I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 136

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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 — Chapter 136
Day 2.
I checked my appearance in the mirror.
Semi-formal attire with a coat draped over my shoulders.
Apart from wearing sneakers instead of dress shoes, it was a fairly formal outfit.
“……So they really are strict about dress code.”
I’d never worried about dress code at amateur Baduk tournaments.
No one cared if you showed up in jeans, a t-shirt, and a padded jacket.
But chess was different.
Even in a small-scale Open tournament, Classical events with Official Ratings enforced strict dress codes.
Apparently it stemmed from a tradition rooted in aristocratic social gatherings.
Apparently the belief was that maintaining dignity, manners, and propriety were part of chess itself.
That too, they said, came from traditions born in aristocratic circles.
After checking my appearance one more time, I left the room and headed down to the hotel lobby.
Kang Seung-hu and Sara Linova were already there, and they greeted me warmly.
“Should we head out?”
I nodded and left the hotel with the two of them.
The Cafe Chess Salon, reached after breathing in the crisp morning air.
Unlike yesterday, the hall was much quieter.
Many participants had dropped out after the Blitz and Rapid sections ended.
Then, the first thing that caught my eye was a man leaning against the bar area.
“…….”
Yakub Hromadko.
Even while making light jokes with a bartender, he glanced over at me.
His gaze and bearing dripped with blatant mockery and arrogance.
I couldn’t prevent the discomfort and prejudice from seeping in.
I briefly averted my gaze and ignored him.
“In-ha.”
Kang Seung-hu spoke quietly.
“Crush him this time.”
“That’s what I planned anyway.”
I answered shortly and nodded.
Soon I received a Score Sheet and pen from the referee and moved deeper into the salon.
The Chessboard sitting on the table.
The black pieces were scattered haphazardly, and I arranged them one by one with care.
‘I’ve developed a routine.’
Unlike Baduk, once your hand touches a chess piece, you must move it.
Returning it to its original position is not permitted.
So this time spent organizing before the match was the only moment to gather my concentration.
Bow.
A sturdily built man in his forties with a beard approached and lowered his head.
Jan Besley.
Official Rating of 1,650.
Excluding myself with No Rating, it was the lowest score in the Classical section.
Perhaps because of that.
Among all participants, he was the only one with a lower-rated opponent, and his eyes showed the determination that he absolutely had to win against me.
The resolve to achieve victory in this round with the White pieces was evident.
He offered his hand for a handshake, I accepted, and the game began.
Whoosh.
His pawn advanced.
I calmly responded and moved my pawn forward.
Seeing his next move unfold, I recognized the opening at a glance.
‘King’s Gambit.’
One of the oldest aggressive openings.
Sacrificing a pawn to aim for rapid development and the initiative—an extreme choice.
It looked flashy, but carried that much risk.
‘No need to counter aggressively.’
In Baduk, the Opening holds countless variations.
But chess is different.
With pieces limited to fixed movements within the rules, calculation and pattern matter more than freedom.
And within that gap, precision was needed to plant a trap.
I didn’t overreach.
Rather than swallow the pawn, I steadied my response and advanced methodically.
Click.
A solid, resilient move broke his momentum while sowing the seeds of counterattack.
“……!”
Jan Besley’s expression hardened in an instant.
The position unfolded in a direction entirely unlike what he’d intended.
He pushed forward with his attack, but within mere moves his structure crumbled.
The bishop’s lines choked off; the queen’s development tangled.
The knight, advanced too hastily, fell into the converging assault of my pawn and rook, losing all escape routes.
I avoided needless exchanges, slowly tightening the noose.
Like water rising from the feet to overwhelm the heart and flood the throat, his formation sank inch by inch.
Rustle.
The final move inscribed on the Score Sheet.
e1.
Checkmate.
Jan Besley’s face went pale in a moment.
The game that had begun with fervent ambition, burning bright, now lay extinguished—nothing but ash.
He lowered his head and extended his hand.
That made four wins in four games.
Four points.
‘Two rounds left.’
After a light lunch, the afternoon session commenced.
My fifth-round opponent was Mihal Stchepan.
A man in his sixties who conjured the image of a typical European gentleman.
Official Rating: 1,810.
A formidable player, ranked among the elite in the Classical section.
Yet the match ended surprisingly decisively.
I played White and opened with the Evans Gambit, an extreme variation.
A sharp opening that sacrifices the b-pawn in pursuit of swift development and aggression.
He couldn’t withstand my Move Reading.
Exchange after exchange.
And the occupation of space.
The moment rook, bishop, and queen fell in succession, his lined forehead found his hand.
After twenty minutes of deliberation, he slowly extended his hand.
“I resign.”
I met his hand and responded tersely.
“Good game.”
Then a man watching from the sidelines murmured softly.
“I don’t know why he has no rating…… but if he faces that guy, it’ll be worth watching.”
The interpreter stationed beside me whispered the translation.
“He’s saying that though he doesn’t understand why you have No Rating…… a match between you and that player would be something to see.”
I turned to look at the person he’d mentioned.
Yakub Hromadko.
Having just finished his game, he too appeared victorious.
Five wins in five games.
Five points.
The championship, then, would be decided by the winner of our match.
As the other games concluded one by one, the arbiter approached and spoke.
“If both players are ready, you may begin.”
No translation was needed.
I could gather the meaning—that we could start if both of us were prepared.
Looking back, Sara Linova gave a quiet nod, and Kang Seung-hu clenched his fist in encouragement.
Across the way, director Oh Hyeon-mu and assistant director Lee Ha-yul, overseeing the filming crew, watched intently through the camera.
And then, at last, Yakub Hromadko and I sat facing each other.
He looked down at me with half-lidded eyes, then extended his hand.
The moment I clasped it, I felt his fingers press in slightly deeper.
A grip with force behind it.
A discourteous signal.
‘…Childish, really.’
Yet I only smiled.
Just days ago, I’d checked out of the athletes’ compound.
A compound bow demands not just arm strength, but grip strength as well.
The threat posed by this much force was almost laughable.
When I showed no reaction, bewilderment flickered across Yakub Hromadko’s pupils.
But it passed quickly—he steadied his gaze and released my hand.
I took a short, deep breath and looked down at the chessboard.
‘I’m White.’
The initiative, the choice of opening—both belonged to me. I could dictate the pace.
Slide.
The pawn in front of the king advanced two squares.
White’s most conventional start.
Yakub Hromadko responded at once.
Slide.
My pawn and his faced each other across the board.
Now came the choice.
Develop a knight, and it’s the Ruy Lopez Opening.
Develop a bishop, and it’s the Italian Game or the Evans Gambit.
Expand toward the center, and it’s the Scotch Game.
The possible opening variations spinning through my mind numbered in the dozens at minimum.
Whichever I chose, I could secure an advantage.
But I didn’t.
Slide.
I advanced my king one square.
“…!”
In an instant, a low murmur rippled through the salon.
Among the spectators gathered around us, a collective intake of breath spread like a wave.
From the seat beside me came a suppressed gasp.
And then—
“To, ne!” (What, what?!)
Yakub Hromadko’s expression, from where he sat facing my move, twisted in an instant.
The Bongcloud Opening.
Water pipe and smoke—a word born from mockery.
In other words, an opening played only by someone not in their right mind.
Ranked among the worst openings in chess history, it held not a shred of rationality.
White surrenders their advantage willingly, exposing the king to naked peril—a reckless gambit.
The moment this move touches the board, the opponent cannot help but feel utterly, deliberately scorned.
Mockery.
Insult.
Humiliation.
All of it clings to this opening.
And yet I had drawn it out for one reason alone.
‘I’ll win with this.’

* * *
‘This bastard?’
Yakub Hromadko seethed with rage.
He, a mathematics student at Karel University in the Czech Republic, had taken up chess seriously only two years ago.
Yet his rating had climbed steeply.
Innate talent married to the mathematical precision of calculation—that was his weapon.
Faster than his opponent, more accurate—that was his pride.
He had no doubt he could break 2,200 points by year’s end.
And then.
‘You dare mock me with this opening?’
His gaze turned sharp as a blade, piercing Kim In-ha.
An Oriental.
With no official rating.
Daring to bring out the Bongcloud Opening here, in Prague, the very cradle of chess itself.
Long ago, the fact that he had made ‘a racist remark’ had already vanished from his mind.
No, there was never any guilt or remorse to begin with.
It was simply fact that he, a Slav, was superior to an Oriental.
His mind held only one thought: how to crush this arrogant Oriental beneath his heel.
Yakub Hromadko ground his teeth together.
Kim In-ha had already thrown away White’s opening advantage.
Because of this, he could no longer use Castling—the sole special rule of chess.
The rule that allowed the King and Rook to move simultaneously, keeping the King safe while rapidly developing the Rook, was now denied to him.
Worse still, he had moved his King early and exposed it to danger.
Then the answer was obvious.
‘I’ll crush him to pieces.’
Swift.
Yakub Hromadko did not hesitate.
He pushed his Knight forward boldly to seize the center, then opened lines with a pawn exchange.
His Bishop soon deployed along the diagonal.
Pinning the opponent’s Knight, relentless pressure.
Playing out textbook tactics one after another, he grew certain he was gradually dominating the middlegame.
‘Why? Can’t he make the game go his way?’
A smirk spread across his lips.
He’d gained material advantage through the exchanges, even forcing White’s King out into the open with a series of checks.
To any observer, Black was unmistakably in the superior position.
Anyone who knew even a little about chess would not have doubted Black’s victory in this moment.
And yet.
Swift.
Kim In-ha advanced his King one square higher, his face expressionless.
An utterly reckless and foolish-seeming move.
A line to be avoided at all costs.
The King should have retreated—instead it kept pressing forward.
‘……What is this? Is he insane?’
His first thought was incomprehension.
But as Yakub Hromadko worked through the calculations, a chill ran down his spine.
And then he understood.
That King had not arrived at its position through recklessness, but by design.
‘It can’t be…… it’s impossible.’
No matter what he played, he could no longer threaten the King directly.
Around that King, White’s Knight and Bishop and Rook had taken on strange, geometric angles.
They formed a shield wrapped around the King, while simultaneously serving as a blade piercing Black’s formation.
Yakub Hromadko bit his lip until it went white.
There was a maxim in chess: ‘The King, too, is a fighting piece.’
But that held true only in the endgame.
It was a principle that applied exclusively to the very final stages of play.
Yet in the middlegame like this, to put the King at the forefront and orchestrate all the pieces through it—
‘This… this chess…… I’ve never even heard of it.’
Irrational, preposterous opening.
The depth required to perfect such a mad beginning with this level of precision.
The dominance displayed on the board by this No-Rating, nameless Oriental had etched a single word deeply into his mind.
‘……GM.’
The title that crowned the pinnacle of world chess: Grand Master.
Right now, the Oriental before his eyes could only appear to be at that same level.

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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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