I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 151

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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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So Much Lucrative Talent – Episode 151
The Grand Ballroom.
As I stepped inside, familiar faces stood conversing with one another.
“……The two of you are together?”
I let a flicker of surprise cross my face.
O Su and Kim Eun-woo, the two 9-dan players about to face each other in the semifinals.
I’d heard they came from the same study group, with a teacher-student relationship between them.
But today was an official match.
And they were meeting at the threshold leading toward the world championship final.
‘Neither of them seems bothered by it?’
I would have expected them to react sensitively to each other’s every word, yet both wore expressions of perfect calm.
Come to think of it, Park Sang-won had mentioned they’d even eaten breakfast together.
Reading my confusion, Kim Eun-woo smiled gently and spoke.
“O Master taught me that lesson. Never let emotions or personal relationships spill into your Baduk. He said such habits affect your game.”
O Su let out a quiet laugh from beside him.
Fine lines spread faintly at the corners of his eyes.
“……I said that to him years ago. He’s remembered it well.”
“It was your teaching. How could I forget?”
Despite myself, I smiled at their brief exchange.
Their Baduk carried within it all the time and relationship they’d built together.
That alone felt genuinely beautiful.
Moments later, a staff member from the Geumran Cup organizers approached and pointed toward the stage.
We exchanged quiet bows and headed to our seats.
“Kim Kuksoo, see you later.”
“Let’s meet in the final, two Koreans together.”
I nodded.
“Yes, please both play excellent Baduk.”
With that, I moved onto the platform.
Only two Go boards.
I took my seat across from Zhang Weitian.
Bow.
We exchanged a light greeting toward each other.
In the air that hung unusually heavy, I unscrewed the cap of my thermos and poured tea into the cup I’d brought, then took a sip.
As the warm flavor traveled down my throat, even the tension seemed to settle and calm.
In that moment, the camera lights came on and the signal for the match was given.
Without hesitation, we both set our Go stone containers beneath the right side of the board.
‘Black.’
According to statistics, White has an advantage with seven and a half stones of compensation, but the difference is marginal.
And more than anything, I prefer Black.
We bowed our heads in final respect to the game.
Click.
My first stone settled in the upper-right small point.
White responded at the upper-left star point.
The calm opening phase as we each began to unfold the fuseki we’d prepared.
But soon, the initiative for change shifted to me.
‘……Diagonal formation or parallel formation?’
Diagonal spreads across the whole board and naturally flows into mid-game fighting.
Parallel brings the struggle for initiative quickly from the start, creating an elongated board state.
Click.
My choice was parallel formation.
But not quite.
It wasn’t the star point or small point that most players favored.
‘The 3-3 Invasion.’
An early 3-3 Invasion.
Once dismissed because it secured only actual territory while surrendering influence, it had been reevaluated after AI research—a method that proved Black could hold its own even in central fighting, and one occasionally used by professional players in modern opening strategy.
It was contemporary Baduk.
“…….”
Zhang Weitian paused briefly in thought, then calmly played the lower-right small point.
The most standard joseki response in early 3-3 Invasion play.
Just by watching the tips of his fingers place the stone, I could sense how deeply he’d studied this variation.
‘Can I make the same move again in the next position?’
I picked up a black stone quietly.
With the schedule lately, concerns had grown that my Baduk research was falling behind.
Half of that was true, half wasn’t.
I had never simply sat idle.
I had no time to place stones on the board, but my mind was always playing Baduk.
I simulated the moves I kept in my head using AI at my lodging, then researched how to translate those results into actual play.
And now, the decisive move I had been saving.
Click.
Two-space spacing at the small point in the upper right.
Securing actual territory with the 3-3 invasion while expanding the central breathing room with a high reinforcement—the two-space high position.
A delicate balance that offset the handicap’s disadvantage and even shook White’s influence.
An opening that held the essence of my style, my fighting spirit, and the nature of breakthrough.
A formation that allowed for diverse variations whenever needed.
This was the answer I had refined countless times—my own answer for this day.
‘……Kim In-ha’s Dispersed Opening Formation.’

* * *
The Chinese live-streaming platform Bilibili.
The number of streamer channels run by former professional Baduk players broadcasting the Geumran Cup semifinal was nearly a hundred.
Combined, their viewers easily overwhelmed the China Baduk Association’s official channel.
Unlike the rigid, formal official broadcast, these independent streams gained explosive support thanks to their free commentary, jokes, and real-time chat with fans.
The most popular streamer by far was Ci Hao, 9-dan.
His unrestrained wit, eccentricities at tournaments, and blunt, provocative remarks kept him at the center of attention and captivated his fans.
The drawback was that he still maintained peak performance and therefore couldn’t appear directly in tournament broadcasts.
By contrast, Liang Yichuan, 9-dan, was a retired world-class player from the previous year.
His calm, analytical commentary, mixed with appropriately humorous remarks, drew popularity through a different appeal than Ci Hao.
As a strong player with world championship experience, his commentary had unusual depth, and through honest dialogue he connected with fans and quickly drew viewers.
His current broadcast had forty thousand live viewers.
They were fans who came to cheer for China’s last hope, Zhang Weitian, 9-dan.
“Ah, so this is the opening that Korea’s Kim In-ha, 9-dan, came prepared with.”
Liang Yichuan’s measured voice rang out.
“Small point and star point, plus two-space reinforcement. A subtle variation on AI standard sequences. The actual territory from the 3-3 invasion, and territory formation through two-line reinforcement…… I can see the intent to recover from the handicap disadvantage.”
Click.
At that moment, a white stone was placed on the board.
“What? Master Zhang Weitian played one-space reinforcement at the small point in the lower left without hesitation. It’s the intent not to fall behind in actual territory. In this flow, nine times out of ten it would be 3-3 invasion, but……”
Before he could finish, the prediction was wrong.
Click.
Instead of piercing the 3-3, Black extended toward the right side.
“What? This…… it’s not orthodox Chinese style, but a modified Chinese Fuseki, isn’t it?”
Liang Yichuan’s eyes widened.
“…… At first it seemed nothing special, but looking again, it’s clear. This is quite something. Chinese Fuseki disappeared because of the 3-3 invasion in the AI era, but…… it looks like Kim In-ha, 9-dan, is turning that against itself and bringing out a modified Chinese Fuseki.”
With his commentary continuing, the Chinese viewers’ reaction burned hot.
-Isn’t this obvious provocation?
-Right. He defeated Fujisaki with the Japanese Cosmic Style, and now Chinese Fuseki on Chinese soil?
-Judging by his usual behavior, seems intentional, doesn’t it?
-Is Korea a nation that can’t help but imitate China?
-It’s not just ugly, it’s appalling.
-Seriously unbelievable. To beat a Chinese player with Chinese Fuseki on Chinese land. Too arrogant.
In that moment.
Click.
Zhang Weitian, holding white, placed a cross-shaped reinforcement at the star point in the upper left without a moment’s hesitation.
A quick response.
As though it were a sequence already thoroughly researched.
Black immediately split the left side, and White attached at the 3-3 with an eye-point move, forcing Black to defend, then extended broadly along the third line on the lower side.
Liang Yichuan had no chance to continue his commentary.
The sequence was being played as swiftly as rapid-play Baduk.
“Up to this point, it’s Master Zhang Weitian’s tempo. The researched opening is solid. He responds without hesitation, as if reciting from memory.”
Liang Yichuan spoke on, his voice tinged with relief.
Contrary to the concerns, the opening’s development seemed smooth.
Unlike the “Korean-style Opening” Kim In-ha had trumpeted in interviews, his play was simply a straightforward pursuit of territory—claiming the large spaces and plugging weaknesses.
Both players avoided risky moves, laying stones with casual ease.
The shape seemed settled by the stones on the lower edge making a single-space jump toward the center.
“……Kim In-ha, this is so disappointing. Compared to his entrance match, there’s nothing here to write home about.”
-Just bluster lol
-That’s Kim In-ha’s style. Trash talk in interviews, exploit weaknesses on the board.
-Playing it dirty like a small nation would.
-No fighting, no destabilization in Kim In-ha’s Baduk? Nothing to fear.
Liang Yichuan held much the same thought.
Right now, Kim In-ha’s play was pursuing concrete, certain territory.
At this rate, it looked as though he’d have difficulty showcasing his strengths.
And yet.
‘……Why do I keep feeling something’s off?’
The sense of missing something crucial.
Even the AI analysis showed nothing remarkable.
Just then.
Tap.
A black stone landed in a place no one had anticipated.
Lower edge.
A single-space jump toward the center, forcing the white stones upward as if dragging them along—creating a shift in the pattern.
“Wait—White’s being forced to extend…… Could it be? Is he aiming for the Cosmic Style from here?”
Liang Yichuan’s eyes widened sharply.
The Cosmic Style—a technique leveraging massive influence in the center.
Though criticized as inefficient, it retained formidable strength in controlling the fighting and swaying the board’s momentum.
And Kim In-ha had a track record of seizing the Nichirenhai championship with a variant of this very Cosmic Style.
‘……The influence was bait.’
That’s why he hadn’t noticed.
Precisely because it looked so crude and transparent—he’d overlooked it.
So he’d accumulated territory through such an unsophisticated method, lured the opponent into forced invasion, and now, from that chaos, he’d create the destabilization.
If White hesitated and held back on cutting, that influence would harden into one vast territory.
“……I think we’ve been deceived.”
Liang Yichuan rechecked the AI board, his voice dropping low.
“Kim In-ha called it the ‘Korean-style Opening,’ but…… to my knowledge, not a single player in Korea plays moves like this.”
After a brief pause to collect himself, he pointed at the screen and continued.
“It’s not mere provocation. He’s simply tempting White. ‘Come in, invade, cut—do you have the confidence to win without entering at all?’ That’s what he’s asking.”
The reason the Cosmic Style had vanished was clear.
The risk of territory fighting collapsing into nothing in a single instant if influence failed to convert to actual ground.
Yet Kim In-ha was maintaining that precarious balance with masterly precision.
Liang Yichuan swallowed hard.
“……It’s not a Korean-style Opening. This is simply Kim In-ha’s Opening.”

* * *
Zhang Weitian, 9-dan.
A central pillar of the Chinese Baduk world.
Controversial Lu Chuan, 9-dan.
Ci Hao, 9-dan, with a forceful personality.
And Se Ci Hao, 9-dan, ranked number one in China.
Amid so many luminaries, few professional players maintained such stability and consistently held the top ranks.
Which spoke volumes about his status as a consummate pro—a man who’d weathered every storm.
To Zhang Weitian’s eyes, Kim In-ha’s Baduk resembled a hunter in an ancient forest, his footprints hidden.
‘A cunning predator.’
The opening Kim In-ha had produced was already thoroughly studied territory.
So Zhang Weitian had countered without hesitation.
Yet he hadn’t foreseen simplifying the opening’s form to such a degree.
‘If he were pushing toward a territory count, it’d be easier…….’
Even a tedious game was acceptable.
The Geumran Cup could not be allowed to pass to a Korean.
For him, as for China, preserving the championship by any means necessary was paramount.
‘Even so, nothing will change.’
Tap.
Zhang Weitian, 9-dan, pushed back against the Black stones he had pressed forward.
It was an audacious move—casting a stone deep into the heart of Black’s territorial sphere.
Dangerously deep.
Yet he did not hesitate.
If anything, this current of play was precisely the kind of game he had been waiting for.
White’s stones seeped into Black’s territory like a daring leap, teetering on the edge of collapse.
To those watching, it was an audacity that made the breath catch.
‘People understand it wrong.’
Breakthrough is commonly called a defensive move.
Something you execute to stabilize when an attack presses down.
Half true, half false.
Breakthrough is the perfection of an art that turns the board—sometimes the deciding blow itself.
‘……I’ll show them. That breakthrough is the greatest attack of all.’
The master of breakthrough.
Nine Deaths, One Life.
A keeper of that miraculous sense of balance—one who could resurrect even dead stones through the sheer will to survive.
Click.
His inspired breakthrough collided head-on with Kim In-ha’s 9-dan sensory attack.

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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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