I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 34

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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 — Episode 34
“……You’re the same kind of person. Clawing your way up from below.”
Shin Myeong-hwan quietly arranged the stones, then rose without a word.
He offered a curt nod in parting.
His heavy footsteps faded as he vanished beyond the doors of the Go Dojo.
“…….”
The awkwardness settled over everything.
Even in victory, something felt off.
The sight of him leaving deflated, silent—it wouldn’t stop nagging at me.
‘Why does that bother me?’
Just then, Yu Jeuha spoke quietly from beside me.
“He’s always like that. When he loses, he takes a walk to do Kifu Review and air himself out. He’ll be back in a bit, perfectly fine.”
“Is that so? Then I’m relieved.”
A sigh of relief escaped me unbidden.
“By the way, In-ha.”
“Hmm?”
“What was… that today?”
Yu Jeuha fixed me with a serious stare.
Her gaze was so penetrating.
For a moment, there was room for misunderstanding.
“Hey, can you be more specific with that question?”
“Well…”
Yu Jeuha cupped her chin in one hand, thinking hard before she spoke.
“……Something felt different.”
“Different how?”
“You were being meticulous and sharp, then suddenly you’d push through with sheer force, then you’d get subtle and precise again…… It was clearly you, but it didn’t feel like you.”
“What does that even mean?”
“In a word! It was far more compelling.”
I couldn’t help but let out a laugh.
She was still leaving out subjects, which made it confusing.
But I grasped the sense of it.
AI and human intuition.
A new harmony of Go that let both exist together.
A style of play I pursued—one I couldn’t yet explain clearly, even to myself.
“Wait, the one who just left—that wasn’t Shin Myeong-hwan, was it?”
Park Jin-woo, who had stepped away briefly and returned, approached with wide eyes.
“I haven’t seen that in ages. It’s a habit that surfaces when he takes a complete loss or feels the gap in skill……”
His expression was plainly startled.
As if he’d never expected Shin Myeong-hwan to lose like this.
I remained seated, watching his reaction in silence.
Park Jin-woo regarded me meaningfully, then spoke.
“I think Shin Myeong-hwan should be here for the Kifu Review, but would it be alright if we waited a bit? In-ha?”
“Yes, that’s fine with me.”
As Park Jin-woo nodded and turned to leave.
A man raised his hand in the distance.
“Would it be possible for me to request a game?”
An unfamiliar voice.
A man in a crisp dress shirt.
He stood there with a neat expression.
Yu Jeuha, who was beside me, quickly stepped forward to introduce him.
“It’s Kim Min-ho. He’s 8-dan, and he was runner-up in the Cheongpung Construction Cup last year.”
8-dan.
The highest Professional rank I’d ever played against.
“Ah, yes. I’d be honored.”
I stood and bowed respectfully.
Kim Min-ho smiled and took his seat across from me.
“Good. Once we finish this game, let’s all do a Kifu Review together when Myeong-hwan gets back.”
Park Jin-woo said this, then turned away with hurried steps.
Befitting a directing instructor of the Research Society.
With the Ciel Bank Cup Integrated Preliminaries looming, he looked preoccupied, absorbed in match analysis and strategy discussions with the Professionals.
“Shall we begin?”
“Yes, of course.”
Kim Min-ho’s expression as he picked up the stones was calm and composed.
His movements held precision, and his hand that grasped the stones remained steady.
Perhaps his Go style reflected this same quality.
Click.
‘White.’
Kim Min-ho played first.
The star point.
I responded with my own star point on the diagonal and began to read the flow of the game.
His opening moved within classical patterns, yet subtly guided the direction of play.
A development without excess.
Avoiding risk, thorough positional judgment, and restrained aggression.
A style close to that of AI.
That was this man’s Go.
‘Should I probe?’
From the early middle game, I shifted direction.
Following AI’s calculated lines, then
at precisely this moment, I attempted a squeeze move that seemed unnatural.
Kim Min-ho’s expression twitched ever so slightly.
As if to comprehend my intention.
His eyes, lost in Reading Moves, wandered across the board.
That was what I was aiming for.
Cutting.
A large group.
And Ko.
All beneath the surface of calm flow.
Pressing steadily, slowly driving forward.
A rhythm where superior Ko Advantage eventually forces the opponent to yield first.
Hmm.
Kim Min-ho’s hand hesitated.
As if he’d realized the moment he lost the initiative.
Bewilderment flickered in his eyes.
He stared at the board in silence for a long while, then carefully lifted his gaze.
“Excuse me.”
I met his eyes.
Speaking first in the middle of a game.
It was extraordinarily rare. Especially from a Professional.
My surprise was short-lived.
He couldn’t hold back and asked.
“With this level of skill… why haven’t you achieved your Professional Debut yet?”
“…….”
For a moment, I lost my words.
No, seriously.
What was I supposed to say in a situation like this?
I don’t know myself.

* * *
A small alley.
A worn sign.
A utility pole in front of an old building.
In that alley where childhood memories lingered, a new sign hung.
‘Original In-ha Food Stall.’
A restaurant bearing my name.
‘Original’ — my mother’s new determination.
Today was the soft opening of the new tteokbokki shop.
“I’m here, Mom.”
“Son!”
Mother pulled off her rubber gloves and greeted me warmly.
“What do you think of the place?”
“You’ve set it up nicely.”
The interior was modest.
Secondhand dishes and weathered tables.
And yet, somehow immaculate and warm.
And then.
From the half-open kitchen, the sweet-and-spicy aroma of tteokbokki made my mouth water.
“Would you like to taste it? I’m not sure if it tastes the way it used to.”
“Yes, I’ll have a taste.”
I nodded and took a seat at the inner table.
I could see my mother’s back as she stirred the tteokbokki in the pan.
For some reason, I felt oddly nostalgic.
‘…I used to hate tteokbokki.’
Like how a Chinese restaurant owner’s son despises jjajangmyeon.
As a child, the familiar tteokbokki had bored me.
But now, as I grew older,
I found myself thinking of it sometimes.
That longed-for taste of tteokbokki my mother made.
“Here.”
Mother set a plate of tteokbokki before me.
Glossy red sauce.
Rice cakes that looked soft.
A light dusting of cabbage scattered over the top.
It was exactly as I remembered it.
“I’ll enjoy it.”
I speared a piece with my fork and took a generous bite.
The sauce came through bold and heavy, sweet and savory at once.
The rice cakes were chewy yet melted on my tongue.
It was that same taste from long ago.
As I savored it and began to chew thoroughly,
I paused.
Something stopped me.
The texture was right, but something caught on my tongue.
‘Has my palate changed?’
A faint emptiness to the aftertaste.
I put another piece in my mouth and chewed carefully.
‘…There’s something missing.’
The umami.
That subtle lingering essence that should have remained on my tongue—it was lacking.
“Well?”
I chewed thoughtfully for a moment before nodding slowly.
“It’s delicious. But……”
I hesitated briefly before continuing.
“Something feels missing. Or maybe changed is the better word. It seems to have less umami than before.”
“Umami? That’s strange. The sauce is the same as it always was.”
Mother spoke with confidence, but her expression soon stiffened.
“Is the sweetness off?”
“No, that’s not it. You did marinate the sauce, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve had it soaking since last night.”
I paused to think, then spoke carefully.
“Would you mind if I tasted the sauce?”
“The sauce?”
Mother retrieved a container of sauce from the refrigerator.
I took a spoonful and let it roll slowly on my tongue.
Bitter yet sharp.
Less heat than it should have, and a flat, hollow quality.
Something was different.
I could sense that difference clearly.
“Mom, what garlic did you use?”
“Garlic?”
Mother rummaged through the refrigerator again and pulled out a bag.
Peeled garlic.
I took one from the bunch, popped it straight into my mouth, and bit down.
Snap.
The bitterness bloomed the instant I chewed.
The aroma was faint, the heat muted.
A difference I would never have caught before.
But then.
After gaining the talent, my palate had sharpened dramatically.
“I think the garlic’s the problem.”
“The garlic?”
Mother looked up, startled.
“I’m not sure why, but the flavor and aroma are both weak. And there’s this bitter note on top. Where did you buy it?”
“At the Traditional Market across the street.”
“Let me run to the Mart nearby and pick up a different batch.”
I hurried out of the shop and headed to the Mart around the corner.
I bought a package labeled “100% Domestic Garlic,” came back, and spoke from the kitchen entrance.
“Mom, can I use the kitchen for a minute?”
“Oh? Sure, go ahead.”
I washed the new garlic, minced it fine, and mixed it into the sauce.
After stirring it a couple of times, I tasted it with a spoon.
‘That’s it.’
Not harsh.
A subtle depth that curled across the tongue.
A gentle umami flavor clinging to the tip of my tongue—that was the sauce.
“Mom, try this, will you?”
Mother tasted the sauce and looked at me with startled eyes.
“In-ha. Yes, that’s the taste I remember.”
I smiled softly.
“Thank goodness. I found your hand’s touch again.”
Mother’s face, bright with joy.
The value of the Korean Cuisine talent.
This alone was enough.
Mother’s happiness was reward enough for me.
That’s when.
“No way. For real? Your brother’s running a shop here?”
A familiar voice.
Rough, disrespectful tone underneath.
I turned, and I recognized the face.
Permed hair, heavy double eyelids.
Gold necklace, gold rings, gold bracelets—too much all at once.
The landlady who’d owned the building where In-ha Kimbap used to be.
“Welcome, it’s been so long,” Mother said, smiling in greeting.
I nodded slightly as well.
But the landlady didn’t accept the greeting.
She looked down, her eyes sweeping deliberately across the shop.
“Isn’t this a bit much? There’s such a thing as merchant’s ethics. Setting up shop right next to your daughter-in-law’s place. What, do you have some kind of grudge against us?”
“Oh no, nothing like that at all,” Mother said, forcing a smile and waving it off.
Good day.
She clearly didn’t want to stir up trouble.
But the landlady’s voice kept rising.
“Don’t tell me nothing. Business is already dead these days—I’m suffocating—and this? What’s the difference between this and wishing death upon us?”
Anger.
Irritability.
And outright hostility.
I was fed up.
Did we really have to listen to this?
We weren’t even tenants anymore.
I couldn’t stay silent and take it any longer.

“You don’t think you were being unreasonable?”
“What?”
The woman’s gaze shifted to me.
“You threw us out of the store, and now you come all the way here to pick a fight?”
“Threw you out? The conditions just weren’t right back then!”
An excuse that made no sense.
My anger burned hotter.
“Fine, let’s say that’s true. But the reason your business isn’t doing well—that’s not our fault. It’s your taste.”
“What, what did you just say?”
“You said you’re closing soon anyway, right? Then why not just let each of us run our own business? Coming to our store and doing this—it seems like crossing a line.”
“You, you! Impudent little—”
The woman’s face twisted and mottled with anger.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, glaring at us with vicious intent, as if ready to pounce.
Then, without a word, she spun around and stormed out.
Quiet settled over the shop.
Mother’s hand gently closed around my arm.
“In-ha.”
“Yes?”
“Wasn’t that a bit harsh?”
Her face carried a hint of worry.
I smiled and shook my head.
“It’s fine. We had to speak our truth. We’re not the lesser party anymore.”
Mother went silent for a moment at my words, dazed.
Then she gave a small nod.
Her expression had softened noticeably.
“But Mom.”
“Mm?”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
Mother let out a quiet laugh.
“A little.”
I laughed softly along with her.
Then I brought a piece of tteokbokki, coated in fresh sauce, to my mouth and ate quietly.
Mind and seasoning alike.
Both had reached that perfect point.
I was already looking forward to opening day the day after tomorrow.

* * *
Monday.
On a normal day, I’d be at the branch, greeting customers.
But today was different.
I stood in a completely different place—not the bank.
The Korea Baduk Association.
The beating heart of Korean Go.
Today, in this place, the first round of the Ciel Bank Cup Integrated Preliminaries would begin.
I drew in a slow, measured breath.
“Let’s do this.”
With conviction, I took a step forward.

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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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