I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 132

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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 132
Lu Chuiyuan was a 9-dan.
Sixteen years had passed since he turned professional at the age of fourteen.
Though it was a considerable span of time, ironically, the victories and accolades he’d claimed in the past year alone outnumbered all the trophies he’d accumulated over the previous fourteen combined.
A prime he’d found late in life.
The summit he had finally reached—he who had always been trampled underfoot in the professional world.
Standing atop it now, he felt an intoxicating thrill.
He couldn’t bear the thought of tumbling down again.
He wanted to stand here always, gazing down with serene indifference.
Though he had used dishonest methods, the heady rush of superiority and the sweet reward of victory had dulled his guilt to near invisibility.
Especially when he had toppled the world’s strongest player, Jeong Si-hu 9-dan.
When Ci Hao 9-dan posted his cheating accusations on social media and received a penalty from the China Baduk Association.
That pleasure had reached its crescendo.
He dwelt on all those moments, feeling a hot hunger kindle deep in his chest.
But then.
His game had begun to crumble.
The breaking point came in the Ciel Bank Cup finals.
From the moment Kim In-ha had followed him to the restroom.
Not content with sabotage in the first game, in the second he had neglected the restroom and yet still suppressed Lu Chuiyuan’s play.
From that day forward, his foundation had shaken.
For one who had abandoned even his pride to win, defeat was unbearable.
And after that incident, security at Chinese professional tournaments had been tightened one measure after another.
‘It doesn’t matter. I can win without resorting to that.’
He had not lost his will to compete.
Though he’d been eliminated from two tournaments earlier this year, he didn’t dwell on it.
Had it not been for those trivial oversights, he would not have lost those games.
Today, facing Kim In-ha, he was confident he would not repeat the same mistakes.
And from the opening, he proved himself.
A move placed after meticulous calculation.
He could be certain it was the keystone.
Believing it to be a perfect move discovered without cheating, the corner of Lu Chuiyuan 9-dan’s mouth lifted slightly.
But within a few moves, discomfort crept in.
Black’s counterattack.
Over the move he had offered with such certainty, a more forceful pressure bearing down.
Kim In-ha responding flawlessly, as if he had been waiting.
‘Are you really sure about that?’ mocking him.
‘If you’re confident, come in deeper,’ taunting him.
Certainty transformed into pressure, pressure into dread.
‘…… Could it be I made a mistake?’
As the black and white exchanges continued, anxiety bloomed in a corner of his heart, growing until it began to consume him entirely.
His calculations scattered, and the once-clear image before his mind’s eye blurred like fog.
Instability.
Uncertainty.
The certainty that the AI’s numbers had guaranteed.
The fact that the machine no longer offered its verdicts.
The habit of never quite trusting his own moves, of resorting to cheating—it had finally eroded his foundation entirely.
In that moment.
Click.
A black stone settled quietly on the board.
Upper right, touching the star point.
His pupils trembled faintly.
The sequence he had been reading fractured abruptly, and at a response he had never considered, his breath caught.
‘This can’t be…… this can’t be……’
His heartbeat thundered roughly.
A move he had not seen.
The key point spanning both the upper left and upper right sectors.
He tried to force the sequence together in his mind, but it kept snapping apart in empty space.
It was too late to reverse course.
He could neither recover the flow nor conceal the mistake he had just made.
Despair closed around his throat.
‘…I need to use the restroom.’
A deadly longing flashed through his mind.
He wanted to rush over and see right now.
If he could do that, he felt he might overcome this disadvantage.
But it was impossible.
No—what truly maddened him was the knowledge that even if it were possible, it would be useless.
He had to find the answer himself.
Yet he’d already lost the capacity to sustain himself.
‘Ah.’
Sitting before the Go board, it felt as though someone were strangling him.
In Lu Chuiyuan’s hands as a 9-dan, the black stones were no longer mere pieces.
They were shackles tightening around him.
A trap from which there was no escape.
A judgment of ruin that would topple all the Baduk he had built.
A single black move that would bring him crashing down.
…Move 58.

* * *
‘…It’s a complete mess.’
Move 58.
The key point that boxed White in from all sides.
It would be no exaggeration to say the outcome was decided right there.
White’s territory and profit collapsed entirely, and his three fragmented floating groups showed no sign of finding any lifeline.
Yet Lu Chuiyuan did not resign.
Pathetically.
Miserably.
He dragged on the game with forced, unreasonable stubbornness.
At the Ciel Bank Cup finals, his skill had certainly stood at the world’s pinnacle.
With cheating added to that, he had run a merciless streak of victories.
But that was then.
Baduk no longer worth watching.
Though flickers of brilliance remained, during games spanning over a hundred moves, the very foundation for making value judgments had crumbled away.
‘Self-inflicted ruin.’
I felt no pity for him.
Ascent through cheating.
To cheat in the sacred game—that was an unforgivable sin.
He had desecrated Baduk as an art, and corrupted the very essence of competition itself.
That such a path led inevitably to collapse was entirely fitting.
Soft tap.
Lu Chuiyuan’s hand, which had dragged on with thirty more meaningless moves, finally went limp and fell still.
His lips pressed tight, he quietly set down a white stone on the lid.
Resignation.
I watched the sight with calm acceptance and bowed my head slightly.
A victory so hollow it was almost empty.
Yet even in that emptiness, Lu Chuiyuan’s face was twisted with despair.
The moment he confirmed his defeat to the referee, he stood as if to flee.
“You’re finished.”
Quiet but clear Chinese.
Those words alone were enough to stop him mid-turn.
“I don’t think we’ll ever face each other in an official match again.”
I meant it.
Without relying on artificial intelligence, he’d already lost the strength to sustain his own Baduk.
With such skill, he would struggle to make his name on the main board of a world tournament again.
“You, you…”
Lu Chuiyuan’s face twisted with unbearable humiliation.
His eyes held that peculiar mixture of resentment and rage that only the defeated know.
But I did not flinch.
Taking that hatred head-on, I bowed my head calmly.
“Fare well.”
No mockery, no insult—only sincere sincerity.
Yet that very sincerity deepened his despair all the more.
Unable to overcome his frustration, Lu Chuiyuan breathed heavily and left the match hall.
In that instant.
—Ding!
A system message window appeared with the familiar chime.
[Congratulations. You have won the opening round as a member of Team Seon-hwa in the Group A League.]
[You have defeated “Ascent through Cheating.”]
[You have achieved partial victory points. These will be credited to your achievements and special benefits will be granted later.]
Special benefits.
It seemed the system wouldn’t grant them immediately.
‘…Well, they’ll sort themselves out.’
For now, there was no rush.
There were no talents I urgently needed, and truthfully, I barely had time to fully utilize the talents I already possessed.
As I stood and made my way down from the match hall, Jeong Hae-seong approached with flushed cheeks.
“Phew, great work out there! I knew you’d win, of course, but to demolish him like that—truly, you’re the best, sir.”
“I’ll take lunch at my leisure.”
At my words, Jeong Hae-seong smiled and added his own.
“The B team arrived a little while ago. They said they’ll start filming the post-match interview right after.”
I nodded.
This had already been arranged beforehand.
The main production team had already crossed over to Europe, but the assistant director and several crew members decided to continue my narrative from here.
After tidying my appearance in the mirror, I headed out of the match hall.
Chinese journalists had been waiting eagerly for my appearance.
Beyond them, a clearly Korean film crew caught my eye.
I stood before the photo wall with ease.
A female host threw out a question with a bright smile.
“Congratulations. Making your debut with Team Seon-hwa, you’ve secured an important first victory against Lu Chuiyuan, 9-dan. Could you share your feelings?”
I took the microphone and paused to collect myself before speaking.
“…I hope the fans supporting Team Seon-hwa won’t be too overjoyed.”
“Pardon? You hope they won’t be too happy?”
As the host tilted her head in confusion, I looked away briefly, then met her gaze again.
“Didn’t I mention it?”
I spoke with a mischievous smile, meeting her eyes directly.
“That I would never lose. Especially not against someone like Lu Chuiyuan, 9-dan.”
For a moment, a heavy silence fell.
But the implication in those words rippled outward like waves.
A sharp jab—that someone who cheated and still couldn’t beat me could never beat me without cheating.
The journalists grasped the meaning, but no one dared speak first, likely wary of the China Baduk Association’s reaction.
I simply smiled calmly and continued.
“Today’s victory is nothing special. It was merely the expected outcome.”
My characteristic confidence.
And the attitude I had proven through results.
In the slightly eased atmosphere, I raised my gaze one final time.
“So Team Seon-hwa’s fans will need to get accustomed to victory now.”

* * *
Lee Ha-yul, assistant director of .
She was not from a broadcasting station.
She had built her career at an independent production company, gained recognition for her skill there, and advanced through the ranks.
‘…Kim In-ha? Quite an unusual person.’
When the production story first came up, that was the first impression she’d formed from the materials she researched.
An uncommon story—from bank security guard to the summit.
A resume where the description “genius talent” was hardly an exaggeration.
When she’d heard that a film adaptation was even being discussed, she’d certainly found him an intriguing figure.
But that was as far as it went.
Baduk.
Chess.
Archery.
Unfamiliar as these disciplines were, that world felt rather like “their own league.”
She thought it impressive, but it hadn’t really sunk in.
Kim In-ha’s interview shorts had racked up over a million views.
Even in those brief clips, he radiated talent and confidence without restraint.
‘Doesn’t it come across as a bit much?’
And yet was the program where her name would appear as assistant director for the first time.
Kim In-ha was its star.
Lee Ha-yul had tried to understand, to take it all in.
But doubt lingered in a corner of her heart.
Then today, in Shanghai, China, the first shoot of began.
And the Kim In-ha standing before her now radiated an aura she could never have imagined.
‘……What is this atmosphere?’
The Mandarin flowing from his lips.
An unwavering accent and bearing.
Even without a single exaggerated gesture, there was a subtle, magnetic pull to him.
It was nothing like what she’d seen in those shorts.
In the videos, In-ha had seemed somewhat self-conscious, cringey even.
But now, in front of her, he was different.
‘Why do my eyes keep finding him?’
Working in variety production, she’d seen countless actors.
The charisma that radiates from overwhelming beauty, that instinctive allure.
She was familiar with all of that.
But Kim In-ha was different.
He might be in good shape, but compared to actors, his looks clearly fell short.
Yet she couldn’t look away.
A small smile brimming with confidence.
A cutting remark that could circulate anywhere.
Those trivial things gathered together, creating a strange balance.
‘……Why does he look so impressive?’
The words that escaped her unaware startled Lee Ha-yul for a moment.
The figure she’d thought of as merely a subject had somehow become a complete drama standing before her.
She’d produced countless programs with major stars and watched many interviews, but this feeling was new.
Only then did she understand.
‘This person isn’t just someone who makes headlines.’
It had been a misunderstanding.
Judging him by a handful of short clips had been a mistake.
Now that she was here on set, his presence and aura washed over her in full force.
It was the sum of the path he’d walked, the confidence success had forged, and an innate charm.
‘……He was just the kind of person who becomes a drama all on his own.’
Her heart began to beat quietly, steadily.

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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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