I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 156

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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 · Episode 156
Huangpu River embankment.
My breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.
Cold river mist brushed against my face, and a ship’s horn cut through the still morning air as it glided across the water.
But I didn’t slow my pace.
Sweat beaded on my skin, and my heart hammered in my chest.
Just as that heat began to ease the tension in my shoulders, I came to a stop.
“Hah… hah. Now that’s refreshing.”
I stretched languidly, watching the morning sun break over the far side of the river.
Yes—yesterday, I’d lost.
My first official match defeat.
Anyone who said it wasn’t a shock would be lying.
But I hadn’t let myself become consumed by that loss. My grip on my emotions was too firm for that.
“…Well, I found the answer, at least.”
I murmured the words softly, a smile playing at my lips.
Last night, back in my hotel room, I’d reviewed O Su’s moves stone by stone.
Every single one of his plays had been textbook perfect.
He’d completely shut down my destabilization attempts, offering flawless, airtight responses with not a flaw in sight.
So I’d thought hard.
How could I win against that?
And in the end, I’d found it.
An answer that didn’t exist in any AI reference, in any established variation.
A path only I could find, one only my own intuition could forge.
That realization struck at my heart not with the sting of defeat, but with a strange, electric thrill.
“Time to head back… hm?”
Buzz.
My smartwatch vibrated against my wrist.
I glanced at the screen. It was Yeon-hee.
Yeon-hee: Thought of you on my way to work! Senior, fighting!
“What is this?”
I laughed before I could help myself.
A single, purposeless line.
Yet the genuine encouragement woven through it came through crystal clear.
Still smiling, I pulled out my smartphone and scrolled through the flood of accumulated messages.
Since yesterday, texts, DMs, and chats had poured in relentlessly.
Jung Soo-yeon: I’ve acquired a rare vintage wine—Château Margaux. Seems more suited to a celebration than consolation, don’t you think?
A woman with real taste.
To phrase a “you’d better win” so elegantly—that takes skill.
Yu Jeuh-ha: Big brother, I’m certain you’ll win Game 2!
Yu Jeuh-ha had sent not many words, but a photo taken with the Saeki Dojo’s students instead.
On the poster board they held was written in bold letters: “Inha Sensei, the Best!”
Branch Manager: Kim, forget about defeat. To me, your baduk is still the greatest.
Always there in the background, offering quiet support.
I made a note to myself once more that I’d visit him next time I returned home.
And finally, one message from my father—a man who’d always been sparse with words—caught my eye.
Father: I’ve lived my whole life losing. But to these eyes, you are my greatest pride.
The weight of that message, the consolation woven through with my father’s own life, struck deep into my chest.
“…This way, I can’t afford to lose anymore.”
I muttered the words to myself like an incantation.
Ding.
Another notification arrived—a keyword alert from a news portal.
[Geumran Cup Finals Game 1: Prodigy Kim In-ha’s First Defeat… Winning Streak Halted.]
[Kim In-ha 9-dan’s Shocking Loss… Can He Find His Way Back With One Decisive Move?]
[O Su 9-dan Delivers Flawless Performance Despite Absence… Kim In-ha 9-dan Faces Critical Moment.]
Standing still, scanning the headlines, I found myself laughing instead.
It was strange.
When I read the words others used—crisis, anxiety, comeback potential—my blood quickened in my veins.
I tilted my head back slightly and drew in a deep breath of cold air.
“Let’s win the way I always do.”
Watching the morning sun break over the Huangpu River, I started running again.
Every thud of my footsteps echoed beneath me, and the tension and thrill within coalesced into something singular.
That sensation—it made me feel alive.

* * *
Park Sang-won, staff member of the Korea Baduk Association.
His primary role was serving as escort and interpreter whenever professional Baduk players participated in overseas tournaments.
He’d been doing this work for over a decade, yet situations like this always left him at a loss.
The Geumran Cup finals.
A direct confrontation between the Divine Calculator O Su, 9-dan, and prodigy Kim In-ha, 9-dan.
Yesterday’s result had been a shock no one could have easily predicted.
“…I wonder if Kim is holding up all right?”
Park Sang-won fiddled absently with his smartphone in a corner of the lobby, muttering to himself.
He’d witnessed it countless times across international tournaments.
How the world’s finest competitors crumbled under the weight of a single defeat.
And for Kim In-ha, 9-dan, this was his first professional loss.
An overwhelming one, at that.
He knew far too well what toll such a defeat took on the mind.
Just then, the elevator doors slid open.
“O Su, sir.”
O Su, 9-dan, wore an expression no different from yesterday.
There was neither the flush of fresh victory nor the tension of facing his first world championship since his return from retirement.
“As you requested, I’ve arranged for him to take only one interview question.”
“Thank you.”
O Su, 9-dan, smiled thinly and bowed his head.
Park Sang-won, walking alongside him toward the game hall, spoke up.
“Sir, you truly are remarkable. Coming back and immediately winning the Baduk King Championship, then defeating Kim in Game One of the Geumran Cup finals.”
O Su, 9-dan, stopped in his tracks.
“I’ve won only one match.”
“Well, yes, but…”
Park Sang-won trailed off.
“And it may well be my final victory.”
“…I’m sorry?”
“He is that kind of player. Kim In-ha.”
O Su, 9-dan, offered a knowing smile, then turned toward the photo wall.
As he took the stage, a barrage of camera flashes erupted from the Chinese journalists.
The moderator posed a question.
“You’ve won Game One of the finals. How are you feeling, and what is your resolve for today?”
Park Sang-won translated, and O Su, 9-dan, picked up the microphone and answered with composure.
“Whether it’s the finals or not is unimportant. I always try to approach each match with the same mindset. Today, too, I prepared to play my best Baduk against the strongest opponent. Thank you.”
It was nearly a textbook answer.
Disappointment flickered across the journalists’ faces, but professionals minimizing interviews before the finals was hardly unusual.
‘…Though Kim is the exception to that rule.’
But that was only when he’d been winning.
What he might do after a loss was impossible to predict.
Ding-dong.
At that moment, Kim In-ha, 9-dan, emerged from the elevator into Park Sang-won’s line of sight in the lobby.
“Huh? What—?”
Park Sang-won’s eyes widened in an instant.
The expression on Kim In-ha, 9-dan’s, face as he approached was far too serene.
That same unhurried smile, as always.
Yet it carried something natural within it. Remarkably so.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Kim In-ha, 9-dan, who had noticed him first, asked as he greeted him.
“Oh? No, no… it’s just that you seem exactly as you always are.”
Park Sang-won laughed, flustered.
“There’s no reason to be otherwise.”
Kim In-ha, 9-dan, advanced toward the photo wall with an easy smile.
“I’ll take two questions.”
“Yes, yes.”
Park Sang-won nodded and stole a glance at his profile as they walked down the corridor.
‘He doesn’t seem to be forcing it, doesn’t seem to be just pretending everything’s fine.’
The moment Kim In-ha stepped onto the photo wall, Chinese journalists began snapping their shutters without pause.
Yet owing to the peculiar circumstances surrounding Game Two of the finals, the atmosphere was surprisingly restrained.
As Kim In-ha took his place at the center of the photo wall, the moderator raised the microphone.
“You lost Game One of the finals yesterday. That loss could weigh on you—do you have confidence you can bounce back today?”
He accepted the microphone with a gentle smile.
“Yes. If I didn’t have that confidence, I couldn’t be standing here smiling.”
Laughter rippled through the reporters at his deft reply.
A Chinese journalist, called upon by the moderator, posed the next question.
“O Su’s baduk plays like AI—flawless, without flaw. Do you have any special strategy prepared?”
He paused as though thinking, then nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
Kim In-ha smiled faintly.
“Baduk that only I can play.”
He paused, then offered the Chinese journalists a deeper smile.
“You’re welcome to expect an interesting match today.”
He handed the microphone back to the moderator and bowed his head lightly.
Then he descended from the photo wall and made his way toward the game hall.
……
Park Sang-won’s eyes widened, blinking rapidly.
Watching Kim In-ha’s receding figure, he murmured to himself.
‘That’s not false confidence.’
There was no shadow of defeat in his face.
If anything, he looked harder than yesterday, more luminous.
Having watched him since the Nichirenhai, Park knew that Kim In-ha always proved his words on the baduk board.
‘I’d forgotten. Forgotten who he really is.’
That this was who he’d always been.
Why O Su had reversed his retirement to make his comeback.
Why the world’s elite players never let their guard down against him even once.
All the reasons condensed into that single receding figure.
‘This baduk… I can’t predict it to the end.’
Park Sang-won exhaled quietly.
Now he was not a Korea Baduk Association staff member, but for the first time in a long while, simply a baduk fan whose heart quickened.
Waiting earnestly for the match about to unfold.

* * *
The moment I entered the game hall, the texture of the air changed.
Whether it was the lighting or the subtle atmosphere of the tournament hall, it was that familiar tension.
‘He’s there.’
Today, O Su was sitting in proper seating not below the platform but above it, waiting.
I walked toward him without hesitation and bowed to O Su across the board.
“Thank you for a good match today.”
When I extended my hand, he smiled and clasped it.
“Yes, let’s play some fine baduk.”
I nodded and took my seat.
No further words were necessary.
From here on, we would exchange over two hundred stones and tell our story through victory and defeat.
Shortly after, the match signal dropped.
Without hesitation, we both lowered the go stone containers beneath the board.
As I opened the lid, black stones lay within.
‘Black.’
In Game One, the system draw had given me white, so by regulation I’d play black in Game Two.
I placed a black stone between my index and middle fingers and set it on the board.
Tap.
First move: upper right star point.
He’d likely anticipated a Kim In-ha style opening, but I twisted it decisively.
‘He’s already researched the refutation method.’
I’d felt O Su’s terror well enough in Game One.
From the very opening, he’d responded perfectly to every variation.
No hesitation, not even five seconds—a move played without time consideration.
It was the mark of preparation, the solidity that comes from accumulated experience.
‘I have to avoid predictable Baduk.’
Black held the advantage in that respect.
With the initiative in hand, there was room to explore diverse variations in the opening.
White’s diagonal star point followed next.
After that, we each secured small point openings side by side.
A mirrored opening.
Matching corner formations on both sides.
I extended a straight line across the small point rather than the 3-3 point.
White defended the corner with a garlic-bulb shape.
Once the joseki settled into form, White invaded the 3-3 this time.
‘Thickness over territory.’
With White stones already in the upper-left corner, I extended straight out rather than forcing a harsh block.
And then.
Tap.
I deployed the formation widely toward the right side.
A variant of the low Chinese style.
White, as if waiting for this moment, tapped back against the four-point head.
Black claimed influence and thickness on the right side.
White secured territory along the top edge.
There was some burden from the handicap, but so far the opening structure was unfolding as I intended.
‘Placing strength in the midgame rather than the opening.’
I felt it again in yesterday’s match.
The way to bring out my style best was not Baduk centered on territory.
Tap.
I immediately extended a straight line across White’s star point in the lower-left corner.
Most modern Baduk flowed counter to the 3-3 invasion.
“…….”
O Su paused for deep consideration.
As he counted variations and read the board state, he attached with a garlic-bulb shape just as before and jumped one space.
Baduk pursuing territory.
By standard joseki, I would now extend three spaces along the bottom to finish.
That would let me build a great sphere of influence connecting the bottom and right edges.
But I didn’t make that choice.
Why?
Simple.
‘Not enough variation.’
The black stone I released expanded unexpectedly toward the left side.
A large space—but one that probed the weakness of White’s three stones in the lower-left corner.
How much longer did O Su ponder this unexpected move?
Tap.
As if he couldn’t surrender in momentum, he attacked my two stones in the lower-left with a pincer.
‘……It’s here.’
My heart raced a beat faster.
More complex Baduk.
More turbulent Baduk.
More chaos sweeping across the board.
And yet—a fighting rhythm that prevented White’s shape from solidifying, leaving traces to cut through.
All of this was how my Baduk lived and breathed.
A world made by my alone sensibility, one you could never reach through rules and safety alone.
I picked up a black stone as if I’d been waiting for this moment.
This game…… starts now.

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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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