I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 55

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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 Too Lucrative — Episode 055
Past the midpoint, the game had begun its slow transition into the late stages.
Tangled stones stretched thin and connected across the board.
The Life and Death struggles of the large groups extending toward the center were beginning to snap into place, one after another.
Stones gripped at each other.
The boundary between life and death.
The shape was complex, and the sequence of moves wove together like a web.
I continued my play carefully, stone by stone.
My instinct spoke to me.
Intuition pointed in this direction.
‘This point is the axis of the battle.’
My senses sharpened.
A Baduk only I could play — human Baduk.
But my opponent did not fall easily.
Kang Seo-jun, a 9-dan professional, responded precisely move by move, keeping up with me.
He neither pushed nor overextended.
He held his ground through Move Reading, never losing sight of the board state.
Most of all, he refused to be swayed by mind games.
Like a noble mountain, he maintained his center and endured.
‘…It’s different. Unmistakably so.’
The Move Reading of a top-tier professional.
Position Evaluation.
And a mentality that would not waver.
His flawless Baduk bore down on me with crushing weight.
Click.
Black, seizing his moment, pressed his attack toward my large group in the center.
At first glance it seemed aimed at capturing my group’s Life and Death, but in truth it was a maneuver for recovery.
‘A brilliant compromise.’
He salvaged his own group from its desperate position while simultaneously stealing my opportunity to counterattack.
In the end, it was my stones that stood alone.
Three large groups now hung in the center like a spider’s web.
Black need only secure one of them.
But I had to save them both.
‘…Even so, I cannot afford to lose ground.’
By Position Evaluation, the current gap was two points.
I was trailing by exactly two points.
Accounting for komi, I still held a slight lead.
But I had my large group’s Life and Death to answer for.
I would have to concede two points.
If I saved both large groups, I could not afford to give Kang Seo-jun more than a five-point advantage.
‘Is it possible?’
To be honest, it would not be easy.
The saving grace was that empty space still remained in the center.
Before those empty points were entirely filled with stones, I had to find the perfect sequence to secure both central groups.
I fell into deep thought.
At moments like this, the time I had built up early in the game proved invaluable.
Tick, tick.
The Timing Clock seemed unusually loud.
But it did not bother me.
A move to save.
I first examined the cut that would sever Black’s two points.
I read ten moves ahead.
‘No.’
Next, a move to push back.
I traced fifteen moves forward.
‘No.’
This was not it either.
I connected a quiet stone.
I drew out twenty moves in my mind.
‘…No.’
There are hardly any empty spaces left.
The only place to play is a neutral point.
Is there really no way out? Really?
That was when it happened.
A single remaining spot caught my eye.
“……!”
The epitome of irregular form.
A place I wouldn’t have given a second glance under normal circumstances.
The shape of a clenched fist.
But the moment I saw that move, my sluggish heart began to race.
‘There. Right there.’
I glanced at the Timing Clock.
I had spent a full twenty-two minutes in deliberation.
Remaining time: just three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
I drew in a breath.
My heart steadied once more.
The confusion, the stray thoughts—all dissolved.
The danger of Speed Reading Mode had increased, but it didn’t matter.
This single move could revive the entire board.
I picked up a stone.
Click.
Breaking the long silence, I set it down on the board.

* * *
Click!
A White Stone was placed on the Go Board.
‘An Empty Triangle Move?’
Kang Seo-jun’s brow furrowed.
Three stones forming the shape of a triangle.
What players commonly called a ‘clenched fist.’
Poor in form, lacking in utility.
A move one would never place under normal circumstances.
Yet now, Kim In-ha had played it.
“……!”
Kang Seo-jun’s eyes trembled as he stared at the board.
What had appeared to be merely a clenched fist was suddenly something else entirely.
He read it as a Brilliant Move—one that simultaneously bound the axes of both Large Groups.
‘This connects? It actually connects?’
One on the left flank.
One at the center-top.
Two masses separated by distance.
And yet, with this single move, they were now linking together.
‘This… this can’t be right.’
Even seeing it with his own eyes, he couldn’t believe it.
A situation in which victory had seemed nearly assured.
So much so that White was thin while Black was thick.
He had never even considered the possibility of the two Large Groups connecting.
And yet.
This single Empty Triangle Move had satisfied every condition.
The incomplete Large Groups on both sides were coming alive, each sharing a liberty.
The very existence of that move was sustaining this entire game.
Kang Seo-jun bit down hard on his lip.
His heart trembled faintly.
A chill crept up the back of his neck.
‘A move I couldn’t find… an Amateur found it?’
He had not seen it.
He had been certain there was no escape.
But Kim In-ha had seen it.
He had found it after all.
Such a trivial difference.
Over the course of more than two hundred moves of intense back-and-forth combat, there was one move he’d somehow overlooked.
An Empty Triangle Move.
The worst move possible.
Yet on this Go Board, it had become the most perfect move of all.

* * *
“Oh my, what a disaster. I can forgive Seong-hyeon, but Eun-woo—you of all people can’t lose. What in the world is happening?”
Park Ji-man’s Baduk livestream.
The content creator Park Ji-man clutched his head and groaned theatrically.
Kim Eun-woo, Ninth Dan—one of the tournament favorites—and Kwon Seong-hyeon, also Ninth Dan.
Both had fallen to Chinese players and been eliminated in the Round of 32.
With top Chinese professionals clustered in Jeong Si-hu’s bracket of the seeding.
For domestic fans, the tournament flow had become deeply unsatisfying.
-Master, shall we watch Game Three?
-We should cheer for Kang Seo-jun, Ninth Dan at least.
-For an amateur, he’s holding up pretty well.
-He’s almost about to resign.
-Kim In-ha’s been in deep thought for twenty minutes now. Doesn’t look like he has any brilliant options.
“Then should we go watch Seo-jun’s game?”
Park Ji-man switched to the broadcast of that match.
After scanning the board state, he folded his arms and nodded slowly.
“Hmm. White looks like she’s in real trouble. Our Seo-jun really put the pressure on, didn’t he?”
He casually launched the AI engine DeepStone.
When the overall flow of the game was unclear, it was better to borrow AI Move Reading than to fumble through an explanation.
‘Not that it’ll probably change much anyway.’
Just as he was checking the suggested sequence with that thought.
“Huh? Wait, what—what is this?”
The AI’s recommended move on the screen.
A blue spot.
An Empty Triangle Move.
“No, if that’s played… White’s Large Group survives? Really? Wow.”
He fell silent, stunned by the brilliant move.
He looked at the screen again and shook his head in disbelief.
“How can a human find something like this? That’s not human intuition. The weight of preconceptions is just too strong.”
He pointed the mouse cursor at the Empty Triangle position.
“Usually, a move like this—you play it maybe once or twice on a lucky day after ten years of professional life. I retired without ever playing a move like that.”
That’s how difficult a position it was.
Finding a move that breaks the prejudice against Empty Triangle plays was hard enough.
But timing was everything.
A single move played one sequence off, and a legendary brilliant move becomes the worst mistake imaginable.
Then.
Click!
A White Stone was placed at that exact spot.
The Empty Triangle Move.
“What? He played it? Really? He found it? And Seo-jun completely didn’t see it coming at all?”
A close-up of Kang Seo-jun’s face—shock was written all over it.
Naturally, the chat exploded into flames.
-He actually played it.
-Kim In-ha? I’ve never heard that name before.
-Master, is that a move amateurs find too?
-The sequence matches the AI exactly.
-Master Kang Seo-jun might actually lose this.
Park Ji-man stared at the screen in silence for a long moment, unable to speak.
This wasn’t a move you could find through luck.
Innate talent.
Natural genius.
And a stronger instinct in actual play.
Like a man possessed, he turned to his viewers.
“Does anyone here know much about Kim In-ha?”

* * *
‘I can see the end.’
The game was heading into its final phase.
After settling the large group, even the fine adjustments to the board state had been completed.
Now only the endgame remained.
But there weren’t many open territories left.
As empty spaces disappeared, so did the possibility of a reversal.
Kang Seo-jun, the 9-dan professional, bit his lip.
His face had gone rigid, stern.
He’d held on even while in Speed Reading Mode, but now he seemed to realize there was no turning back.
He finally reached toward the stone container.
Click.
The stone settled.
Resignation.
The referee approached and confirmed his resignation once more, and Kang Seo-jun gave a small, bitter nod.
‘I won.’
Not words—the victory resonated through me as pure reality.
A professional 9-dan.
At the World Four Major Baduk Tournaments.
I’d beaten him with my own game.
Euphoria surged up the back of my neck in tingling waves.
Click.
Shutter sounds erupted in rapid succession.
Every camera in the hall was trained on me.
Kang Seo-jun rose from where he’d been sitting and bowed.
Then he turned.
“Thank you for the motivation.”
I spoke casually, almost throwing the words at him.
“Because of you, I didn’t give up.”
He stared at my face for a moment, then turned away without a word.
And then.
—Ding!
[Talent: Baduk (A+)]
[Championship Record]
-7th Jung-Bukgu Association President Cup Baduk Tournament Champion (1)
-17th National Amateur Baduk Championship ‘Gyeonggi Province Strongest Division’ Champion (1)
-Obtained official Rank Certificate ‘Amateur 5-dan’
-9th Chunhyang Cup ‘Chunhyang Division’ Champion (1)
-11th Presidential Cup National Baduk Tournament ‘Strongest Division’ Champion (1)
-Obtained official Rank Certificate ‘Amateur 7-dan’
-30th Ciel Bank World Masters Preliminary Round Qualified
-30th Ciel Bank World Masters Main Tournament Qualified
-8th Biryong Cup Amateur Strongest Competitor Tournament Champion (1)
-30th Ciel Bank World Masters Round of 16 Qualified
-Achieved Professional Promotion Points. Official Rank Certificate ‘Professional First Dan’ awarded pending.
[You are achieving remarkable feats.]
[As an amateur, you have defeated a master at the professional 9-dan level.]
[As an amateur, you have advanced to the Round of 16 in the World Four Major Baduk Tournaments.]
[Calculating additional rewards.]
[Congratulations. A ‘Gold Roulette Ticket’ has been awarded as a reward.]
‘What?’
An additional roulette ticket.
Usually it was only distributed for specific occasions.
But.
This was the first time I’d received a performance-based reward.
Though it was ‘Gold,’ it meant another chance to gain a new talent.
That was invaluable.
“Kim In-ha, please move to a different area for the interview.”
I nodded at the referee’s guidance and stood from my seat.
Walking toward the photo wall.
In that moment of excitement and joy, a stranger approached me.
“Hello, Kim In-ha. I’m Song Tae-gyu, the commentator for today’s match.”
He greeted me quietly, his eyes crinkling with a gentle smile.
We’d never met before, but I recognized his face from the YouTube broadcast.
“Your Baduk today left quite an impression.”
“Thank you.”
“This might come out of nowhere, but I wanted to apologize.”
“Apologize?”
He bowed slightly at the waist.
If anything, I was the one caught off guard.
“The truth is, I didn’t have a good impression of you.”
“Of me?”
“Yes. From the moment you requested the live broadcast slot, it felt like you were skirting the organizer’s rules. Honestly, I even wondered if there was some arrangement between you and the sponsor.”
I simply listened in silence.
“But after watching today’s game, I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry.”
I nodded softly in response, a gentle smile on my face.
“It’s fine. And thank you for telling me.”
I bowed my head slightly toward Song Tae-gyu.
“I’ll go do the interview now.”
After excusing myself, I made my way toward the photo wall.
The moment I arrived, camera shutters erupted in rapid succession.
The host approached with a microphone.
“Congratulations on your victory, Kim In-ha. Would you share your thoughts?”
I smiled briefly and spoke.
“I’m glad it’s me here doing this interview.”
Because I won.
Because I proved it.
Every word carried genuine sincerity.
The host laughed along with me and posed the next question.
“You found a brilliant move out there—were you confident you could discover such a play?”
I nodded.
As I always do, an honest answer without deception.
“That was the only move I could see. So I played it, and as you saw, I won.”
A gentle wave of laughter rippled through the venue.
The host asked the final question.
“Finally, congratulations on your Professional Promotion. What are your aspirations as you move forward?”
I took a brief breath and looked directly at the camera ahead.
The corners of my mouth lifted slightly.
“Tell Liu Cheng this: as fellow professionals, I want to learn what proper etiquette in a match truly means.”

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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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