I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 150

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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 Chapter 150
Park Ji-man’s Baduk Channel.
He’d spent the entire day exhausted from broadcasting the Jinlan Cup quarterfinals, but around eight in the evening he fired up another live stream.
“Good evening, everyone. This is Park Ji-man. Tonight I’m doing a brief broadcast to preview the Jinlan Cup semifinals and share reactions from the Chinese baduk community.”
A preview—in other words, an advance look.
It was a broadcast meant to trace the contours of the upcoming semifinal match and share how China was viewing the tournament, which had become something of a Korean celebration.
‘This is one I can’t miss.’
Content that could simultaneously deliver exactly what baduk fans craved—that sharp, satisfying vindication.
This preview broadcast always drew good engagement; the view counts never disappointed.
“First, let me show you reactions from the Chinese baduk world. This is China’s largest baduk site, and… it’s like a funeral procession in there. A really long one, actually—the atmosphere is so grim it’s hard to even offer condolences.”
Park Ji-man broke into a delighted laugh.
Korea and China.
Eternal rivals in baduk.
One nation’s sorrow is another’s joy.
In recent years, Jeong Si-hu had held the world’s number-one ranking and carried the torch, but truthfully it was his show alone.
In the overall competitive landscape of international tournaments, Chinese players had always held the advantage.
But this time everything had flipped.
Kim In-ha, the “championship contractor.”
O Su, the “flawless player” returned from legend.
And Kim Eun-woo, the “eternal second-place finisher.”
Three Korean players had defeated China’s elite and earned their place in the semifinals.
“Should we look at some headlines?”
Park Ji-man moved his mouse cursor with palpable excitement.
[Kim In-ha’s Storm Flips the Board…… Chinese Baduk Crumbles Before ‘Perfect Form’.]
[Humiliation Again—Legendary O Su Topples Ci Hao…… The “Face of Chinese Baduk” Shakes.]
[It Wasn’t Just Jeong Si-hu…… Kim In-ha, O Su, Kim Eun-woo. The Decline of Chinese Baduk Begins.]
[Consecutive Defeats, Fear of Korea Returns…… Where Is Chinese Baduk’s Pride?]
[Chinese Baduk Faces Crisis of Becoming a Guest at Its Own Party…… Pressure Falls on Jang Wi-cheon.]
Even from the headlines alone, the parlous state of Chinese baduk lay bare.
“As the young people say it…… it’s pure satisfaction. That refreshing, spine-tingling feeling you get, yes? Ha ha.”
A smile never left Park Ji-man’s face.
“And if you look closely, you’ll see the Chinese media gave In-ha a new nickname. Perfect Form. It literally means ‘perfect shape,’ and it’s interestingly the opposite symbol from O Su’s flawlessness.”
Perfect Form Kim In-ha.
An ideal form created by the harmony of baduk style, human intuition, and sensual destabilization all woven together.
If O Su’s flawlessness—symbolizing AI-like precision—was one kind of excellence, then Perfect Form approached something more like artistic completion.
“And the thing about the Chinese is they’re genuinely brilliant at naming like this. Don’t you think it suits In-ha? Baduk that even absorbs its own flaws and imperfections in his own way. A fusion style that borders on art. Personally, I think it’s a perfect fit.”
-Yes, it matches Kim Kuksoo’s image perfectly.
-It doesn’t roll off the tongue easily haha, but it does sound impressive.
-Honestly, “championship contractor” felt a bit limiting. This nickname suits Kim Kuksoo much better.
-That’s what you get from a land of martial romance haha, their sense for naming is killer.
-Right, there’s no other baduk player whose style is more deserving of the word “art” than Kim Kuksoo.
-I agree. How do I put it…… there’s something moving about the way Instructor Kim plays.
As viewer comments flooded in, Park Ji-man naturally engaged with them.
And just as naturally, he pivoted to the broadcast’s next topic.
The Jinlan Cup semifinals.
First: the semifinal match between Kim In-ha and Jang Wi-cheon.
Photos of both players appeared on the monitor.
“The thing is, if there’s a silver lining, it’s that Jang Wi-cheon is one of the more courteous players among Chinese professionals. You saw the match with Ci Hao yesterday, right? He won’t throw a tantrum—slapping his own cheek, standing up and sitting down repeatedly.”
Ci Hao’s lack of sportsmanship had already earned him notoriety.
In the Kuksoo Championship finals, he’d had a quarrel with the referees over a stone placement issue, and yesterday he slapped himself across the face right before everyone’s eyes.
And that wasn’t enough—he stood to look at the board, sat back down, stood again, pacing and scattering his focus.
If someone like that had faced Kim In-ha in the match.
With the Chinese organizers at his back, there was no telling what kind of complaint he might manufacture.
Yet Park Ji-man’s expression didn’t look bright.
“……But we can’t really feel at ease, because our In-ha is quite busy, you see? Moving into the athlete’s village, shooting for that chess variety show…… and then that masked singing competition on top of it all. He barely has time to study baduk.”
His concerned words had barely finished when the chat erupted.
-Wait, singing competition? hahahaha
-……It’s Masked Singer, sir.
-You didn’t mix it up with the National Singing Championship, right?
-But you’re not wrong either.
Master Kim seems so gifted that…… he doesn’t appear to have enough time for Baduk research.
Park Ji-man smiled wryly.
It’s good that Kim In-ha draws attention and helps promote Baduk, but.
“As we saw in the quarterfinal against Woo-bin, In-ha’s opening strategy is thoroughly studied. When an opponent brings prepared moves, he’s bound to fall behind in the early game.”
That was indeed the case.
His extraordinary Move Reading carried him through the crisis, but he had to expend two-thirds of his time in the opening and midgame phases.
Had he not shaken the board with his own style in the midgame, he wouldn’t have reached the semifinals.
“Even now, In-ha’s game records are being analyzed all over the world. That’s the fate of a top-ranked professional. O Su and Jeong Si-hu have gone through the same thing.”
Park Ji-man paused, then added quietly.
“And Jang Wi-cheon…… he’s the professional most skilled at dismantling opponents through precisely tailored preparation. I can’t imagine In-ha losing, but we need to prepare for it.”
As one of Baduk’s most devoted fans.
With that sentiment of wanting him to remain at the world’s pinnacle, the first semifinal preview came to a close.
Then came the next match—the semifinal between O Su and Kim Eun-woo.
“Wow, how long has it been since two Korean players faced each other in a semifinal of a Chinese tournament…… And you know, these two are from the same research group, practically in a master-and-disciple relationship.”
A story any Baduk fan would recognize.
A clash between master and disciple.
Just like yesterday’s confrontation between Jang Wi-cheon and Ci Hao, a match between master and disciple always carried its own story and intrigue.
-Yesterday Jang Wi-cheon also showed that, and the old saying about the new waves pushing back the old seems outdated lol
-Kim Eun-woo plays well too…… but I can’t imagine O losing.
-I’m casting my vote for Master O as well.
-He wasn’t really at retirement level to begin with.
-He actually seems to be playing better now after his comeback than he did before retirement.
While most viewers cautiously predicted O Su’s victory, a single message appeared in the chat.
-And Master Kim, who brought Master O back…… who exactly is he?
For a moment, the broadcast fell silent.
The shocking reason for O Su’s comeback.
He had revealed it himself.
For one person alone.
To play against Kim In-ha in an official tournament.
A legend who ruled the world’s pinnacle, then retired in solitude.
As if finding his true match for the first time, he had returned for only one person.
Park Ji-man’s face brightened with satisfaction.
“That’s what we call romance, isn’t it? A legendary professional, meeting the one person who could shake him again.”
The viewers all agreed.
That must be why.
What everyone yearned to see most.
In a Chinese tournament.
A tale of two world-class professionals—the legend of the past and the legend of the present.
A masterpiece game that would complete that romantic story.

* * *
Jinlan Cup semifinal.
When I opened my eyes that morning, I completed my usual routine in preparation for the match.
At a table in front of the window overlooking the Huangpu River, I poured hot water into a tea kettle.
The deep fragrance of tea spread throughout the room.
I transferred the brewed tea to a thermos, then stood before the mirror one last time to check my appearance.
“All right, let’s go.”
I left the room, took the elevator down to the first floor.
The lobby, usually crowded with reporters, was surprisingly quiet.
Only the occasional guest passed through; no reporters were visible anywhere.
At that moment, Park Sang-won, an employee of the Korea Baduk Association waiting in the lobby, approached.
“…… You’re here? Right now Jang Wi-cheon is in the middle of an interview. All the reporters are gathered there.”
I nodded quietly.
One of the world’s six major tournaments, the Jinlan Cup, held in China.
And the last remaining Chinese player—Jang Wi-cheon.
It made sense that local reporters’ attention and expectations were concentrated on him.
When I arrived at the Grand Ballroom Hall, I saw Jang Wi-cheon calmly answering questions from reporters amid a barrage of camera flashes.
An expression without wavering.
A monotone delivery devoid of emotion.
A tranquility that evoked memories of Stone Buddha, who had led Korean Baduk’s golden age.
He finished the interview and spotted me standing beyond the journalists, nodding and gesturing a greeting with his eyes.
It was a gesture of respect woven through a courtesy that seemed uncharacteristic of a Chinese journalist.
Then, as though on cue, I climbed onto the photo wall following the moderator’s guidance.
In an instant, dozens of camera lenses converged on me.
I could feel, in my very skin, how intensely the Chinese press was now focused on me.
“You’ll be facing Jang Wi-cheon 9-dan from China. There’s been talk of this being a match for the ages—what are your thoughts on him?”
“He’s a true elder brother.”
“……I’m sorry?”
The journalist who’d asked the question suddenly looked dazed.
Not just him—the other reporters exchanged uncertain glances, wondering if they’d heard correctly.
I continued calmly.
“Jang Wi-cheon 9-dan is a man of noble character, and he deserves to be respected as a player.”
“……Do you truly mean that? There’s no ulterior motive here, is there?”
The expression of doubt.
Understandably so.
Until now, I had never once spoken favorably of Chinese players in any official setting.
“It’s sincere, with no hidden agenda whatsoever. He’s a player more than worthy of respect.”
In that moment, the faces of the Chinese journalists shifted subtly.
There had been a time when all Chinese media cursed my name.
The only person who, through an official interview, acknowledged my strength and showed respect during those days was Jang Wi-cheon 9-dan.
“Then what do you think of his style of play?”
“I’d say it borders on perfectionism. He’s precise, flawless. This won’t be an easy match.”
I answered with genuine conviction.
The reporters’ eyes began to shift, their uncertainty gradually fading.
They’d grasped that this wasn’t mere flattery—it was sincere admiration.
“Then do you have any secret strategy prepared for this match?”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
The journalists’ expectant gazes fixed on me all at once.
“……Japan had the Cosmic Style Opening, and China was dominated by the Chinese Opening. Before the age of AI, these two systems were the defining styles of each nation respectively.”
Before the age of AI, these two openings were the emblematic frameworks of Japan and China respectively.
Though they’ve faded with the times, they still live on in different forms.
My championship victory at the Nichirenhai with a modified Cosmic Style was one such example.
I smiled meaningfully toward the assembled journalists.
“Today, I’ll show you the Korean Opening. As for its name…… I’d be grateful if you’d give it one.”
With those words, I left only a light smile, then set down the microphone.
I rose from my seat without taking further questions.
Dozens of eyes followed me as I turned away from the murmur of Chinese journalists eager to ask more, heading toward the tournament hall.
No matter what anyone said, I was savoring this moment.

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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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