I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 53

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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 Lucrative Talent Chapter 53
Go viewers fall into three broad categories.
Age group, their approach to the game, and their attitude.
Based on these criteria, the broadcasts they prefer diverge sharply.
Jang Yu-na’s broadcast, 2-dan strength.
Average viewers: 3,500.
As Jang Yu-na watched the live draw for the Ciel Bank Cup pairings, she leaned forward with flushed cheeks and cried out.
“Again—again they’re targeting our Nameless! Is this right, everyone? Honestly, Nameless hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Her voice trembled with indignation.
The chat was already primed for battle.
-What, playing well is a crime?
-Are you serious? An underdog, an amateur—what’s the offense?
-Don’t worry, Nameless doesn’t lose til the end
-What are those two doing? ㅋㅋㅋ This is infuriating
-I’m protecting the broadcast tomorrow, come what may.
-Liu Qing 8-dan will teach them proper etiquette.
-Etiquette can freeze over ㅋㅋㅋ
Jang Yu-na skimmed the chat rapidly.
The energy was fierce, and the vast majority were devoted Nameless fans.
‘I have to choose.’
The Chinese viewership had been declining lately.
Since it was revealed that Nameless was an amateur, anti-sentiment within China had intensified.
Meanwhile, domestic viewers in their twenties and thirties had been steadily increasing.
The decision was simple.
“We have to cheer for Nameless until the very end! Getting beaten from both China and Korea… I’m too furious to contain myself! Tomorrow, not a single one of you should miss it. You understand me, right?”
Jang Yu-na gritted her teeth and laid down a challenge.
A declaration of biased commentary.
Boarding the Nameless ship.
Having read the room completely, she made her stance clear.
Park Ji-man’s Baduk In.
370,000 subscribers.
Average viewers: 8,000.
Last year’s Ciel Bank Cup finals peaked at 100,000 viewers.
Park Ji-man—former commentator, once even a national team coach.
His broadcast was closer to life than to pure analysis.
“Huh? What’s this. Si-hu and Liu Quan are facing off in the quarterfinals? Ah, pairings are never easy. Still, Si-hu will win. He’s been playing brilliantly lately. Flawless Baduk.”
With deep connections throughout the Go world, Park Ji-man continued his broadcast, calling the players by affectionate nicknames.
Then a scene involving Kim In-ha appeared.
“Young players these days do express themselves honestly… but Seo-jun, even so, isn’t public criticism going a bit too far? He’s an amateur.”
Immediately after, Kim In-ha’s draw appeared on screen.
“What. Of all things, Seo-jun and Kim In-ha are paired from the first round? What a shame. If Kim In-ha had drawn Liu Qing, I would’ve rooted for him.”
His words were measured, but his voice carried no particular emotion.
An amateur was merely an amateur.
An amateur without professional status or experience had no business stepping onto such a stage.
-Young players these days are entertaining.
-Isn’t it enough if we just trust and follow you, Master?
-Don’t we just need to beat China, Master?
-Master Si-hu or Master Kim Eun-woo will pull it off this year.
“That’s right. All we need to do is reclaim the title stolen by China. Si-hu, you can do it, right? I believe in you alone.”
His tone was gentle, but the message was unmistakable.
Support Korea.
Check China.
His broadcasts never strayed from these two principles.
And the viewers were no different.
Baduk TV—tradition and refinement.
Operated by the Korea Baduk Association, a specialized Go channel that had maintained continuity since the cable TV era.
YouTube average viewers: 5,000.
With a high proportion of executives in their sixties, the chat was sparse.
“Professionals and amateurs inhabit entirely different worlds. Undefeated, until they lose.”
Song Tae-gyu, 9-dan, lowered his voice and spoke quietly.
Low tone, short sentences.
Each word carried weight.
“If it were someone like O Soo or Jung Si-hu, nine-dan… but for a player who hasn’t even turned professional to say such things? That’s rather presumptuous.”
-The fuller the grain, the lower it bows.
-This young man shows no humility.
-Until he loses? An amateur stepping so far out of line.
-Times have changed, I suppose. An amateur who can’t even turn professional speaking like that.
A young man who doesn’t know his place.
An amateur who hasn’t crossed the professional threshold.
A rude participant ignorant of Go’s etiquette.
That was the collective sentiment of the viewers.
“Youth’s audacity, perhaps. Though only if he can back it up with results to match.”
Song Tae-gyu, nine-dan, smoothed it over diplomatically.
But he said nothing more beyond that.
Or rather, he showed no further interest at all.
A momentary stir.
Most of them had already erased Kim In-ha’s name from their minds.

* * *
“Step on it. Why are you crawling along?”
Jung Soo-yeon snapped irritably from the passenger seat.
Ahn Ho-jun, gripping the wheel, protested with an aggrieved expression.
“We can’t speed! That’s against the law!”
“Who said break the law? Drive faster within the speed limit.”
“I’m not a taxi driver here…”
Under her sharp gaze, Ahn Ho-jun clamped his mouth shut and pressed the accelerator.
Jung Soo-yeon clutched a tablet in the passenger seat, replaying Kim In-ha’s interview footage over and over.
‘Better than I expected.’
Kim In-ha.
He really does generate buzz.
In a situation where most main-bracket participants were top-tier or elite-level players.
Far from being intimidated by their public criticism, he parried each one with precision.
For a newcomer, he had remarkable nerve.
Buzz.
Her phone vibrated.
She answered it.
“Yes, yes. Edit it with check-point highlights. As fast as you can. Upload the video today and push the article. Hurry, please.”
Jung Soo-yeon felt every second pressing down on her.
‘It’s a race against time.’
The main bracket starts tomorrow.
Before then, she had to build momentum no matter what.
She had to burn the name ‘Kim In-ha’ into the minds of the general public who knew little about Go.
“Team lead, we’ve arrived.”
“Park it right up there.”
She stuffed the tablet into her bag and stepped out onto the main street.
Korea Baduk Association.
Jung Soo-yeon bolted up to the third-floor office without catching her breath.
“You’re here? They’re waiting inside.”
Following the receptionist’s direction, she entered.
Three people were sitting within.
Heo Gyu, nine-dan, overseeing the Ciel Bank Cup.
Song Tae-gyu, nine-dan, commentator for Baduk TV.
Lee Sang-woo, Secretary-General of the Korea Baduk Association.
She greeted them respectfully.
“Hello. I’m Jung Soo-yeon, marketing team lead at Ciel Bank, as I mentioned on the phone.”
“We’ve been expecting you. Please, sit.”
Once Jung Soo-yeon sat, Lee Sang-woo opened the discussion.
“Your request, if I understand correctly, is that in addition to the two matches scheduled for live broadcast tomorrow… we also live-broadcast the Kim In-ha versus Kang Seo-jun match?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Heh. Three matches broadcast simultaneously would be quite the logistical stretch. What do you think, Tae-gyu?”
Song Tae-gyu 9-dan shook his head slowly.
“I’m opposed to it. If we’re covering three matches simultaneously, neither of us will be able to provide proper commentary.”
He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief as he continued.
“And regarding the media appeal you mentioned—I’m not so sure. Honestly, I question whether Kim In-ha is really a player who deserves that much attention.”
Jung Soo-yeon started to object immediately, then held back.
The event sponsor was Ciel Bank, but the organizer was the Korea Baduk Association.
She was in a position of making a request.
“I share similar thoughts.”
Lee Sang-woo, the secretary-general, took the thread.
“Kang Seo-jun 9-dan is certainly a suitable player for broadcasting, but his opponent is an amateur, Kim In-ha. What do you think, Master Heo?”
All eyes turned toward Heo Gyu 9-dan.
He paused for a moment before speaking.
“I’m in favor.”
A brief silence fell.
Everyone’s gaze fixed on him at this unexpected answer.
“Being an amateur isn’t really that important. Luck alone wouldn’t let him defeat Byun Woo-bin in the Integrated Preliminaries.”
“Well… that’s true, but…”
“I’ve seen his Baduk. I’m not sure if I should say this, but… I saw O Soo’s essence in him.”
“…I’m sorry?”
“Did you just say O Soo?”
Instantly, the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn’t from anyone else—O Soo 9-dan had been mentioned directly from Heo Gyu 9-dan’s lips.
O Soo.
The only human who had ever defeated artificial intelligence.
A legend who had claimed seventy-one championships in barely a decade.
A player of Flawless Baduk, one that even Jung Si-hu 9-dan was reluctant to be compared to.
Because he had belonged to the research group that Heo Gyu 9-dan had created.
“Master, surely that’s…” Song Tae-gyu 9-dan trailed off.
It was a difficult name to outright refute.
Too heavy a name to dismiss casually.
“And think about it—young people these days don’t play Baduk anymore. They have too much entertainment, too many ways to enjoy themselves. There’s this underlying perception that Baduk is boring and difficult.”
Heo Gyu 9-dan folded his arms and continued.
“In times like these, isn’t someone like Kim In-ha refreshing? It’s worth considering, if only to shatter the image that Baduk is some dignified, difficult sport.”
Jung Soo-yeon nodded quietly beside him.
It was exactly what she had wanted to say.
But Song Tae-gyu 9-dan’s expression remained unmoved, clearly in disagreement.
“Hmm.”
Lee Sang-woo tapped his fingers together, deliberating for some time.
Then he raised his head.
“Very well. Let’s proceed with the simultaneous broadcast of three matches. Tae-gyu, I’ll need you to pitch in.”
Song Tae-gyu 9-dan nodded reluctantly.
“…Understood.”
Jung Soo-yeon let out a quiet breath.
Everything was proceeding as planned.
The greatest stage she desired.
All of it was on the verge of coming together.
Now only one thing remained.
‘…In-ha just needs to win.’

* * *
“…The hotel is nice, I’ll give it that.”
A 5-star hotel arranged by the organizers.
I was staying in one of their premium rooms.
Standing at the window, the entire Seoul skyline spread out before me beyond the glass.
It felt like success.
A sense of having achieved something.
Thanks to this, I could save the time and energy I’d normally waste on public transportation.
“If I win today, I’ll have to bring Mom and Dad here too.”
Yesterday the rooms had been fully booked, so I couldn’t make a reservation.
An evening tasting menu.
A quiet, moving comfort.
I’d wanted so much to let those two people experience such luxury as well.
For that to happen.
“I have to win.”
In one corner of the room sat a Go Board.
A Game Record of Kang Seo-jun’s, sent by Park.
I’d printed it out at the front desk and brought it upstairs.
Last night, I’d reviewed that Game Record over and over.
His playing style, his flow, his moves.
Why each move came to be played.
Which areas weakened when that move was answered.
I analyzed, studied, and burned it into my mind.
In the midst of all that, I’d received a text message.
[Jung Soo-yeon: In-ha, you don’t seem like the type to feel pressure easily, so I’ll send you the link.]
The first link was a video.
Me taking a public criticism at the drawing ceremony and firing back.
The second was a post from the country’s largest community site.
A post made from screenshots and clips cut from the earlier video went viral twice in a single day.
The total view count exceeded five hundred thousand.
“……If I lose, I’ll be the laughingstock.”
I laughed quietly.
It was strange.
An amateur running his mouth.
I knew better than anyone that if I lost today, I’d become a hollow shell of a man.
But strangely, it didn’t bother me at all.
If anything, I was more focused.
Cleaner, sharper.
“Let’s head down.”
I took the elevator down to the lobby.
Journalists and event staff were moving busily around the entrance where the event banners stood.
Guide lines were taped on the floor, and the corridor toward the match venue was being quietly cordoned off.
I passed them and made my way toward the main hall.
“You caused quite a stir yesterday, didn’t you?”
A familiar voice.
A journalist taking photographs at the scene approached me.
He lowered his camera slightly as he continued.
“That drawing ceremony video’s already blowing up. I never thought I’d see refined professional players trade barbs like that in my lifetime.”
I met his eyes and smiled.
“You know how I am. I’m just an honest person.”
The journalist chuckled.
“That’s true. Too honest, maybe—that’s what got you into this. So how’s your condition today?”
I looked up at the ceiling of the lobby.
I took a deep breath, then spoke quietly.
“I don’t think I can make excuses. I feel too good.”
“……That’s nice to hear. I’m looking forward to your game today.”
The journalist pressed the shutter, capturing me in one shot, then stepped back.
As I entered the match venue, Jung Soo-yeon and the filming crew were already waiting for me.
She wore a neat suit, as always.
Her face, which held a faint smile, seemed softer than usual.
“Hello.”
“You know this is going to be broadcast live today, right?”
I nodded.
Behind her, on the stage, three Go Boards were arranged in a row.
Of the eight matches being held today in total,
only three matches selected by the organizer would be broadcast live.
Most would be seats for players classified as championship favorites.
And.
Kim In-ha.
One of those seats held a nameplate with my name on it.
A stage made by her.
I looked at Jung Soo-yeon and smiled briefly.
“Yes. I know I can’t afford to lose.”
She answered not with words, but with a short, steady gaze.
That was enough.
Now it was my turn to prove it.

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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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