clarity.
This moment would be the turning point of today’s match.
Because I was not the kind of player who would overlook an opponent’s blunder.
A single misstep would become a defeat, rolling like a snowball gathering mass.
Ruthlessly.
Without mercy.
‘Sixty moves—no, I’ll end it in sixty.’
This game didn’t need to drag on.

* * *
“What is this? Did Lu Chuiyuan lose his mind? How could he play such a nonsensical blunder move?”
Park Ji-man’s voice rose with excitement.
A DeepStone reference board appeared on one side of the commentary screen.
“Looking at this, the attachment move itself is good. It’s a blue spot—the kind of move that would spike the win rate instantly.”
When white’s first attachment move appeared, Park Ji-man had held his breath.
A move that dramatically raised the AI’s expected win rate.
The very fact that Lu Chuiyuan played this without going to the bathroom was astounding.
But that was only one move.
“The problem is, he can’t handle In-ha’s fierce response at all. He should have retreated here and dragged out a ko fight instead.”
Despite the blue spot, white’s board position was somehow more precarious—a strange situation.
It raised questions: did he fail to read the following sequence, or was he simply too afraid to engage in a ko fight?
A smile played at Park Ji-man’s lips.
“As you all know, Lu Chuiyuan had zero international results up until two years ago. But last year, he suddenly shot up the rankings. The reason? Well… you all know what I’m talking about.”
There was no need for lengthy explanation.
The cheating allegations that had surfaced since that time.
Among domestic fans, it was essentially treated as established fact.
“Tournament security has gotten quite strict this year. Radio blockers installed in the Game Hall and restrooms, with regular inspections. Normally, Lu Chuiyuan would’ve had to sneak off to the bathroom to cheat by now…… but he can’t anymore.”
Park Ji-man continued.
“Once a professional becomes dependent on AI, that habit never breaks. When it matters most, they can’t find a move on their own strength. That’s exactly what we’re seeing from Lu Chuiyuan right now.”
He could find the Blue Spot.
But that was all.
The higher his reliance on AI, the sharper the decline in his own Move Reading and judgment.
Lu Chuiyuan’s 9-dan status was a perfect example of that decay.
Click.
Then, a black stone landed on the board.
“Huh? In-ha, why there…… Oh, was that it? I thought you’d made a mistake.”
Park Ji-man, who’d been studying the DeepStone Reference Board, laughed with evident delight.
“If White captures just one Black stone here, it’d be good for White, right? But In-ha doesn’t take it. Why? Because he wants to build, to torment, and finally to strangle the lifeblood. When he strikes, it’ll be decisive. The opponent won’t even see it coming.”
At that very moment, Kim In-ha, riding the momentum, placed a stone on the opposite side.
A breathtaking Brilliant Move.
A Vital Point.
The battle raging across the upper left corner shattered—White’s entire Influence split like tissue paper by a single stone placed on the upper right.
“Ladies and gentlemen, do you know what move number this is?”
Park Ji-man smiled meaningfully, pointing at the board with his finger.
“Move 58.”
Just fifty-eight moves.
All it took for Kim In-ha to dismantle a former cheater.

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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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