I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 153

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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 Lucrative Talent Episode 153
“……The Five Palace Crossing Brilliant Move. I never would have thought of it.”
Zhang Weitian pointed at a single stone on the board with his finger.
He traced the trajectory of the stones, pinpointing several sequences before continuing with a note of regret.
“If you’d abandoned the tail there and chosen to save only half of the large group…… we might have made it all the way to the final count.”
I nodded calmly.
“Yes, had I done that, I suspect I wouldn’t have been worse off by about two points.”
In that moment, Zhang Weitian’s eyes flickered as he looked at me.
Clear surprise crossed his face.
“You don’t mean…… you’d already read that far ahead?”
“Yes.”
I answered without hesitation.
A fight for a large group’s life and death.
A battle where the large group’s survival hung in the balance, branching into dozens of variations.
While I couldn’t claim to have read every single branch, I’d at least calculated the major lines without missing any.
‘I couldn’t have played it this way otherwise.’
The certainty that victory was possible in this fight.
Without it, this wouldn’t have been a challenge—just a reckless throw of the game.
“It was a game where losing was inevitable.”
Zhang Weitian smiled ruefully.
The wrinkles carved deep around his eyes made his expression all the more grave and dignified.
“I was confident in my escapes, but today I seem to have met the wrong opponent.”
“No, I learned a great deal from you.”
I spoke with genuine respect, bowing my head with courtesy.
It wasn’t mere formality.
It was heartfelt regard.
His escapes weren’t simple defense.
They were moves that dissolved the boundary between defense and attack, catching me off-guard more than once.
That fact opened new perspectives for both me and my game.
He rose quietly from his seat and extended his hand toward me.
“Congratulations on advancing to the final.”
“Thank you.”
I gripped his hand firmly.
With a warm smile, he turned gracefully and descended from the platform.
His departing figure was remarkably gentlemanly, radiating quiet dignity.
‘Truly a worthy opponent.’
A player genuinely worthy of respect.
If the Chinese players resembled even half of that bearing, there’d be no need for mind games in interviews or psychological warfare.
‘……But reality won’t be that simple.’
Chinese professionals tended to be free-spirited and assertive by nature.
And since they prioritized competitive drive and emotion, conflict was inevitable.
I let out a short laugh, steadied my breathing, and stood up.
On the adjacent board, O Su and Kim Eun-woo were continuing their match.
Since it was being broadcast live, I couldn’t approach closely, so I stepped down from the platform.
Just then, Park Sang-won approached with an excited expression.
“Congratulations, Kuksoo! It’s been fourteen years since two Korean players faced each other in the final of an overseas tournament. Isn’t that moving? And one of those players is you!”
“Yes…… well, it’s nice.”
I laughed awkwardly and gave a half-hearted response.
Truth be told, that wasn’t particularly important to me.
It was because my mind was entirely focused elsewhere.
“More importantly, how is the match between O and Kim Eun-woo going?”
“It’s still in progress. Would you like to take a look?”
“Yes.”
Park Sang-won led me to the broadcast booth.
I approached one of the monitors.
On the screen, O Su and Kim Eun-woo’s match was being broadcast in real time.
For a long while, I stood there in silence, studying the board state.
‘It’s incredibly close. A half-point match.’
A game where either outcome would be no surprise.
If this continued, the endgame would likely decide the winner.
Moreover, both O Su and Kim Eun-woo were specialists in the endgame.
Predicting the outcome of a half-point match was nearly impossible.
As I kept my eyes fixed on the Go board, a staff member from the Geumran Cup approached.
“Um, excuse me. There are reporters waiting outside. Would it be possible to do a brief interview?”
“Of course.”
I nodded curtly.
I wanted to keep watching the match, but there were things that needed to be done first.
Click, click.
The moment I stepped out of the tournament hall, camera flashes burst bright in front of my eyes.
Standing before the photo wall, I read displeasure in the faces of several Chinese reporters.
The atmosphere was like throwing cold water on someone else’s celebration.
The air hung heavy, and the gazes were cold.
‘The villain again, it seems.’
There was no reason to mind it.
It was the same when I first appeared on the Korean baduk scene, and in Japan, and now again in China—a familiar look that kept repeating.
“Um, Kim In-ha, congratulations on advancing to the final. Could you share your thoughts briefly?”
The moderator’s voice was perfunctory. There was no warmth in it.
Taking the microphone, I spoke calmly.
“It was a difficult match. He truly lived up to his reputation as China’s premier player. His character, his sportsmanship, his baduk—all of it deserved respect.”
A reporter in the front row raised his hand.
“You mentioned showing a Korean-style Opening. But it wasn’t as powerful as expected. It felt easily neutralized. What do you make of that?”
The question carried a blatant undertone of trying to diminish me.
I smiled briefly and paused for a beat.
“You’re seeing only the trees and missing the forest.”
“Pardon?”
“What is the definition of an opening strategy?”
The Chinese reporter’s expression stiffened slightly.
He seemed to feel that I was dismissing him as a baduk specialist and testing him.
“…It is the process of placing stones to determine the direction of the board state and to guide the flow in a favorable direction.”
“That’s exactly right.”
I nodded and smiled.
“Then surely you also saw how the stones I placed were used in the latter half of the match?”
“Well, that is…”
His lips fell silent at my question.
“This opening was a blueprint made for me. Tailor-made, if you will. And I proved it with the result. Do I need to explain further?”
“Ugh.”
His lips pressed shut, stifled.
He seemed to have no rebuttal.
I savored the moment and continued at leisure.
“As for the name of this opening… I’d like the reporter who asked the question to name it for me.”
The Chinese reporter’s face twisted as if he’d tasted something foul.
As I turned my head, another reporter raised his hand with a question.
“The Five Palace Crossing Brilliant Move. You won with this legendary technique, but I can’t shake the impression that your baduk relies too heavily on brilliant moves. What are your thoughts?”
Again, it was a question that tried to criticize my baduk as unstable.
I laughed and answered.
“It seems I’ve received a similar question before.”
I paused, as if searching my memory, then spoke clearly.
“I answered the same way then: ‘When coincidence repeats itself… that becomes skill.'”
I lowered the microphone slowly.
The front-row reporter’s expression twisted with displeasure.
He’d opened his mouth and come away empty-handed.
I naturally turned my gaze elsewhere and waited for the next question.
“Only Korean players remain in the final. O Su and Kim Eun-woo are currently in their match. Is there a particular opponent you’d like to face?”
This was a proper question.
I looked up at the ceiling for a moment to gather my thoughts, then spoke with composure.
“It doesn’t matter who advances. Both of them are genuinely among the world’s absolute best. I’ll simply do my best to win with my own baduk.”
After a few more questions, the interview moved toward its conclusion.
‘I want to finish this and get back to watching that match.’
My mind was entirely filled with the board state of O Su and Kim Eun-woo’s game.
I was about to lower the microphone and step down from the photo wall when—
“The scoring has just finished! O Su 9-dan wins by half a point!”
A Chinese journalist stopped typing and shouted with excitement.
The expressions of all the reporters shifted in an instant.
Their eyes sharpened toward me, and questions poured forth once more.
“Kim In-ha 9-dan, you’ll face the legend O Su 9-dan in the final. How do you feel?”
I picked up the microphone again.
With my left hand, which held no microphone, I slowly raised it toward the journalists.
“Can you see my hand?”
“Yes?”
“It’s trembling.”
My fingertips were indeed trembling faintly.
Not fear—but an electric thrill.
The exhilaration of being able to compete with the world’s greatest player, no—an unprecedented master whose name would live in the history of Baduk.
A smile I couldn’t contain spread across my lips.
“To compete with the greatest player, in the greatest tournament, for the championship…… it’s almost overwhelming. I can hardly wait for tomorrow.”
Click.
Dozens of camera flashes erupted at once, capturing that moment perfectly.
After the interview ended, I came down from the photo wall and walked through the hotel corridor.
Passing through the lobby on my way back to my room, something suddenly came to mind.
‘Ah, that’s right. The thermos and tea set.’
I remembered I hadn’t picked up the paper bag I’d left at the booth after my match.
I turned around and headed back to the playing hall.
In the meantime, the photo wall, which had cooled slightly when I departed, was heating up again with intense activity.
O Su 9-dan.
His first international tournament since his return a decade ago.
Having defeated his apprentice-like Kim Eun-woo 9-dan in the semifinal by half a point, he was now answering questions from Chinese journalists.
I watched from a distance.
“Your comeback has been remarkable—winning the Baduk Championship and reaching the Geumran Cup final in quick succession. One wonders why you retired in the first place. Do you have any regrets about that time?”
As the Chinese journalist’s question came through translation, O Su 9-dan picked up the microphone.
“I had no regrets. Even if I could go back to that moment, I would still choose to retire.”
“What is the reason?”
“There are several reasons, but the decisive one was that something was missing.”
The Chinese journalist tilted his head in confusion.
“Excuse me? What was missing?”
A brief silence fell, and all eyes focused on O Su 9-dan.
Without thinking, I held my breath and waited for his answer.
O Su 9-dan paused as if choosing his words carefully, then spoke slowly.
“……A player who could show Baduk different from AI Baduk, Baduk that is uniquely human.”
He took a measured breath, then looked each Chinese journalist in the eye as he continued.
“A player who could shatter my Baduk and make me grow again.”
One journalist wet his lips and asked carefully.
“Could it be that the player who made you resolve to return from retirement……”
But he stopped before finishing the thought.
Because O Su 9-dan nodded and answered plainly.
“Yes. Kim In-ha, the Kuksoo.”
In that moment, the press section stirred and erupted in murmurs.
Camera shutters clicked, and gasps escaped their lips.
And beyond that, hearing those words from a distance, I could not speak for some time.
‘……Because of me?’
I had indeed persuaded him to return several times.
But I never imagined that his true intention ran so deep, or that he would lay it bare before the press in such clear words.
Then O Su 9-dan’s gaze found me.
“……!”
A look without a trace of humor.
In that gaze, deeper and more earnest than ever, burned genuine sincerity and challenge.
‘Ah…… this is driving me mad.’
A tingle shot through my fingertips, and my mouth went dry.
O Su 9-dan.
Living history of Baduk.
Divine Calculation that transcends human Move Reading.
An unprecedented player who had broken his retirement and made his return was now singling me out.

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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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