I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 159

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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 159
“Finally, I’d like to hear what resolve the two players bring to this third match of the finals. Let’s start with O Su’s thoughts.”
The moderator gestured toward O Su, who picked up the microphone.
His expression remained calm and serene.
Despite everything hinging on this single game, he showed no trace of tension.
“When you work as a professional Go player, there are times when you want to play a game you really need to win.”
The event’s interpreter relayed his words in real time.
“Ah, is this match one of those times?”
The moderator matched his tone with interest.
But then something unexpected happened.
O Su shook his head.
“No. Against Kim In-ha, it’s the opposite.”
“……Sorry, the opposite?”
An answer no one had anticipated.
I turned to stare at O Su’s face, waiting for him to continue.
“I want to play a game I won’t be ashamed to lose.”
O Su set down the microphone quietly.
The moderator glanced toward the interpreter, barely concealing his surprise.
The interpreter shook his head — no translation error.
The Chinese journalists’ reactions were much the same.
An answer strange and elusive, far removed from any obsession with the championship or hunger for victory.
The hall fell into brief silence, and in that stillness, I found myself watching O Su again.
His expression held not tension or impatience, but a curious composure and resolve.
‘……I think I understand.’
What he wanted on this board, in this moment, was not a mere victory.
Win or lose, he wanted to play moves he wouldn’t regret.
“Next, Kim In-ha.”
As the still-bewildered moderator turned toward me, the microphone was placed in my hand.
Now it was my turn to answer.
I exhaled softly and smiled.
“……I feel the same way.”
My voice was low and calm, yet it resonated clearly through the hall.
“A game with beauty in its process. Regardless of victory or defeat, I won’t play shameful moves — not against O, not against the Go fans. And…….”
I paused to collect myself, deepening the smile at the corners of my mouth.
“If possible, I’d like to crown that beautiful process with a victory.”
I finished in my own way.
Camera flashes erupted that had been held in check, followed by the sound of journalists’ keyboards.
“That concludes our interview. We look forward to a masterpiece game worthy of history. Thank you.”
As the moderator spoke, O Su and I exchanged quiet smiles across the table.
The finest colors of stone, as each of us desired.
Now it was time to settle the match.
As I descended from the photo wall and moved toward the playing stage, the commotion in the tournament hall gradually subsided.
We took our seats across from each other at the board.
I sat on the right as Black; O Su sat on the left with White.
After a moment of silence, the signal to begin was given.
Bow.
After exchanging greetings, my hand slid into the Go stone container.
A single black stone caught between my index and middle finger.
I placed the stone, carrying with it the thrill of anticipation, tension, and competitive spirit.
Click.
Upper right Star Point.
Once again, I did not employ the Kim In-ha Style Opening.
Like the second match, I focused on creating a chaotic board state.
White responded with the upper left Star Point, and I chose the lower right Small Point.
A symmetric opening, like looking in a mirror.
‘I’ll read the flow from the early stages.’
Without hesitation, I invaded at the upper left 3-3 Point.
Then, to balance the position, I solidified the lower right Small Point at height.
After that, White approached the bottom edge to the fifth line, as if waiting for this moment.
So far, nothing remarkable — a typical opening sequence.
But.
‘I need to create a fracture.’
Without hesitation, I played high into the lower left corner.
A move to erase White’s shape and introduce variables.
White responded with equal force.
Not attacking the corner itself, but cutting my two black stones to pursue complex variations.
‘Thickness or territory.’
The dilemma had haunted me from the opening.
The answer was clear.
‘Territory first.’
I seized territory from the start to lighten my deficit, yielding thickness to White.
With the initiative in hand, White then invaded the upper right 3-3 point and secured actual territory, and in reaction, I gained thickness along the upper edge.
As our respective foundations took shape, the board state began to resemble the calm before a storm.
Click.
White pinned my black stone in the upper left corner with a shoulder strike.
‘It’s coming.’
The intent was to press stones on the second line for thickness while simultaneously checking my influence on the right.
Now the tedious probing phase had ended.
The prelude to the fight for initiative had opened, with both sides’ thickness as the foundation.
Click.
I stood with two stones and thrust at the diagonal.
When White blocked, I cut without hesitation.
The separated white stones in the upper region formed a floating group toward the center, but the fight was still worth pursuing.
First I forced the white stones to bunch together like a grape cluster, then pressed again toward the center.
A thick move.
But that alone was not enough.
I dug a trap against O Su, the 9-dan master called the living legend of Baduk.
An intentionally exposed weakness.
Looking only at momentum, anyone would want to cut there.
But he did not fall for it.
Click.
Instead of cutting, he played a reinforcing move, stabilizing the upper stones.
A perfect move.
‘As expected. This is not easy.’
Though my trap had failed, I smiled.
This match.
This moment.
This tension.
Black and white stones already scattered beyond any formal pattern.
Using tempo, I launched a pincer attack on White’s four stones in the upper left—what appeared to be mere influence—with a direct strike.
Two floating groups collided, each harboring the other’s weakness.
Then.
O Su’s white counterattacked, piercing my vulnerable point with a direct thrust.
‘…Excellent rhythm.’
The value of every move is determined by timing.
O Su had judged this to be the optimal moment.
A brief exchange of some ten moves.
But hidden beneath it lay nearly sixty unseen variations.
White desperately searched for escape routes within my sphere of influence, while I drove deeper into White’s sphere, sustaining the flow.
White twisted free from my sphere, and I aimed my blade from within theirs.
Ultimately the incomplete floating groups collided and spilled toward the center.
Unfinished shapes tangled together, and latent weaknesses began to tighten around each other’s neck.
Entering the middle game.
It was no longer merely confusing—it was chaos itself.
I felt the warmth of the black stone in my fingertips and narrowed my eyes to slits.
‘…The real match starts now.’

* * *
Baduk TV, tradition and prestige.
A specialized Baduk channel operated by the Korea Baduk Association.
Yet the recent viewership ratings and live viewer counts had been dismal.
There was the sensational appeal of prodigy Kim In-ha, 9-dan, and the legendary O Su, 9-dan, who alone had defeated AI, returning to the stage.
Two such titans clashing in the Geumran Cup world championship final.
The drawing power seemed limitless, and yet serious Go enthusiasts had defected en masse to Park Ji-man’s Baduk In or Jang Yu-na’s 2-dan live stream.
In the midst of this, an unexpected proposal came from the Korea Baduk Association.
A joint broadcast—in other words, shared broadcasting rights.
Ever since O Su’s match against AI, terrestrial and cable broadcasts of professional Go had all but vanished. Now, however, they had decided to air Game Three of the Geumran Cup final as a secondary broadcast on both free and cable television.
Thanks to this, the Korea Baduk Association, as the primary broadcaster, had prepared with renewed weight and purpose.
They saw this opportunity as a chance to reclaim their foothold in terrestrial and cable television once more.
“Director Song, right now Kim In-ha’s black stones are building up influence on the lower side. How should white approach the reduction?”
Moon Ga-yeon, the face of Baduk TV and its lead commentator, broached the subject with practiced ease.
“White should attach one space over and solidify. Black will naturally press back and resist.”
Song Tae-gyu, 9-dan, explained calmly, referring to the AI analysis board.
“Ah, both players are following exactly the same sequence of moves.”
Not a single move off.
A continuous stream of blue spots.
Without compromise or hesitation, the optimal moves accumulated perfectly, and the board state crystallized.
“Neither player is gaining the initiative. We’re approaching move 150, yet… the board state is extremely close. This will be decided by half a point.”
“Does that mean it will come down to the endgame?”
“Yes.”
Song Tae-gyu’s confident reply followed.
At that, Moon Ga-yeon tilted her head slightly.
“But you know, Director Song, compared to yesterday’s Game Two, today’s match feels rather monotonous. Isn’t that an unfavorable flow for Kim In-ha?”
Song Tae-gyu stared at the screen for a moment, then spoke slowly.
“That’s… half right and half wrong.”
“I’m sorry?”
Moon Ga-yeon’s eyes widened as she pressed for clarification.
The Geumran Cup was a protracted game, lasting nearly five hours per match.
With immediate communication with viewers difficult, the commentary naturally filled the silences with the rhythm of the two players’ dialogue.
“Do you remember, early on, when black forced white to cut on the upper side?”
“Yes, white defended with a reinforcing move and stabilized.”
Had O Su, 9-dan, cut with that momentum, white’s floating group would have split three ways.
An unreasonable move, by Deepstone’s assessment.
“And there’s this moment as well.”
Song Tae-gyu pointed to the lower right corner.
“The empty triangle move. There too, O Su, 9-dan, played with flexibility and passed through it.”
As the discussion approached its conclusion.
Click.
Black entered, pressing between white stones on the left side, third line, with a two-space gap.
Song Tae-gyu’s gaze grew serious.
“This move follows a similar logic.”
“Tell us quickly, Director Song.”
Moon Ga-yeon feigned impatience, lightening the mood.
“Black’s aim is simple. By making this exchange, black seeks to solidify the center.”
Black’s sequence of exchanges, layered carefully from the upper left corner.
Those three moves connected organically with one another, leading to the attachment on the left side.
Moon Ga-yeon marveled.
“Wow, black preserves the stones and seizes the initiative in the center—a brilliant breakthrough!”
“Yes, but it won’t unfold entirely as Kim intends.”
Before Song Tae-gyu could finish his words.
Click.
White withdrew to the second line, creating a pressed shape against black, and immediately captured one of black’s stones.
Perfect.
Blue spot.
Not only did it neutralize black’s setup, but it offered no advantage whatsoever—a flawless response.
“You said it yourself a moment ago, Moon Ga-yeon. Compared to Game Two, Game Three feels monotonous, unfavorable for Kim.”
“Yes.”
“But as you can see, Kim has been testing the board constantly. On the upper side, in the lower right, and this attachment now.”
Song Tae-gyu gestured at the screen as he continued slowly.
“That monotony—it was created by O Su’s perfect play.”
“Ah.”
Moon Ga-yeon let out a short exclamation.
Even watching and listening from beside the board, she grasped only the barest fraction of the game.
Moves she couldn’t have imagined were flowing across the board.
Song Tae-gyu spoke again.
“Personally, I think O Su’s response was excellent, but what’s even more remarkable is Kim In-ha.”
“……What? Didn’t you say the Destabilization attempts all failed?”
Moon Ga-yeon asked carefully.
Song Tae-gyu pointed to the AI Position Evaluation graph.
“White hasn’t built up more than barely one and a half points. And that’s despite all those failed Destabilization moves.”
“Is that so? Originally……”
Moon Ga-yeon trailed off.
When Destabilization moves fail, the risk accumulates without exception.
The board state should have widened by at least three or more points.
“It’s Destabilization that minimizes risk. Recklessness stripped away.”
“Ah.”
Moon Ga-yeon held her breath.
Each move on the board was no longer a simple stone—it was the philosophy of two masters made manifest.
“So if Game Two showed mutual influence between them, then this Game Three……”
Moon Ga-yeon’s voice dropped lower.
Song Tae-gyu, composing himself for a moment, continued at once.
“Yes. Now they’ve moved beyond learning from each other’s play… they’re taking a step further, each playing their own unique Baduk.”

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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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