I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 45

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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 Chapter 45
“This is the new contract reflecting that valuation.”
I couldn’t say anything.
My gaze wavered across the contract.
“Have a look first.”
At Jung Su-yeon’s gesture, Ahn Ho-jun pulled out the contract and went through the revised clauses one by one.
“First, we’ve raised the total modeling fee to thirty million won—an increase of ten million. Additional video production costs are factored in as well.”
With each page turned, the clauses swam through my mind with an eerie sense of unreality.
The weight that a few sheets of paper carried felt utterly different from yesterday.
“Now we’re getting into the incentive section.”
“Let me explain that part.”
Jung Su-yeon cut in and met my eyes directly.
“You’re not a Professional Go Player yet, are you?”
“No.”
“If you manage to reach the Round of Sixteen and achieve professional certification, we’ve included a clause for an additional incentive bonus of twenty million won.”
The moment those words hit me.
That one sentence she’d spoken earlier pierced through my mind.
‘A valuation of my worth.’
It wasn’t just a number.
The fact that someone had actually put a price tag on my future potential.
“If you advance to the Quarterfinals, Semifinals, or Championship Final, there are tiered sequential bonuses of thirty million, fifty million, and one hundred million won respectively.”
Jung Su-yeon continued quietly.
That valuation.
That price tag.
was structured so it would skyrocket the more I proved myself.
“In the event you reach the Semifinals, we’re planning to have you as the face of a Ciel Bank commercial. Though that would be roughly a three-month commitment.”
Ahn Ho-jun added from beside her.
“We’re also considering your appearance on a talk variety show we’re providing production support for.”
I drew in a breath.
My chest thrummed with a strange, ticklish sensation.
It felt too unfamiliar, too unreal.
I couldn’t quite grasp that what was happening right now—me sitting in this room—was actually occurring to a person like me.
“…… Why are you doing this much for me?”
Just yesterday, I’d turned down this offer.
Yet here they were, coming back after a single day.
With completely different terms.
A corporation—a major one at that, Ciel Bank—
I couldn’t quite understand why they were making such an all-in proposal.
“Because we now understand your value precisely.”
The second time I’d heard those words.
They didn’t sound light this time.
In Jung Su-yeon’s eyes lay a certainty that transcended mere calculation.
“The value of potential.”
She paused briefly.
“The value of an unfinished narrative.”
Jung Su-yeon’s tone was composed but firm.
There was no embellishment, no exaggeration in it.
Just a calm delivery, as though stating facts.
“You don’t yet have an ‘ending,’ Kim In-ha.”
“…….”
“People want to see where you go. They want to cheer for you, to become like you.”
She looked straight at me, unflinching.
“As you advance—to the Round of Sixteen, Quarterfinals, and beyond—we determined we could generate far greater impact. And that’s what we’re investing in.”
Investment.
That word landed heavy somewhere in my chest.
Not confining me to the frame of ‘bank security guard,’ but an investment in the identity of ‘Professional Go Player Kim In-ha.’
‘Clean.’
Clear and straightforward.
“Actually…….”
Ahn Ho-jun, who’d been quiet, carefully opened his mouth.
“It might be overstepping, but you’ve clearly gone to great lengths to convince him, Manager.”
“Ahn Ho-jun.”
Jung Su-yeon cut him short with a sharp look.
“But it’s true. Things really fell apart—”
She threw him a fierce glance.
It was the look of someone telling him to watch what he said.
Only then did Ahn Ho-jun clamp his mouth shut.
Jung Su-yeon turned her attention back, as if resetting the atmosphere.
“Kim In-ha, prove your worth. We will pay fairly for that value.”
I drew a quiet breath.
Something heavy and weighty filled my lungs.
“That’s good.”
A small smile rose to my lips.
I picked up the pen.
There was no reason to hesitate anymore, nothing left to doubt.
Scratch.
The sound of the pen tip crossing the paper seemed unusually clear.
‘Proving my worth.’
There was no reason to refuse.
It was, after all, the thing I did best.

* * *
Inside the car.
The Branch Manager at the wheel chattered away with an animated expression.
“Well, I mean, if we’re invited, we go—but honestly, I’m not sure Kim should be the one competing.”
I turned from gazing out the window.
“I’m still an amateur, sir.”
The Branch Manager chuckled and shook his head.
“You’re practically a professional now. Competing in amateur tournaments—it feels almost like cheating.”
I let out a small, unguarded laugh.
Not awkward, not self-conscious.
Just the thought that I’d climbed high enough to hear such things.
As the car sat in traffic, the Branch Manager glanced at the navigation.
“Traffic’s a bit heavy. Though we should still make it on time.”
Saturday morning.
The Branch Manager and I were heading to the Baduk Association, where the Biryong Tournament was being held.
—The tournament determines the strongest amateur Go player.
Founded under this clear objective, the Biryong Tournament
stands as the highest-authority competition in Korea’s amateur Go scene.
The most prestigious stage available to non-professional amateur players.
The tournament itself is regarded as having symbolic importance and prize money comparable to professional Go competitions, and its operational format is considered on par with major pro tournaments.
“Your Presidential Cup win feels like just yesterday, and now you’ve qualified for the international tournament main bracket, plus you’re the Headquarters promotional model. Watching you, it feels like your life is zooming forward at two hundred kilometers an hour.”
I smiled slightly instead of answering.
His words weren’t wrong.
But even at this speed, my destination was still far away.
‘That’s what makes it fun.’
This moment too, the journey itself right now.
I was even looking forward to the satisfaction I’d feel when I finally arrived.
“Right. The filming crew’s coming too, isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes. Manager Jung said she’d already coordinated the filming schedule with the Biryong Tournament organizers.”
“She certainly knows how to work efficiently. There’s always a reason when someone gets promoted at Headquarters.”
“Yes, it seems like I’ve met someone reliable.”
In fact, Jung Su-yeon was the practical center of this entire project.
From contract conditions to brand image development.
She was the one handling and driving everything personally.
This filming was no exception.
She said she’d come to the tournament venue herself on the weekend to check the site in person.
And she’d added this:
‘Don’t expect much in terms of YouTube views. It’s our company channel, so it won’t have major reach.’
But she made clear she didn’t intend to settle for merely shooting footage for the sake of it.
Promotional clip for external media outlets.
Short-form content production for community viral marketing.
Content strategically designed with trending keywords to generate organic community discussion.
The upcoming “daily life filming” starting next week would also be leveraged as part of that same strategy, she said.
“You have an interview tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s prepared on the assumption I’ll win… but honestly, it’s a bit daunting.”
“Daunting? I’ll just take that as humility.”
The Branch Manager burst into hearty laughter.
I simply smiled wordlessly.
Not overly serious, not dismissive either—just the right amount of smile.
Too cautious to call it confidence, too comfortable to call it careless.
‘I just…’
I couldn’t think of a reason to lose.
A tournament to determine the strongest Amateur.
But now, even that title felt light in my hands.
“We’re almost there.”
The Branch Manager’s car gradually slowed.
Through the window, I saw a banner reading “Amateur Strongest—Biryong Tournament” and a sign that said “Baduk Association.”
After parking, we stepped out and headed toward the building entrance.
“You’re here.”
Jung Su-yeon waved at me.
“Hello, Team Lead.”
“Yes. Let me introduce everyone first.”
She gestured toward the staff.
“In order: director, camera director, and lighting director. Just act naturally—pretend we’re not here.”
I nodded.
But I felt no confidence.
The camera was already becoming impossible to ignore.
“I’ve already spoken with the President. Let’s head up right away.”
We rode the elevator to the fourth floor.
As we walked down the corridor, the camera tailed us like a surveillance unit.
‘Already getting to me.’
Pretending indifference, I found the game room where the Challenger Finals would be held.
It didn’t quite match the Go broadcasting studio I’d often seen at Korea Baduk Association.
But there was an antique folding screen, a high-grade Go board and chair, and cameras mounted on the ceiling for broadcast.
So this is why they say it rivals a Professional tournament.
“My goodness. It’s an honor to meet you in person, Kim In-ha.”
An older man approached with a weathered smile.
“I’m Lee Gwang-seop, the association president.”
“I’m Kim In-ha. Thank you for having me.”
He smiled warmly and shook my hand.
“I heard you advanced to the main draw of the Ciel Bank Cup. That’s truly impressive—and without a professional training background, I’m told.”
Genuine warmth bloomed across Lee Gwang-seop’s weathered face.
“The sponsor was most delighted by that aspect. The fact that you discovered your talent at a late stage and climbed up through your own effort—it aligns perfectly with the direction the Biryong Tournament pursues.”
“Thank you. I’ll do my best to live up to those expectations.”
I bowed respectfully as I spoke.
Lee Gwang-seop smiled with evident satisfaction.
“Excellent, excellent. Ah, Kang Seong-jung is arriving as well, I see.”
I turned in the direction of his gaze.
Early twenties, dressed in jeans and a casual shirt.
Sharp eyes and a keen expression caught my attention first.
‘So that’s him.’
Currently ranked third among Amateurs.
The one who’d lost direct entry to the finals by two points—to me.
I’d heard he’d climbed back up after going through the preliminary rounds again.
Perhaps that’s why.
His gaze held a subtle displeasure and a sharp edge of resolve.
I didn’t avoid his eyes.
Without any emotion in my expression, I simply looked back quietly.
A small bow.
He bowed slightly.
‘The game is decided on the board.’
It begins with stone and ends with stone.
No need to be swayed by emotion.
Whoosh.
He offered a reluctant nod of acknowledgment, then turned his head away.
Lee Gwang-seop gestured toward the inner studio board and explained.
“As you know, after the Challenger Finals conclude, the winner will have a thirty-minute rest before facing Park Jun-su in the Championship Final.”
I nodded.
I’d already been briefed on this.
Both the Challenger Finals and the Championship Final were scheduled for the same day.
I’d brought a banana to guard against fatigue in the middle.
Coffee and stamina supplements—the Branch Manager had apparently prepared those, as always.
“Then I look forward to a fine match.”
I walked to the Go Board first and took my seat.
A plush, high-grade chair like a sofa,
a premium Go Board and a Go Stone Container that promised a different touch from the moment you held it.
And high above, broadcasting lenses watching me quietly from the ceiling.
It truly felt like a final.
Swish.
Kang Seong-jung pulled out his chair and sat across from me.
Without sparing me a single glance, he composedly steadied his breathing.
“Let the match begin.”
Lee Gwang-seop signaled with his mouth that the broadcast had started.
Crack.
We opened our stone containers simultaneously and grasped our stones.
I took black; he took white.
No further words were needed.
What began with stone would find its end with stone.

* * *
Kang Seong-jung hated Kim In-ha.
To be precise, it hadn’t been that way from the start.
Losing the second-place Amateur Ranking—
that much he could accept.
Even losing the Biryong Tournament challenger ticket and having to run the qualifiers again, he could tell himself it was deserved.
After all, he’d brought it on himself by slipping in the rankings.
But.
‘…Filming? What, did he become some kind of celebrity?’
People following him, cameras on his heels, reflector panels flashing.
It was unseemly.
Still just an amateur, too.
The way he carried himself—acting like some top-tier professional on the rise.
That grated on him.
So he felt the sting of pride.
He wanted to crack that facade of pretense.
Fortunately, his recent momentum was solid.
He’d won the Namhansanseong Cup the week before, and his intuition was razor-sharp.
It was almost a shame there was no Professional Certification exam scheduled right now.
And above all.
‘I’ve analyzed you down to the smallest detail.’
The fact that Kim In-ha was “Nameless” was no longer a secret.
The information had leaked from Chinese Go media circles, but the details were remarkably specific.
So all through the past week,
he’d replayed Jang Yu-na’s YouTube matches over and over, dissecting them.
He’d input move sequences into AI and researched optimal responses.
The opening: AI-style Opening.
Specifically the speed variant—a fast, aggressive tempo.
But then.
Past the early-to-mid game, the play becomes murky.
The divergence between AI moves and human intuition.
A discordant rhythm.
That was Kim In-ha’s weakness as a Go player.
‘That’s when I’ll strike.’
Kang Seong-jung was confident.
Confident he could seal the match before they entered the middle game.
He’d already spotted that moment, and prepared to exploit it relentlessly.
‘Today, I’ll bring you down.’

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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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