I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 146

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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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Talents That Pay: Chapter 146
The next day.
The live video posted on YouTube spread rapidly across communities and social media.
Soon after, journalists picked it up and reproduced it as articles, decorating the portals’ main pages.
[Direct Cam: Kim In-ha, belting out “Like the first snow, touching that place”…… entire tteokbokki restaurant standing ovation]
[Unannounced guest ‘Kim In-ha’ tears it up with live performance]
[Tteokbokki shop becomes concert hall…… Kim In-ha live video views explode on social media!]
[‘In-ha Tteokbokki’ flagship location opens, Kim In-ha personally checks ‘ice cream tteokbokki recipe’ in viral video]
The response was fierce, if not explosive.
Jang Ju-young even called to say it was better than a marketing campaign that cost tens of millions of won.
‘……I did well to show my face.’
In-ha Tteokbokki, flagship location.
A franchise bearing my name, built on my mother’s flavors and recipes I’d refined myself.
I could only hope it would prosper without a hitch.
Jeong Hae-sung spoke from beyond the rearview mirror.
“We’re almost there, sir.”
I lifted my head and gazed out the car window.
Incheon Airport.
Nearly thirty years of living, and I’d had no connection to this place—until now it felt as familiar as the bus stop near my home.
Inside the airport terminal, familiar faces were waiting.
Park Sang-won from the Korea Baduk Association.
Kim Eun-woo, 9-dan, ranked third nationally.
O Su, 9-dan—the legend who declared his return and swept through the Jinran Cup domestic preliminaries to join the main tournament.
And among them, a young man in his early twenties standing with an expressionless face.
‘Byeon Woo-bin.’
Yu Jeuh-ha’s study group peer.
The promising new player who lost to me in the fourth round of the Ciel Bank Cup combined preliminaries.
That same person who had shown open hostility then—now had qualified through the preliminaries and stood here.
“Hello.”
The three men acknowledged me warmly.
“Kuksoo Kim! How have you been? We’ve been hearing the news!”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Good to see you, Kim.”
Although the three men greeted me warmly, Byeon Woo-bin’s eyes flickered away the moment our gaze met.
His slightly stiffened face betrayed discomfort.
I laughed softly and looked at O Su, 9-dan.
“Congratulations on winning the Baduk King Championship. That’s quite a comeback.”
“I was fortunate.”
O Su, 9-dan answered humbly, but I knew the truth.
‘……The gap in time didn’t touch him at all.’
To claim victory in the Baduk King Championship on the very heels of his return defied all logic.
Perhaps he was the one I should be most wary of in the Jinran Cup.
“Let’s check in first.”
As we finished ticketing and baggage check, Park Sang-won broached the subject carefully.
“……It feels strange without Master Jeong Si-hu here.”
Jeong Si-hu, 9-dan, ranked first nationally.
He had been invited as a seed for the Jinran Cup, but ultimately could not participate due to health concerns.
‘He didn’t look well at the Nichirenhai either.’
His empty spot had gone to Kim Eun-woo, 9-dan, ranked third.
“I hope he recovers soon.”
I offered my sincere wishes for his recovery.
As someone who loved and respected his Baduk.
‘……A player capable of creating a Masterpiece Game with me.’
Neither chess nor Baduk is ever completed alone.
A beauty that AI can never reach.
The highest-level game record that only humans can build.
Moves approaching art always bloom at the fingertips of two people.
Jeong Si-hu, 9-dan, was one of the rare players in the world capable of creating such a Masterpiece Game with me.
After passing security, we boarded the plane.
Our destination was Shanghai—my second visit, so it held no strangeness for me.
When I cleared immigration at Pudong International Airport, there were hardly any reporters or fans to be seen.
Most of them had already moved to the Riverside Hotel, where the Jinran Cup group drawing ceremony would take place.
Following Park Sang-won’s guidance, I boarded a vehicle arranged by the Jinran Cup organizers and arrived at the hotel.
The Riverside Hotel overlooking the Huangpu River.
The moment I stepped through the main entrance into the lobby.
Click, click.
Cameras from reporters flashed in unison toward me, and behind them, fans holding name plates and placards bearing my name filled the entire lobby.
‘What—what is this?’
Last time at Pudong Airport, there had been roughly thirty people, but this time there were well over a hundred.
Moreover, the ratio of men to women was overwhelmingly skewed toward female fans.
Park Sang-won leaned in to explain my bewildered expression.
“According to the staff, because Kuksoo Kim is affiliated with Shanghai Xian Hua, there’s also the hometown advantage, and videos from The Masked Singer appearance and the Gapjo League interview have become quite the sensation among younger audiences.”
I nodded slightly and bowed in greeting to the fans.
Then I signed autographs for as many people as I could and took photos with them as well.
Among them were fans who presented small bouquets or modest gifts.
“I’ll move these to your room right away, Director.”
Jeong Hae-sung stepped forward and carefully gathered the gifts from the fans.
The moment I finished checking in and was about to leave the lobby, my eyes met those of Byeon Woo-bin, 7-dan.
In his gaze lay not just discomfort, but envy and jealousy mixed together.
‘…Is he envious?’
It was understandable enough.
To be honest, the core fan base of professional Baduk players consisted mainly of middle-aged men with thick beards or graying hair.
Men like the Branch Manager, to name an obvious example.
So to the eyes of twenty-year-old Byeon Woo-bin, 7-dan, my presence now would naturally seem both novel and enviable.
After going up to my room, unpacking just the essentials, and changing into semi-formal attire, I came back down to the lobby.
“This way, Kuksoo Kim,” Park Sang-won gestured.
Following his signal, I rejoined O Su, 9-dan, Kim Eun-woo, 9-dan, and Byeon Woo-bin, 7-dan, heading toward the Grand Ballroom where the group drawing ceremony would be held.
A photo wall had been set up beside the entrance, and photographers and reporters were already waiting in front of it with tripods in place.
“Today’s schedule is running slightly behind, so they’ll be holding a press conference after the drawing ceremony,” Park Sang-won explained.
I nodded at his explanation and entered the venue.
A large space with a stage in the distance and circular tables neatly arranged throughout the hall.
The moment we appeared, the eyes of the Chinese players already present fixed upon us in unison.
Vigilance, or perhaps wariness.
Those gazes were cold and sharp, as if regarding a rival.
‘…They’re not looking at me.’
I turned my head to glance behind me.
O Su, 9-dan.
A presence that dominated the hall without speaking a single word.
A player inheriting the legacy of fear of Korea.
A legend who had overwhelmed China’s elite players in the national championship match known as the Shanghai Great Battle.
Many of the Chinese players gathered here had likely learned Baduk inspired by him.
And mixed among their gazes was undisguised hostility directed toward me.
‘Ci Hao, 9-dan.’
The top Chinese player who had lost to me in the National Championship finals.
Last year’s Jinran Cup champion and current title holder.
He was already grinding his teeth with sharp eyes, seeking revenge against me.
Another formidable player, Zhang Weixian, 9-dan, also held his position.
He had narrowly fallen short in the Nichirenhai, losing momentum to Fujisaki Yuya’s home-field advantage, but as befitted China’s number-two ranked player, he was certainly no one to take lightly.
And there was Se Ci Hao, 9-dan—a prodigy who had risen to China’s top ranking at merely twenty-four years old.
Replacing the slot left by the now-fallen Lu Rui-chen, 9-dan, whose cheating had been exposed, the absolute elite of Chinese Baduk were all assembled—a true “war of stars” was unfolding.
We took our seats at a circular table in the second row where the Taegeuk flag stood.
On the table lay a Korean-language brochure with the basic tournament outline.
Shortly after, a formally dressed male emcee took the stage and began the opening ceremony.
What followed was conventional but nonetheless necessary opening remarks.
Applause followed, and congratulatory remarks from a sponsor executive concluded the preliminaries.
And then, finally, the main event.
The emcee’s voice resonated through the Grand Ballroom.
“We shall now begin the drawing for the Jinran Cup Round of 32 matchups. When your name is called, please come up to the stage to participate in the drawing.”
It was nothing special—the usual procedure.
The drawing order had already been announced in advance, and seeds were automatically distributed to ensure players from Korea, China, and Japan did not face each other immediately from the Round of 32 onward.
‘I’m almost last in the order.’
I settled my mind and waited, unhurried.
“Byeon Woo-bin, 7-dan from Korea, please come forward.”
Byeon Woo-bin, making his first appearance on the Jinran Cup’s main stage, took the podium.
The number he drew was seven.
The customary questions followed immediately.
“This is your first main-bracket appearance in the Jinran Cup. Please share your aspirations.”
“I’m honored to participate in such a prestigious world tournament. If the opportunity arises… I’d dearly love to settle the score with Kim In-ha, regardless of nationality.”
‘Me?’
A stir rippled through the press section behind me.
A young player making his debut on the main stage had just publicly singled me out—no one else, but a fellow countryman from South Korea.
It was extraordinary. Rare.
‘……It seems I’ve made quite an impression.’
The next call was for Fujisaki Yuya, a 9-dan from Japan, drawn as the tenth.
The number he drew was eighteen.
“I’ll do my very best, but there’s one opponent I particularly don’t wish to face.”
“Who might that be?”
The moderator’s follow-up was met with a calm reply.
“Kim In-ha, 9-dan.”
‘……What?’
I doubted my own ears.
Another strike.
The second time already.
And from the mouth of a Japanese player renowned for his propriety.
I sat there bewildered, wondering what I’d done wrong to warrant such open, public declarations at a simple drawing ceremony.
“Next, O Su, 9-dan from Korea, please come up.”
At the moderator’s call, O Su took the stage.
The number he drew was twenty-nine.
His name plate was affixed to bracket position twenty-nine on the tournament bracket.
“The baduk world has been abuzz over O Su’s return. This is your first time in the Jinran Cup—how do you feel?”
“I was delighted to hear that we now have six major tournaments instead of just four. I intend to do my utmost to be part of the Jinran Cup’s legacy, bringing honor to its history and tradition.”
A polished answer, weighted with dignity.
This is what experience truly looks like, I thought.
“Times change, and so do the players. Is there any player in particular whose development you’ve been watching closely?”
“Yes, there is.”
He answered without hesitation.
“Kim In-ha, 9-dan. I’ve been hoping to meet him in an official match.”
“…….”
O Su looked toward me with a faint smile.
I felt as though I’d been struck three times over with a hammer.
Every tongue in the hall had turned toward me.
But the frightening part was that it wasn’t over yet.
Ci Hao, expressionless, took the podium.
The number he drew was thirty-four.
Holding the microphone, he spoke in a low, resolute voice.
“There was a player who declared he would come to take my Jinran Cup title.”
In that instant, as if by prior arrangement, every eye in the hall—players, staff, journalists—turned toward me in unison.
Ci Hao’s provocative words rang out.
“Tell Kim In-ha this: if he thinks he can take it, let him try.”
I was so taken aback that words failed me entirely.
Byeon Woo-bin, 7-dan.
Fujisaki Yuya, 9-dan.
O Su, 9-dan.
And Ci Hao, 9-dan besides.
Every player who had fallen to me in the past was now sharpening their teeth to take me down.
I’d become the common enemy.
Yet that bewilderment and shock lasted only a moment.
‘……Why am I enjoying this?’
My heart quickened, and tingles ran through my fingertips.
Not fear. Exhilaration.
Not pressure—anticipation.
A stage where everyone comes at me, all eyes on my board.
Could there be a moment more thrilling than this?
Just as I felt the smile breaking free across my lips, the announcer’s voice rang out.
“Kim In-ha, 9-dan—please come forward.”
I stepped onto the platform, meeting the flood of gazes head-on.
The drawing ball in my hand bore the number 5.
The moment I set it down, silence fell across the hall.
Almost at once, the microphone was placed in my hand.
“……You’ve been publicly named by Korean, Chinese, and Japanese professionals in succession. How do you feel about that right now?”
I steadied my breath and opened my mouth with measured calm.
“Until not long ago, I was still in the position of the challenger.”
My voice carried through the hall.
“But now……I find myself in the position of being challenged.”
I savored this moment.
The moment I became everyone’s target.
Not with empty bravado, but with genuine belief.
“Come challenge me with all your might. But the outcome, I’m afraid, is already decided. I simply hate losing.”
Walking the razor’s edge between confidence and arrogance.
That precarious statement sent a ripple through the hall.
I smiled lightly and lowered the microphone.
And that smile lingered in the hall like a long, resonant echo.

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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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