I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 60

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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 Lucrative Talents | Episode 60
A branch office VIP room.
A space I once thought I’d never set foot in for the rest of my life.
Yet now I’ve grown accustomed to visiting it, accustomed enough that I could say so without irony.
A large monitor displayed a PPT slide.
The Ciel Bank logo floated alongside a slogan.
—The Bank That Opens Success.
—Invest in Your Success.
Slightly cringe-worthy phrasing.
The core copy of the commercial I was about to film.
“You’re saying I’ll be the one delivering this line?”
Jung Soo-yeon, the team leader, smiled lightly and nodded.
“Yes. Don’t be too burdened by it. That very awkwardness can actually come across as authenticity. People open their hearts to unvarnished sincerity more readily than polished words.”
Click.
I pressed the remote and the slide advanced.
An old baduk room.
A worn Go board.
A figure reviewing game records alone, reconstructing past positions.
The detailed filming storyboard looked, to my eye, far too contrived and awkward.
“……It’s a bit cringeworthy, honestly.”
The CF director laughed and chimed in.
According to Jung Soo-yeon, he was one of the industry’s hot directors lately.
“That’s exactly the point. Sincere awkwardness that makes your skin crawl. An instinctive message that only your own success can communicate.”
“……Truth be told, he’s been preparing this since you made the Round of 16. The entire proposal, concept, storyboard, messaging—all of it.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that.
‘From the very start…….’
Jung Soo-yeon pushed forward with trust that went beyond mere contract, and I repaid her faith with results.
A win-win where both sides believe in each other.
Easy to say, but a relationship that cannot exist without trust.
In one sense it felt grateful, in another, something oddly complex stirred in me.
“Don’t worry about the shoot itself. The standards differ anyway, and above all, we can’t let it interfere with your matches. Just trust and follow along like you have been.”
I nodded quietly.
Advertising isn’t my domain.
As Jung Soo-yeon said, it’s better to leave it to professionals.
But the contract—that’s different.
“So the existing contract plus two million more. Then if I reach the finals, an additional five million as a bonus and CF modeling fee. Is that right?”
I asked calmly while reviewing the contract terms, and Jung Soo-yeon nodded.
“That’s correct. The amount reflects your topicality and expansion potential. The accelerated CF shooting schedule stems from the same reasoning.”
In summary, it broke down like this:
The original contract stipulated filming only if I reached the finals.
But my topicality exploded faster and bigger than anticipated.
Best posts across various online communities.
Sensational thumbnails and cobbled-together clips from YouTube’s secondary reprocessing channels.
Add a sprinkle of national pride, let the algorithm pick it up, and it detonates.
‘I don’t really feel it myself, though…….’
Even walking the streets or using public transport, people didn’t recognize me.
Yet I was filming commercials, becoming a bank’s promotional ambassador, and millions of won in contracts were changing hands.
An imbalanced reality.
“Shall we proceed as is?”
I looked down at the contract once more, then raised my eyes.
“Let’s do this instead. I won’t take the two million.”
“Pardon?”
Team Leader Jung’s eyebrows arched slightly.
“And remove the five million CF modeling fee from the contract as well.”
“Kim In-ha, what are you—”
I spoke on calmly.
“Instead, if I win the championship, add fifteen million in total incentives including CF modeling fees. Let’s go with that.”
An imbalanced reality anyway.
Taking on risk at moments like this didn’t seem so bad.
Money that didn’t exist could suddenly materialize.
My goal from the start was to win the championship.
This felt like the choice that was more authentically me.
Jung Soo-yeon paused for a moment, then broke into a smile.
A smile that seemed somehow different from her usual one.
“Really, you’re impossible to predict, aren’t you?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I like it. People who are transparent are boring.”
The smile she gave me deepened.
Her crescent-moon eyes curved in a way that left a subtle lingering warmth.
“I’ll report it to the higher-ups. As for approval… I’ll make sure to get it, one way or another.”
I laughed lightly and nodded with satisfaction.
This was enough.
A result we both could live with.
Just as the conversation was winding toward a productive conclusion, Jung Soo-yeon spoke again.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
She added as though something had just occurred to her.
“Your variety show appearance has been scheduled.”
“A variety show?”
“Do you know Hoo Today?”
My head lifted without thinking.
“Of course I know it. How could I not know a show like that?”
Hoo Today.
A talk show that focuses on the extraordinary qualities of ordinary people rather than celebrities.
A healing entertainment program centered around people.
It’s famous for generating high engagement on YouTube Shorts and highlight clips relative to its viewership ratings.
Short clips have even trended in real-time search results.
“You’ll be appearing on Hoo Today. We’ve arranged a full solo episode for you.”
……
“Promotion and marketing will start today. It’s the kind of show that can become a hot topic just from your appearance.”
I couldn’t say anything.
My mind was clear, but no thoughts came.
Everything felt like a lie.
‘…I’m appearing on Hoo Today?’
An ordinary person.
A bank security guard still working at a branch… me.
The fact that I would appear on a program watched by the entire nation still felt unreal.
A feeling that I was no longer confined within the boundaries of the Go board.
Maybe that’s why.
Even as it felt dreamlike, it felt tangible.
That my life was changing.
And slowly, it began to sink in through my skin.
Watching me like this, Jung Soo-yeon spoke one last time.
“So keep winning. Semifinals, and beyond that, the finals too. Just do what you’ve been doing all along.”
“That’s… a bit of pressure, isn’t it?”
She let out a quiet laugh.
“You realize you’re smiling right now?”
I didn’t answer.
There was no need to say it aloud.
I simply.
Smiled a little more broadly.
That was my answer.

* * *
After work.
I stopped by a convenience store and headed to my mother’s shop.
I drove slowly along the main road, then flicked on my left signal to turn into an alley.
That moment—
I spotted the Tteok Mi-dang sign along the main street.
A long line of people.
The dining hall packed full, customers waiting to pick up orders, staff calling out queue numbers.
The restaurant was still bustling with the after-opening rush—customers showed no sign of letting up.
The alley Kim In-ha turned into, meanwhile, lay silent.
Early evening.
Though the sun hadn’t fully set, In-ha Bunsik was quiet.
The lights were on, but there were no customers.
The stillness inside the shop felt lonelier than the street outside.
‘My heart isn’t easy about this.’
It wasn’t about money.
I can earn that myself now.
But In-ha Bunsik meant something different to her—to my mother.
It was part of her life, a matter of pride in her cooking, a trace of the years she’d endured.
‘…It’s all right. I just have to save it.’
My resolve had never been firmer.
The Tteokbokki Festival opening in three weeks.
It was the fastest, most honest way I could help.
I parked in front of the shop.
“I’m here, Mom.”
“You came?”
Mom looked up from trimming vegetables, her movements listless, and smiled.
“I applied for the Tteokbokki Festival this morning. The district office should stop by around tomorrow to inspect the business.”
“That quickly?”
“The festival’s in three weeks, isn’t it?”
Mom hesitated for a moment.
Her eyes wavered; her face betrayed doubt.
“But… In-ha, will it be all right? I’ve only ever sold in the neighborhood. I’ve never tried anything like that before.”
“Have confidence, Mom. Your tteokbokki is delicious.”
“It’s good, but… it’s not especially unique or anything…”
Mom trailed off quietly.
I could sense what lay beneath her words—the worry she wasn’t quite voicing.
A taste too similar to others.
A preparation too similar to others.
A composition too similar to others.
She was afraid of being lost and swallowed up among countless other tteokbokki vendors.
“That’s why I want to develop a new tteokbokki—a signature dish that’s ours alone.”
“What?”
Mom stared at me in surprise.
I smiled quietly and held up the plastic bag I’d been carrying.
Inside were Prima, Together, sweetened condensed milk, milk, powdered milk, and nonfat milk powder.
Mom’s eyes widened.
“What’s all this?”
“Remember? That tteokbokki we had for dessert at the hotel. I want to use that as inspiration and make our own version.”
I smiled, rolled up my sleeves, and headed for the kitchen.
I tied an apron around my waist as I spoke.
“I want to make a tteokbokki that’ll sell at the festival—something even people who don’t know us will seek out. In-ha Bunsik style.”
“You…”
Mom fell silent for a moment.
Her fingertips trembled faintly.
Perhaps, at her age, the idea of trying something new was a little frightening—and at the same time, thrilling.
After a pause, Mom spoke carefully.
“Can you manage it on your own?”
I shook my head.
“We have to do it together. Cooking with your son—that’s not an ordinary chance, is it?”
“You’re right. Cooking with my son.”
Mom brightened visibly, smiling, and lit the stove.
I began to move according to the recipe I’d organized in my mind.
“Mom, could you crush a generous amount of garlic? And soak the rice cakes?”
Water, gochujang, red chili powder, sugar.
I would keep the core ingredients of tteokbokki intact while layering changes on top.
First, Prima.
‘Not quite.’
Even with an extra serving, the taste fell flat.
It differed subtly from what she’d expected based on her cooking talent.
This time, vanilla.
The vanilla ice cream Tteokbokki she’d seen on YouTube.
‘This isn’t it.’
It melted too quickly. And there was the drawback of having to reheat the cooled Tteokbokki.
Condensed milk was too sweet.
Regular milk muddied the entire flavor.
Milk powder had a pleasant savory note and the direction was right, but it was far too expensive—she’d end up with nothing left to show for it.
‘…So talent doesn’t make everything predictable after all.’
The deeper she delved, the more profound cooking became.
It might be the limit of her B-grade Korean cuisine talent, but there was genuine pleasure in discovering something new.
Finally, skim milk powder.
The kind used in ox head soup or Seolleongtang.
She dissolved it in water beforehand to prevent lumps, then mixed it into the sauce.
“Oh—oh?”
Fireworks burst inside her head.
The initial taste was intense, then a delicate ice cream fragrance enveloped her mouth.
“Mom, could I have a bit more garlic?”
She added the rice cakes and fish cakes.
As the sauce came to a boil, she poured in the dissolved skim milk powder, adjusting the consistency.
Once the rice cakes had soaked up enough seasoning, she picked one piece and tasted it.
An addictive creamy flavor.
Thick and glossy texture.
Sweet, savory, umami-rich.
Exactly the Ice Cream Tteokbokki she’d envisioned.
“What do you think?”
She coated a piece generously in sauce and brought it to her mother’s lips.
After a moment, her mother’s eyes widened, and she nodded carefully.
“Oh my… why is this so delicious?”
“It’s working out, isn’t it?”
“It is. I get hints of the Tteokbokki from that fancy hotel… but it’s something new. It’s rich, but that’s what makes your mouth crave more.”
Her mother scooped rice cakes and fish cakes onto a small plate and tasted again.
“How could you make something taste like this? What kind of Tteokbokki is this?”
She smiled and answered.
“In-ha Bunsik’s signature new dish. Ice Cream Tteokbokki.”

* * *
At that same moment.
The sign light for Tteok Mi-dang flickered off.
The interior lights died, and the staff filtered out in small groups.
After activating the security system one last time, Lee Min-kyung, a woman in her late thirties, rubbed her shoulders as she stepped outside.
Exhaustion was written plainly across her face.
“…Ugh. I’m seriously dying from how hard this is.”
More than mere self-talk, frustration bled through every word.
That frustration was aimed at her mother-in-law—the building owner, the woman surnamed Hwang.
“I really hate this. Why does she keep starting new ventures? Why does she invest in this dump, and why is she so desperate to work me like I’m her personal slave?”
Lee Min-kyung clicked her tongue softly.
She’d married a wealthy man, hoping for an easy life.
She wanted to sleep in, have brunch in the morning, maybe do Pilates in the afternoon—but her mother-in-law kept piling on work.
“It’s maddening. The way she bosses me around is sickening. If she keeps paying me pittance while the business flops, I’ll just file for divorce and be done with it.”
As she grumbled and walked along the alley, a familiar storefront came into view.
In-ha Bunsik.
Those idiots had reopened without knowing their place—and now her mother-in-law, trying to scratch that itch, had worked her until this hour.
Of course her feelings toward them were anything but warm.
Under the glow of the store lights.
The woman who ran In-ha Bunsik and her son were busy making something.
At first glance it looked like Tteokbokki, but…
Milk powder?
Creamer?
The moment I saw her pour it straight in like that, my brow furrowed.
“Are you out of your mind? What are you doing to that tteokbokki?”
I stared at her vacant expression for a long moment, then twisted my lips and let out a scoff.
“You’ve lost it, seriously.”
Apparently she had no basics when it came to cooking.
She left that mocking muttering behind and disappeared into the alley.

* * *
I was driving toward Incheon.
Gisung Research Group.
After months of commuting four hours round-trip by public transport, driving myself felt wonderfully peaceful.
“……Wu Xiaowei, 9-dan.”
Even as I drove, my mind was consumed with thoughts of my semifinal opponent.
The type who thrives in complex battles.
A style that provokes fluctuation in the game, willing to sacrifice some margin for it.
The kind of focus that transforms even mistakes into pressure.
What people typically call an immersed combat genius—that’s the baduk he played.
“The question is whether to launch a counterattack…… or stick to a strategy of going all the way to the count and winning for certain.”
As I was turning the thought over, the traffic light switched to red.
I braked and waited quietly.
Then.
Ding!
A text message alert.
I checked my phone briefly.
The 11th Suyeon Cup Fair Baduk Championship. Player Kim In-ha’s participation has been cancelled. For any inquiries, please contact the Korea Baduk Association.
“……What?”
My eyes went wide.

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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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