I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 158

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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 Money-Making Talents 158
Bilibili, China’s leading live-streaming platform.
Liang Yichuan, 9-dan, one of the top two Baduk streamers, had not shaken off his expression of shock throughout the entire commentary.
“……As you can see, the exchange on the upper side becomes the pretext for White’s floating group having no way to survive.”
He checked the Deepstone reference board and explained calmly and methodically, matching the viewers’ level of understanding based on standard sequences.
“Even if you push here, Black will squeeze. It doesn’t give two points. And playing out here makes even less sense. This is……just a dead end.”
Though he tried to explain as simply as possible, an awkward smile spread across his lips.
‘Even I’m getting confused by this.’
Out of view on the broadcast, he had no fewer than four Deepstone reference boards open simultaneously.
A position with the life and death of the large group at stake.
The variations were that complex, the reading that demanding.
If even he—once a world-class master just years ago—found it this difficult, the viewers’ sense of bewilderment ran even deeper.
-Ugh, this is so hard.
-So basically Kim In-ha read out over 20 moves ahead and played there?
-Looks like it.
-And O Su saw no way out and just threw in the towel?
-Yeah. Both of them are insane. We ordinary people can’t keep up.
-But it felt like Master O was a bit hasty—there still seemed to be a few more variations to explore.
-What would amateurs like us know……the realm of mastery is truly a battle of immortals.
-Still, it does seem like a pretty quick resignation.
Liang Yichuan, glancing at the chat, spoke as if sighing.
“Ah……I think many of you may be misunderstanding something.”
The moment he opened his mouth, the chat flooded with endless question marks.
In an instant, tens of thousands of eyes converged on him through the camera.
Liang Yichuan moved his cursor and brought up the Deepstone reference board on the broadcast monitor, enlarging it.
“As you can see, every variation changes depending on White’s response. Even at a conservative estimate, there are six different variations. And the move reading that branches from there spans at least 15 moves or more.”
He stared intently at the screen for a moment, then continued in a low but resolute voice.
“These two players didn’t read just 20 moves. They had already completed reading of at least 100 moves or more before arriving at this conclusion.”
Amateurs cannot follow a professional’s move reading.
But even that professional, compared to world’s elite masters, falls short by a step.
Here, that “step” is not a simple single move.
It is a move that ordinary professionals could never conceive of—moves they cannot read.
Kim In-ha, 9-dan, and O Su, 9-dan, had not placed stones, yet they had already exchanged hundreds of moves with each other through those steps.
“Could he have played more? Didn’t he give up too easily? Such comments do not apply to these two players. Their baseline is simply different. That assumption is meaningless—mere stalling for time.”
Though invisible to the camera, Liang Yichuan’s fingers gripping the mouse trembled faintly.
“So he resigned, O Su, 9-dan. Without a shred of hesitation.”
Kim In-ha, 9-dan, who read every variation beyond the 21st move and throttled White’s large group.
And O Su, 9-dan, who foresaw that catastrophe and resigned without the slightest reluctance.
The gleam in Liang Yichuan’s eyes deepened as he gazed upon the board these two had completed.
“I’m envious. To meet a true rival who understands each other so perfectly, and to play such a masterpiece……”
Once, he too had stood among the world’s elite.
Yet he had never found it.
A true rival—one who recognized and drew out the best in each other, while competing with unmatched ferocity.
Choosing his words, he smiled ruefully toward the screen.
“……The fact that two such players emerged in Korea, not China, is truly bitter.”

* * *
‘……He resigned?’
I was dazed for a moment.
It was certainly the move that sealed White’s large group’s fate.
The sequence flowing from the upper side, the move completed by accepting losses and shoring up the weakness.
‘……Well, I would have resigned too.’
That was the feeling.
Understanding each other’s moves, searching together for something beyond them.
‘Baduk feels fresh again.’
And more than anything, the fact that it had brought victory in Game Two filled me with joy.
Now one win, one loss. Even.
The defeat from the first day had already evaporated, and instead, a confidence surged up that with this momentum I could claim Game Three as well.
When the tournament arbiter confirmed the result and turned away, O Su, 9-dan, opened his mouth quietly.
“This position on the upper side……I only grasped it when you played here.”
He pointed his finger directly at the black stone on the upper edge.
“But by then it was already too late. Once the upper edge was breached, there was no chance of victory.”
Despite the loss, his voice during the post-game review carried neither regret nor disappointment.
If anything, a subtle pleasure seemed to shine through.
“So I was simply one move ahead, then.”
I smiled with humility.
“……One move, I see.”
O Su nodded along with a soft laugh.
“It was the move that decided the match.”
He offered me sincere praise without reservation, his eyes steady on mine.
I bowed my head.
“Well played.”
“Well learned.”
We exchanged courtesies with matching bows and a handshake.
O Su rose first, descended from the platform, and made his way straight out of the playing hall.
I watched his retreating form for a moment, then drained the last of my tea and gathered my bag to follow.
“Thank you for the match, Kuksoo Kim!”
Park Sang-won approached with a visibly lighter expression.
Come to think of it, that’s quite a demanding profession.
Having to read the mood of professional baduk players whose fates hang in the balance.
“Masters really are a different breed. I thought you could play dozens more moves…… I never dreamed O would resign.”
“I know. I was honestly surprised too.”
I smiled humbly, and Park Sang-won smoothly changed the subject with a grin.
“You’ll be doing interviews?”
“Yes. I have to.”
I nodded and made my way out of the playing hall.
At the photo wall, I caught sight of O Su finishing his interview, offering a brief farewell.
Like me yesterday, he had offered only his brief impressions without unnecessary elaboration.
‘Neat and tidy, that one.’
The moment he left, the attention of the Chinese press naturally turned to me.
I took a breath at the photo wall before stepping up.
The moderator fired off a quick question.
“Congratulations. Having overcome your loss in Game One, you’ve now won Game Two. May we have your thoughts?”
I paused to gather my words, then picked up the microphone.
“It was a difficult match. But I won, and I’ve earned the chance to play the third game. I’m satisfied with that.”
My voice was calm.
It was too early to celebrate.
It was only one victory—the real championship still lay ahead.
The reporters’ questions continued.
“O Su’s resignation was unexpected. Many fans believe you could have played dozens more moves. Don’t you think it was premature?”
“No. I would have resigned too.”
I answered without hesitation.
“There are moments when you can see the end without laying another stone. Today was one of them.”
Tap, tap.
Before my words had even finished, the reporters began typing furiously in unison.
It seemed they didn’t want to miss a single quotable remark alongside the game details—something to make headlines.
Another journalist raised his hand.
“What do you think was the key to your victory in Game Two?”
I steadied my breath and spoke slowly.
“Match rhythm.”
“……Match rhythm?”
I nodded quietly.
The sense and timing of how you manage a game.
When to engage in battle and when to retreat.
The ability to read the whole flow—knowing when to concentrate your strength at which moment.
“Yes. The timing of regaining the upper edge and seizing control of the great stone group. It was merely a difference of one breath, but…… I believe that decided the match.”
The expression on the Chinese journalist’s face flickered with incomprehension.
The term “match rhythm” itself was too abstract.
But for anyone who had played baduk, or certainly anyone of professional caliber, the meaning could not be lost.
A simple sequence of moves.
A natural response.
Faint composure.
These small differences accumulated into one of the absolute benchmarks that separated victory from defeat among the world’s elite players.
“If you win the next three matches… you’ll have championships in three of the six major international tournaments. Are you confident?”
“My answer is always the same.”
I paused to steady my breath, smiled, and answered briefly.
“Yes. Winning is my profession.”
The moment those short, decisive words left my lips, a barrage of camera flashes erupted alongside the furious clatter of keyboards.
I said nothing more.
I set the microphone down quietly and descended from the photo wall.
Now came the time to prepare for tomorrow’s match.

* * *
The routine after a match was always the same.
Back in the hotel room, I’d review the day’s game move by move; afterward, I’d take a light dinner at the hotel restaurant, then walk through the streets to clear my mind.
Returning to my room, I’d empty both body and spirit, maintaining peak condition before sleep.
But yesterday had been different.
“Hae-sung, shall we go eat kimchi stew?”
Seven days in Shanghai now—from the Round of 32 straight through to Game Two of the finals.
After nothing but rich Chinese food, I’d suddenly craved Korean cuisine.
I’d finally tracked down a Korean restaurant and stepped inside.
Kimchi stew, mung bean pancakes, sliced pork belly.
As the familiar flavors spread across my tongue,
the drained spirit within me seemed to refill slowly, deliberately.
After filling myself thoroughly and returning to the dormitory, sleeping deeply, I woke to morning light.
My body felt lighter, and my depleted condition seemed to shoot upward.
All the tremendous mental stamina consumed in a single match—it felt completely recharged.
“Perfect.”
I stood before the mirror and carefully inspected the business suits
I’d worn in Games One and Two.
Then I made my way down to the lobby earlier than usual.
The lobby, which would normally be bustling with Chinese journalists and staff, was strangely quiet today.
Everyone was at the venue where the stone color draw and brief press conference would take place before Game Three.
As I walked down the corridor and entered the playing hall, the Chinese journalists all turned their heads at once to look at me.
Some were even capturing my every step in photographs.
As I approached the platform, O Su and Park Sang-won stood waiting for me.
“You’ve arrived!”
Park Sang-won greeted me first with a bright smile.
“Hello.”
I smiled in return and bowed slightly.
O Su also smiled gently and took my hand.
A brief but weighty handshake.
His eyes still held the sharpness of a competitor, yet beyond that gleamed genuine pleasure.
“I look forward to a good match today.”
“…Yes, I do as well.”
Releasing the handshake, the referee approached and guided us to the photo wall on the platform.
Our images soon appeared on the projection screen that dominated one wall of the playing hall.
The moderator’s voice filled the Grand Ballroom.
“…We will now proceed with the stone color draw for Game Three of the Geumran Cup finals. Kim In-ha and O Su, please come forward.”
We walked forward side by side to stand before the platform.
As if they’d been waiting for this moment, the journalists captured us in their shots.
“Only the final decisive game remains. Which color would you prefer—black or white? We’d like brief comments from both of you.”
The microphone was passed to O Su first.
“…I’ll choose white.”
A natural choice.
Seven and a half points komi. And it suited O Su’s Baduk style—one that pursued perfect precision.
When the microphone came to me, I answered without hesitation.
“Black.”
First move—an advantage that could overcome even the burden of the komi.
That would best bring out my Baduk.
“The two players’ opinions differ. Let’s proceed directly to the stone color draw.”
As the host finished speaking, the referee reached into the Go Stone Container and grasped a handful of stones.
The gesture was displayed to the audience through the projection screen.
“O Su, 9-dan—please make your call.”
According to regulation, O Su, 9-dan, who had not held Black in the previous game, received the choice.
“Odd.”
The referee opened his palm and counted the Go Stones.
Seven.
Odd.
“O Su, 9-dan, will take White. Kim In-ha, 9-dan, will take Black!”
As the host’s voice rang out, O Su and I locked eyes at precisely the same moment.
In that brief instant, the same smile crossed both our lips.
Now, each of us holding the stone color we had desired, the time had come to decide everything.

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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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