I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 31

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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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A Talent That Pays: Chapter 31
Byeon U-bin, 5-dan professional.
Twenty years old.
Ranked 19th in Korea’s professional player standings.
When he made his professional debut at the Young Talent Go Debut Tournament at sixteen, he showed no particular promise.
But then.
Once artificial intelligence research began in earnest, his rise accelerated.
His record this year.
Sixty-six games, forty-five wins, twenty-one losses.
Win rate: 68.2%.
Champion of the 6th Open Newcomer Championship.
Runner-up in the 41st Go King Tournament.
A rising star who commanded Korea’s hopes, drew China’s caution, and captured the world’s attention.
Even comparisons to O Su, the 9-dan legend, followed—claims that he possessed star quality.
Overflowing with confidence in every quoted word.
An appearance that never disappointed.
And now, talent stacked on top of that—so naturally, the spotlight found him.
Today was no exception.
Byeon U-bin had an appointment with a senior reporter from a Go specialist publication.
“It seems like you really love Mokryeon, Mr. Byeon. Most other professionals do their interviews at the Korea Baduk Association.”
“The atmosphere here is nice.”
Byeon U-bin and the reporter stepped through the glass door into the café.
In that moment.
His footsteps faltered at a sight that brushed the edge of his vision.
On a sun-drenched terrace.
There.
A long-haired woman sat laughing, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth.
‘Yu Jeuh-ha?’
A face he hadn’t seen in recent months.
As her slump had deepened.
She’d worn only a rigid expression or forced smiles.
She’d kept her distance even from him, her fellow research trainee. She barely returned his calls.
And yet.
Now she sat across from someone, laughing openly, radiant.
“Would it be all right if I went over to say hello for a moment?”
“Oh, of course.”
He excused himself and walked toward the terrace.
The man was unfamiliar to him.
Neat shirt, composed bearing.
His hands moved as though explaining something.
And.
Yu Jeuh-ha laughed at his words.
A soft, restrained laugh.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners—a smile of genuine delight that rose from somewhere deep.
Byeon U-bin’s lips pressed into a hard line.
He slid the glass door open quietly and stepped onto the terrace.
“Yu Jeuh-ha.”
At that single word.
Yu Jeuh-ha looked up from the Go board in front of her.
“U-bin?”
That easy, familiar way of speaking his name.
“I came to say hello while I was here for an interview.”
Byeon U-bin’s gaze shifted to the man across from her.
Expressionless.
He offered no greeting.
It wasn’t deliberately rude.
But there was no warmth in it either.
“Were you in the middle of a teaching game?”
Yu Jeuh-ha’s eyes flickered slightly.
She glanced across at Kim In-ha, just for a moment.
She nodded, a faint smile playing at her lips.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
After a short breath, she continued quietly.
“I was learning something.”
Byeon U-bin raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Learning what?”
“Go.”
……
Her tone was measured.
But there was sincerity beneath it.
At that brief answer, Byeon U-bin’s throat went dry.
It felt as though there was a story hidden within those words—something left unsaid.
‘What is this?’
Byeon U-bin couldn’t make sense of it.
He couldn’t accept it either.
He knew Yu Jeuh-ha had been struggling through a slump recently.
That’s why he’d reached out first.
He’d offered to help her, more than once.
He believed that with his own fierce research into AI, he could surely be of use to her.
But
Yu Jeuh-ha had given him no answer.
And now.
With an expression he’d never seen from her before.
She told him she was learning Go from this strange man—who wasn’t even a professional.
An unfamiliar emotion began to churn deep in his chest.
“I see. I shouldn’t get in the way, then.”
The words came out cold.
Byeon U-bin turned away without so much as a greeting to Kim In-ha.
Reporter O Su was waiting at one corner of the café, nursing a coffee.
“I’m sorry for the wait.”
“Not at all. Rather, the man playing against Yu Jeuh-ha—”
Reporter O Su gestured toward the window.
“That looks like amateur player Kim In-ha.”
“Kim In-ha?”
Byeon U-bin, who had just begun to sit, froze.
“Yes. He won the Presidential Cup this year. He’s the hottest amateur player on the circuit right now. They say he’s even beaten Park Jun-su, who’s ranked number one, and Kim Tae-ho, who’s in line for a succession of trainee debuts. Quite the accomplishment.”
Byeon U-bin stared out at the terrace without speaking.
He could see Kim In-ha sitting across from Yu Jeuh-ha.
‘An amateur?’
He hadn’t extended a single helping hand to Byeon U-bin.
What on earth
could she possibly be learning from an amateur?
Something hard and rigid rose up in his chest.
Irritation.
Anger.
It was absurd. It made no sense.
“He’s not even a trainee alumnus—or so I’ve heard. His skills are decent enough, but he’s nearly thirty years old. In the professional game, it’ll be hard for him to make much of a name for himself.”
At the reporter’s blunt assessment, Byeon U-bin let out a bitter smile.
A professional player’s peak was in his twenties.
Past thirty, both stamina and focus deteriorated markedly.
Debuting at that age?
AI had extended the peak period for professionals a bit, but it was still no easy feat.
It would be like paving the way for other pros to advance—nothing more.
“By the way, word is he made it through the amateur preliminaries for this Ciel Bank Cup and advanced to the integrated playoffs. If things go well, you might even face him, sir.”
At those words, Byeon U-bin’s pupils flickered for just a moment.
But he quickly suppressed the emotional turbulence.
His gaze turned cold as he looked back out at the terrace.
That man.
That amateur.
Kim In-ha.
The mere fact that he was sitting there made my skin crawl.
A heavy weight pressed against my chest.
‘…All right.’
Byeon U-bin drew in a short, sharp breath.
Like a declaration, he steeled himself inwardly.
Whether in the preliminaries or the main tournament.
The moment we faced each other, he’d crush him without mercy.

* * *
“I’m home.”
Back from Sinchon, I washed away the day’s exhaustion in scalding water.
With damp hair, I settled into the computer chair.
I leaned back against it and stared absently at the ceiling.
Tiring as it was, the day had been worthwhile.
Especially.
‘Say… would you ever consider joining the Kisung Research Society? It’s by recommendation, and I was thinking of asking my brother to suggest you.’
Yu Jeuh-ha’s words echoed through my head the entire subway ride home.
The Research Society.
I’d heard about it from the branch director.
A collective of professional Go players who gathered regularly to review game records, study standard opening patterns, and prepare for official matches.
The scale had shrunk once AI research became the dominant trend.
But it remained an important nexus in the professional world, he’d said.
And among them, the Kisung Research Society founded by Kang Hyeok.
It wasn’t merely a gathering—it was a place where skilled players assembled.
To be part of something like that.
Yu Jeuh-ha wanted to recommend me directly.
“It’d be a waste to turn it down.”
My goal was to become a professional.
And I wanted to become an elite player aiming for the world stage.
To get there.
I needed a fierce, competitive environment where we could push each other and grow.
I’d been vaguely thinking I needed such a place.
And then Yu Jeuh-ha extended her hand.
Honestly, I had no reason to refuse it.
“Though… I didn’t expect Myungmyeong to be quite that famous.”
Today, I was genuinely surprised.
The professional players gathered at the Go café.
My games.
More precisely, the games I’d played under the name ‘Myungmyeong’—they were reviewing them.
Which meant professional players were paying that much attention to Myungmyeong’s play.
“I should probably reveal who I am eventually… but not yet. It’s still too soon.”
The truth was.
I’d never liked the boundaries between online and offline blurring.
That gaming clan meetup.
My in-game character did well.
But real-world Kim In-ha didn’t.
My job, my circumstances.
The way they looked at me shifted subtly.
A line drawn just beyond their gaze.
An invisible dismissal.
That sense of disconnect and alienation didn’t fade easily.
So I made a choice.
To hide of my own accord.
Not my Go ability.
But to keep from being evaluated as my real-world self.
“Well, in the end… things worked out.”
I let out a quiet laugh.
No matter how well an amateur like me played.
Would professionals really have approached me first to request a match?
I didn’t think so.
From a professional’s perspective, there’s only downside.
If I win, it’s simply an expected victory.
But if I lose—
my reputation suffers, my name gets tarnished.
Jang Yu-na could help with recruitment, but it’s difficult to secure top Chinese professionals.
According to the branch manager, Chinese players place special importance on official professional debut status.
There’s a good chance I was underestimated precisely because I’m an amateur.
Korean professionals face similar circumstances.
Ahn Seong-hyeon is still active, but he’s in his late thirties.
At an age where it’s difficult for a professional to produce strong results, he only accepted for the appearance fee.
Among other top-ranked players, nobody takes such a gamble lightly.
Which is why.
being mistaken for a professional turned into a blessing for me.
I was evaluated purely on skill, and could play against professionals.
‘I’ll have to reveal it eventually.’
But for now.
I could use the name “Myungmyeong” a little longer.
So I decided to hold back, just for a while.
“Huh? Has it already gotten this late?”
I tossed the towel draped around my neck into the corner of the room.
Then I booted up my computer and logged into Samgokji Go.
Today was the day Jang Yu-na would play against a Chinese professional on livestream.
Today’s opponent was.
Lu Yuan, 6-dan.
Currently ranked eighty-first at the China Baduk Association.
Like Sun Yao, he was a young player on an upswing recently.
“Let me try a different approach today.”
Until now, I had.
played Go in a way only I could play.
And.
I’d won every official match.
But recently, I’d encountered an opponent I couldn’t beat even once.
AI.
The artificial intelligence DeepStone.
Even mobilizing every tactic and method, I couldn’t overcome it.
Disturbance techniques were useless.
With no emotions, psychological warfare didn’t work either.
‘It’s strong… not a two-stone handicap, but the gap might be five stones or more.’
A wall.
The despair of facing a wall so high and solid that I could never cross it pressed down on me.
The branch manager said
world-class professionals averaged about a 50% match rate with AI.
Occasionally, games approaching 65% appeared with surprising regularity.
In other words, proof that current AI play surpasses human Go.
“…To understand and surpass AI’s moves, I first need to know how to play that way.”
That was my conclusion.
My style of play might work now.
But whether it would work against world-class professionals I’d meet in the unified preliminaries was uncertain.
Which is why.
today, I decided to try playing that way too.
Like the AI.
Finding the Blue spot.
With a playstyle centered on precise calculation and position evaluation.
Since it wasn’t an official match.
it was the perfect stage to test myself and push past my limits.
I planned to use “Myungmyeong” again today.

* * *
“Our Myungmyeong’s opponent today? Don’t be surprised—it’s Lu Yuan, 6-dan, the rising star from China who recently made headlines by reaching the semifinals of the Chinese Feng Hua Cup!”
Today, Jang Yu-na’s streaming energy was absolutely off the charts.
Myungmyeong’s viral sensation.
Platform view counts climbing in a steady ascent.
Average concurrent viewers exceeding four thousand.
And chat messages flooding in like a deluge.
Recently, moments like these had become even more thrilling than the day he’d turned professional.
—Look at Yu-na’s face light up lol
—You’re beautiful.
—You’re prettier than flowers.
—Wait, why are there so many Chinese people?
—Why’s everyone stanning Myungmyeong but Yu-na’s taking all the credit?
—Lmao
—Chinese whale money tastes sweet
‘Not bothered by any of it?’
Jang Yu-na, a two-dan professional, was utterly unmoved by the provocative remarks flooding the chat.
If anything, she only laughed.
“If I start rambling on about this and that, you impatient folks will just get mad anyway, right? You can’t help yourselves! So let’s jump straight into the match.”
She opened the match room at once and invited Myungmyeong and Lu Yuan, a six-dan professional.
Once they accepted the pre-arranged game conditions, the match began.
Tap.
Lu Yuan, holding black, made the first move.
A small corner opening.
Myungmyeong, playing white, answered with a diagonal star point.
Tension threaded through the opening phase.
The broadcast atmosphere climbed higher.
“Lu Yuan is known as an extremely pragmatic player—his style aligns beautifully with AI play.”
As Myungmyeong placed his next stone, Jang Yu-na’s tone rose.
“In contrast, our Myungmyeong here… unpredictable style! A master of the Disturbance technique and Psychological warfare. Just like always, the real brilliance emerges in the midgame.”
—We really do get behind him lol
—ㅇㅈ
—If he wins today, it’s official—Myungmyeong Kim is a master
—Lu Yuan will win.
—China doesn’t lose to small nations.
Not just Jang Yu-na, but domestic viewers had no doubts.
Myungmyeong’s Go was always the same.
Rising from an early disadvantage.
Pressing his opponent in the midgame, commanding the entire board.
And from that momentum, brilliant moves would burst forth.
The Disturbance technique.
Psychological warfare.
And ultimately, victory.
Everyone believed today would be no different.
Even against China’s rising star, Lu Yuan.
In the end, they expected him to counter with an unexpected move no one had foreseen.
But then.
Something felt off.
Already well into the early-to-middle phase.
Yet Myungmyeong’s signature brilliant moves weren’t appearing.
In the best light, it was flawless play.
In the worst light, it felt numbingly flat.
‘This doesn’t feel…… quite like his usual style.’
A question flickered through Jang Yu-na’s mind for just a moment.
But she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.
Then.
—Yu-na!
—Huh? Something’s weird?
—Check DeepStone quickly!
—?? What is this?
—Rewind the moves!
The chat began to stir.
Jang Yu-na pulled up the DeepStone analysis window on her secondary monitor.
Every move that Myungmyeong had played so far.
As she verified each sequence one by one,
she found herself at a loss for words.
And then, as if in disbelief, she murmured,
“……Every move played up to now—they were all Blue spots?”

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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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