I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 24

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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 Talent That Pays 024
Hello, this is Jang Pilju from the Korean Baduk Association. Do you have a moment to discuss your participation in the Ciel Bank Cup Amateur Selection Tournament?
I paused to collect myself.
The Korean Baduk Association.
They host and oversee domestic baduk tournaments.
They manage the professional advancement and rank promotions, rankings, and everything else related to Korean baduk.
“Yes, of course.”
The moment I heard the name Korean Baduk Association, my mind cleared.
Half hope, half tension.
Had I been waiting for this call all along?
Yes, as it happens, you’re currently ranked 2nd in the Amateur Ranking, making you eligible for the Ciel Bank Cup Amateur Selection Tournament.
I turned the number over in my mind.
Ranked second.
Perhaps it was the prestige of the Presidential Cup.
My ranking points had shot straight to the top tier.
First place was still Park Junsu, no doubt.
The selection tournament will feature the top 30 amateur rankers and the top 42 research students affiliated with the Korean Baduk Association, with a total of 9 advancing to the Unified Preliminaries.
I listened to the explanation calmly.
The amateur selection tournament was literally a gatekeeping stage.
Nearly four hundred professional players from around the world would compete in the Unified Preliminaries.
This was where we confirmed our right to stand on that stage.
For now, I just need to confirm your intention to participate.
There was no reason to hesitate.
“I’ll participate.”
Excellent.
Over the phone, Jang Pilju laughed lightly.
I’ll send you the detailed schedule and location by text. Again, congratulations.
I hung up and leaned against the hallway wall for a moment, catching my breath.
It carried a different weight than amateur tournaments.
The realm of enlightenment itself—9-dan.
The world’s top-tier players.
The same stage as them.
Of course, that was only possible if I advanced through the Unified Preliminaries.
‘Just make it through and that’s that.’
My heart pounded.
Anticipation and tension tangled together, warming my chest in a strange, electric way.
I slowly lifted my head.
Beyond the hallway walls, ordinary life flowed on as always.
But.
I felt like I was walking down a different path now, bit by bit.

* * *
Leaving work.
The moment every office worker waits for.
I was no exception.
Except.
‘Today I was waiting for it even more.’
The familiar evening commute visible through the car window didn’t register.
My mind was entirely occupied by.
The new computer that had arrived at my place this afternoon.
‘Finally I can practice against the AI.’
The corners of my mouth rose quietly.
Artificial intelligence.
The shock I’d felt from my game against Wolongja was still vivid.
Following that match, I’d asked Jang Yuna 2-dan to teach me how to use AI.
But the problem was.
‘My laptop was way too old.’
It was absolutely unusable.
It would lag dozens of seconds, sometimes minutes, for each move.
And the calculation was so slow that the AI’s suggested moves were limited.
The computer would even lag from the overload, leaving it unable to make the next move—a not uncommon occurrence.
So I finally bought a new one.
Spending nearly two million won.
A substantial sum, to be sure.
‘But this is investment, not consumption.’
Playing against an Artificial Intelligence isn’t mere entertainment.
According to Jang Yuna, even world-class professional players train and study through Artificial Intelligence.
I’d always relied on talent, playing Baduk alone all this time.
‘I have to change.’
[A new possibility for talent growth has been discovered.]
Beyond A-grade.
I was certain that Artificial Intelligence would open that possibility for me.
—Next stop……
The bus pulled to a halt at the stop in front of our house.
I practically sprinted up the hill.
“I’m home.”
“Welcome back. Yes, yes. I’m listening.”
The moment I opened the front door, my mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen.
Even after I’d finished my greeting, her quiet conversation continued.
“……I understand. I’ll stop. I apologize.”
My feet, which had been heading toward my room, naturally veered toward the kitchen instead.
My mother’s face was heavy with worry.
“Are you hungry? Go wash up. I’ll have dinner ready.”
“Is something wrong?”
My mother hesitated a moment, then spoke.
“That restaurant…… I quit.”
The words came out of nowhere.
“Why? You said the owner was good to you.”
“He was running the place so carelessly. Using expired seasoning, cooking oil past its date—he just didn’t care. I told him several times to throw it out and buy fresh stock.”
My mother pulled out some side dishes and let out a bitter laugh.
“So he told me to quit.”
“That’s his reason for firing you?”
“Right.”
I couldn’t believe it.
Respecting expiration dates is basic sanitation.
“Did you report him?”
My mother shook her head.
“It was a place I worked, after all…… I couldn’t do that.”
Her words sent a hollow ache through my chest.
“Mom, you can’t just let that go.”
“I know. I do know……”
My mother exhaled a long sigh.
“I miss the days when I had my own shop.”
She turned her head toward the refrigerator.
Family photos lined it—kindergarten, elementary school, portraits with us in school uniforms.
In the background of those photos, a sign read “Inha Tteokbokki.”
The tteokbokki shop my mother had run for over a decade.
When we were young, the three of us lived in a small room in the back of that shop.
Memories of playing in the corner, doing homework, eating tteokbokki.
With the money from that business, she’d managed to secure this house.
But four years ago.
The building owner, who’d been raising rent every year, ordered her out.
My mother, unable to resist, decided to close the shop.
What stung more than being told to leave was the owner’s greed—wanting to squeeze out a few more won.
He took over the shop himself and started his own business there.
And now, it was on the verge of collapse.
“Inha. That shop…… should I try again?”
“Where? The tteokbokki shop?”
“Yes. He called again yesterday. He says he’ll hand over all the fixtures and equipment. Asking if I’d want to reopen.”
The words she’d let slip yesterday over beef came around again.
Hearing it again only made me angry.
“Now, of all times? When did you chase her out?”
“Looks like she’s on the brink of collapse. The building’s falling apart, and there’s hardly any customers.”
Mother’s eyes wavered.
No key money required.
The landlord was even offering to lower the monthly rent.
That place where she’d once succeeded.
A shop filled with memories above all else.
It seemed some part of her still wanted to try again, to make it work.
“Mom, you always said it yourself — you don’t go back into a business graveyard.”
“I did. But…….”
Mother trailed off, her fingers fidgeting with the lid of a side-dish container.
Anyone could see she wanted to try again.
‘What do I do?’
I’d watched the tteokbokki shop succeed,
and I’d watched the ribs restaurant—prepared with Father’s entire severance—collapse into ruin.
So I was even more cautious.
The words wouldn’t come.
I couldn’t judge what was right.
And yet.
‘I want to tell her to give it a try…….’
My mind pulled in opposite directions.
As her son, I wanted to see her smile again.
But just as much, I didn’t want to watch her fail a second time.
Still, Mother wanted this.
And with the extra income from Baduk now, we were beginning to breathe a little easier—maybe it wasn’t unreasonable.
It was just as that thought crossed my mind.
—Ding!
A notification chimed.
And with it:
[Congratulations! Your filial devotion has been recognized. You have partially satisfied the system’s usage conditions.]
[When all conditions are met, you will receive an additional Talent Roulette Ticket.]
‘What… what is this?’
A familiar system window.
The same message I’d seen before obtaining the Diamond Roulette Ticket for the first time.
‘Filial piety is a condition?’
I looked at Mother before me.
I’d done nothing but feel it in my heart…….
Wondering if something so simple could truly be a condition, I felt confused and yet strangely warm, my chest swelling with emotion.
Mother raised her head and looked at me.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt somewhere?”
“No, it’s just…….”
I chose my words with care.
“Let’s think about it for a few more days. Then we’ll decide, Mom.”
That was the best I could do.
Whether it was a Roulette Ticket or anything else—that was secondary.
I couldn’t simply encourage her to try.
But I couldn’t recklessly stop her either.
What mattered was waiting to see what choice Mother would make.
That was the right thing.
“Alright. I will.”
Mother looked at me for a moment, then nodded slightly, a small smile crossing her face.
As always, it was a face that couldn’t hide what she was feeling.
“Shall we eat now?”
“Yes.”
We sat across from each other at the dinner table and ate.
Soybean paste stew and kimchi, a few side dishes.
An ordinary meal like any other, yet my heart felt strangely tangled.
‘Filial piety as a condition…….’
Setting aside the Roulette Ticket itself.
I never imagined that the mindset I’d carried so carelessly would be evaluated like this.
That’s what made it feel strange, and warm.
But that didn’t mean any decision had been reached.
The tteokbokki shop.
Could I do it again?
Or rather—would it be all right to do it again?
The answer didn’t come easily.
I needed time.
After finishing my meal, I stepped into my room.
“So this is the computer box.”
I steadied my breathing and carefully cut through the box tape with a utility knife.
When I lifted the lid, the new tower emerged from its bed of foam padding.
I carefully installed the tower beneath my desk.
I plugged in the power cord, monitor, and network cable.
Click.
The moment I pressed the power button, a soft LED glow kindled to life, and the cooling fan began its gentle hum.
After completing the initial boot sequence.
I installed the licensed artificial intelligence program, DeepStone.
According to Jang Yuna, the 2-dan player, it possessed the strongest capabilities of any AI currently in existence.
Formidable in opening and joseki.
Masterful at balancing practicality and thickness.
Flawless across all aspects—from board position evaluation to endgame technique.
To match such processing power, I’d sunk a considerable sum into the purchase.
“Installation’s complete.”
I took a seat before the monitor.
What I launched, somewhat unexpectedly, wasn’t DeepStone at all—it was Samgukji Baduk.
Today was the day of Jang Yuna’s rematch.
The revenge match had been scheduled for today.
“…… I’ve got quite a few messages.”
I hadn’t logged in all weekend because of the Presidential Cup tournament.
During that time, messages had accumulated—most of them from Jang Yuna.
“What? An edited version went up?”
I followed the link in her message to the Samgukji Baduk YouTube channel, where a video had been posted.
-Episode 1. An amateur master who catches professionals!? Yuna, I’m retiring.
-Episode 2. Obviously artificial intelligence cheating? But this “Mumyeong” amateur who doesn’t get pushed around? A lesson video.
‘They edited it like this?’
Provocative thumbnails.
sensationalist titles.
Highlights strung together from shots of professionals losing.
And in the center of it all was me—Mumyeong.
“Retiring? What’s that about…….”
Watching the video from beginning to end, I felt my skin crawl.
Setting aside my actual baduk skill.
The video’s focus was squarely on entertainment and consumption.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
It’s just.
‘I absolutely can’t let anyone find out I’m Mumyeong.’
Throughout the video, there was so much sensationalizing.
I felt embarrassed just watching it.
Then.
[JangYuna has sent you a direct message request.]
“How did she know I’d just logged in?”
I clicked the accept button.
The direct message window opened.
JangYuna: Mumyeong! Did you check your messages?
Mumyeong: Sorry? Not yet. I was just looking through them now.
The moment I sent the message, a reply came back instantly.
JangYuna: I thought so! You don’t know yet that today’s opponent changed, do you?
Mumyeong: What?
What was she talking about?
Today’s content wasn’t supposed to be a rematch, was it?
JangYuna : I arranged it that way. I didn’t have confidence I could win. Against a different professional player!
Mumyeong : A professional?
My hand paused mid-keystroke.
A different professional?
This wasn’t how the stream had been planned.
JangYuna : Yes, it’s An Seonghyun, 7-dan, who placed runner-up at the Baekdusan Cup!
The room tilted slightly.
7-dan.
Runner-up at a major tournament.
I’d thought it was just a casual rematch—but the scale had exploded.
JangYuna : You’re nervous, aren’t you? haha
Mumyeong : A little.
I gave an honest answer.
JangYuna : But you’re excited too, right?
Mumyeong : How did you know?
JangYuna : Just had a feeling you would be haha
She meant it.
A tangle of anxiety and thrill.
That was what anticipation felt like.
JangYuna : I’m going live now. Please stand by!
Our one-on-one conversation ended.
I clicked into Jang Yuna’s broadcast window, hovering beside my monitor.
She’d only just started streaming five minutes ago.
The viewer count was climbing rapidly.
-Is today’s opponent really An Seonghyun?
-Did Yuna seriously back out? lol
-Even if she plays well, isn’t Mumyeong just an amateur? Can he even compete?
-Bringing in a substitute feels kind of cowardly, though.
-Baekdusan Cup does let players ranked below 50 on the pro list compete. But this seems over the top.
-This is a huge upset if it happens!
The chat grew more animated by the second.
Watching it all unfold.
The reality of the stakes suddenly hit me.
And yet.
‘Why aren’t I shaking?’
My lips curled up on their own.
Again.
This familiar sensation.
My heart began to race a little faster once more.

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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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