I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 64

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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 Talent That Pays 064
Crunch, crunch.
Lu Queran stepped out of the studio and headed toward the restroom near the corridor.
I noticed a staff member assigned by the organizers following him.
I followed quietly behind them, maintaining a steady distance.
Outside the restroom.
The staff member stopped at the door.
Not accompanying him inside was standard international tournament protocol.
Park had told me it was about respecting Privacy Protection.
They only monitored whether players entered and how long they stayed.
But.
‘I’m the exception.’
Without hesitation, I stepped inside the restroom.
In that instant.
Lu Queran sensed my presence, turned around, and our eyes met directly.
A flicker of surprise crossed his gaze.
“…….”
I paid it no mind and went straight to the sink.
I turned on the water and washed my hands.
Whoosh.
Lu Queran, who had been standing awkwardly, moved toward the urinal instead of a stall.
The sound of running water.
The sound of him using the facility.
A brief silence fell.
Then.
A referee and a staff member entered the restroom together.
“……According to tournament regulations, it is standard practice not to accompany players inside the restroom out of Privacy Protection.”
A low, measured voice.
His eyes, alternating between Lu Queran and me, held unmistakable caution.
“We’ve been instructed to monitor for Inter-player Communication and Signal Exchange. We appreciate your understanding.”
A brief, decisive explanation.
The tone was formal, but there was a hidden pressure behind it.
Lu Queran washed his hands without concern and shook off the water with quick flicks.
Then, without a word, without any emotion, he turned.
Steady footsteps.
He left the restroom unflinching.
‘Interesting.’
I watched his retreating figure in the mirror above the sink for a moment, then followed a beat later.
Hotel Corridor leading back to the studio.
Lu Queran walked straight ahead without turning his head once.
The staff member trailed behind him.
I felt the referee keeping pace with me in between, maintaining a measured distance.
Studio.
We sat down as though nothing had happened.
The match resumed.
Lu Queran stared down at the Go Board.
Tap.
He picked up a stone and placed it down quietly.
I silently counted out the move.
‘……Just as I thought.’
The expected move.
The best move available in this position.
The moment I confirmed it, the tension and suspicion I’d felt in the restroom naturally receded from my mind.
Only Go.
I returned my focus to the match.
I picked up a stone.
Tap.
A Black Stone settled on the Go Board.
‘The opening is working well.’
I’d conceded some thickness, but I’d gained material advantage.
By board evaluation, the two territories are ahead by that margin.
I must preserve and expand this small advantage.
Click.
Lu Queran’s 9-dan made a Knight’s Move, jumping one space toward the center.
‘Psychological Pressure Moves.’
A subtle placement.
A delicate shift in the balance.
Not merely a move to consolidate toward the center.
An intent to attack and break through simultaneously, while securing material gain.
Setting aside the cheating suspicion, there wasn’t a single careless move.
‘AI Baduk humanized into a Combat-style approach.’
That was how Park—the Research Association instructor—defined Lu Queran’s 9-dan style.
Go without sentiment, played with ruthless calculation and expectation rather than human intuition.
No emotion echoed from each stone.
A barren, desolate quality to it.
Yet each move burrowed in with lethal precision.
‘The exact opposite of my Go.’
I consult AI, but I don’t follow it blindly.
Human intuition.
I prefer fusing that with AI’s precision.
Once the midgame deepens, I boldly play moves that yield low profit by AI standards.
‘Because my opponent is human.’
A move that wouldn’t work against an artificial mind.
If he responds with perfect accuracy, it could even backfire.
But because he’s human, he can’t help but be shaken psychologically by my moves.
That’s my Go.
And this match is no different.
In the early and mid-game phases, my Psychological Pressure Moves shine brightest.
Whether my stones are captured or survive—that’s where the match is decided.
Click.
I shifted to the offensive.
Knight’s Move against Knight’s Move.
They locked fiercely as we both boldly penetrated each other’s spheres of influence, wrestling for control of the board.
Go of an entirely different character.
The tension born from that collision stretched taut across the entire board.
Click.
I continued playing rapidly.
A breakthrough following infiltration from the right side.
A dangerous move focused on ravaging White’s territory rather than securing my own stones’ survival.
Click.
Lu Queran’s 9-dan capped it with a diagonal block.
A move that yielded escape while protecting his material.
A moment demanding choice.
‘…Do I let it live loosely, or press harder one more time?’
The former was safe but surrendered the initiative.
The latter carried greater risk but promised greater gain.
A section demanding precise Move Reading.
In that instant.
Lu Queran’s 9-dan rose quietly from his seat.
‘…Again?’
I watched his retreating figure without the slightest movement, heading out of the Studio.
I looked down at the board.
This position right now.
If survival alone were my concern, it would be simple to save them.
But that would mean surrendering the initiative.
I reached for a stone.
‘There is a way to survive.’
With certainty.
Click.
My stone landed on the board.
Abandoning the existing route of expansion and threatening White with a deeper push.
Just one move deeper than before, yet the risk it carried was proportionally greater.
The moment I placed the stone, I pushed my chair back without hesitation.
According to the rules, I could only leave my seat when it wasn’t my turn.
This was that moment.
I stood and walked toward the corridor without wavering.
The quiet sound of footsteps beneath me.
‘……I won’t let you go alone.’
On the Go board.
And off the board as well.
The invisible game continued on.

* * *
YouTube’s ‘Park Ji-man’s Baduk In’.
Just now, it had broken through 83,000 live viewers.
And the viewer count kept climbing even now.
The Ciel Bank World Masters final.
China’s Lu Queran, a 9-dan under suspicion of cheating.
And Kim In-ha, an amateur who had made it to the world championship final.
The duel between those two had become so sensational it even drew Go fans back from their homes.
“What, he’s leaving already? We’re still in the opening. Isn’t this way too fast?”
Park Ji-man shook his head in frustration.
He’d expected something, but not for him to step away so quickly.
-Master, can’t this be stopped? It’s too blatant.
The chat erupted with complaint.
Park Ji-man let out a short sigh.
“……No. Something like a signal jammer in the restroom—that would need to be announced at least half a year in advance. We’d have to consult with the China Baduk Association, the Japan Baduk Association. Maybe next year, but it was impossible this year.”
It was a crushing reality for domestic Baduk fans, but there was nothing to be done.
A situation where they wanted to act but couldn’t.
The chat shifted from disappointment to outrage.
And then.
“Wait, wait? What? In-ha is getting up now!”
On screen, Kim In-ha quietly followed Lu Queran out of the studio.
Park Ji-man clutched his head.
“No way—he’s following him to the restroom at this timing? To watch him? In-ha, you’re really doing that?”
For a moment, shock left him speechless.
Once he confirmed it was real, he shouted with excitement.
“Wow! This is insane. He actually followed him. In-ha, are you a genius? How did you even think of something like this?”
Park Ji-man leaned forward toward the monitor.
He went on explaining, his words tumbling out.
“What’s clever about In-ha is this: if the players go to the restroom together, it raises concerns about match-fixing. According to regulations, a supervisor must accompany them without fail.”
He paused to catch his breath and continued.
“Was it the national team tournament two years back? A Chinese player relaxed and briefly exchanged pleasantries with a teammate in the restroom—got a warning for it. You can’t even exchange a look.”
Having served even as a national team coach, Park Ji-man knew the tournament rules inside and out.
“……Think about it this way. I went to the restroom to cheat. I go in, and there’s my opponent and a supervisor right behind me, watching? That’s psychological pressure like you wouldn’t believe. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t pull it off.”
Just then, the studio feed caught Lu Queran and Kim In-ha coming back in together.
“There! They come back in openly together. In-ha, what are you? You’re playing right over his head!”
The match resumed.
Lu Queran played a stone.
Tap.
Park Ji-man, who had been consulting the DeepSeekGo variation chart, gasped with delight.
“What? What is this? A piece of cake move! This isn’t an AI recommendation move.”
Since the break, Lu Queran’s Blue Spot Accuracy Rate had been holding at one hundred percent.
This was the first moment it shattered.
The chat blazed to life again.
-Did he really just fail at cheating?
-Kim In-ha—no, Master In-ha now. That’s remarkable.
-Where did this kind of rising star come from?
-Master Jung Si-hu was disqualified and I was feeling down, but……like the young people say, it’s refreshing.
Park Ji-man, his mood lifted, continued his commentary with renewed energy.
“Look. In the opening phase, In-ha is already two stones ahead due to the joseki variation. Lu Queran is being completely outmaneuvered.”
Still early to mid-game.
Too soon to be optimistic.
Yet it was undeniably Kim In-ha who held the initiative and pressed forward through the mid-game.
In the end, Lu Queran, falling behind in position, chose a desperate move.
Click.
The moment Lu Queran released the white stone, he rose from his chair.
“What? Again? You’re going to the restroom now, of all times?”
Park Ji-man’s expression darkened instantly.
The infiltrating black stones ravaged white’s territory.
Yet depending on white’s response, the situation could become genuinely precarious.
This was the moment that demanded precise move reading.
“…In-ha. If you make a mistake here, this game is truly over. You have to be careful. But wait—if you do this, you can’t follow him to the restroom, can you?”
Park Ji-man paced anxiously, caught between the two demands.
This was plainly a critical juncture.
He knew better than anyone that a wrong response here could not be undone.
Then.
Whoosh.
Kim In-ha’s hand moved slowly across the go board.
A deep breath.
A measured gesture.
And without hesitation, the black stone came down.
Click.
The moment Park Ji-man saw that move, he cried out.
“What? You’re playing there? You’re insane, In-ha—you’re actually insane. What are you, some kind of AI? Or do you have two hearts?”
The moment his fingers left the stone, Kim In-ha quietly rose from his chair—a moment captured on the broadcast.
Park Ji-man’s voice practically burst from him.
“And he’s following him out!?”
Kim In-ha following Lu Queran’s nine-dan out of the studio—the scene unfolded on screen.
Without so much as a glance back at the board.
His posture radiating absolute certainty in his move.
Watching this, Park Ji-man felt goosebumps rise along his forearms.
“…He really is insane.”
He forced himself to calm down.
“Here’s why this matters. Professional players usually talk about reading fifty moves, a hundred moves ahead, right? But at the pro level, that’s not what matters. What matters is the next move—the one move that comes with absolute certainty. If you can read that, you’re a world-class master.”
Park Ji-man took a short breath.
But his voice immediately rose again.
“But In-ha didn’t just see that. He saw two moves ahead.”
The black stone on the board.
Responding to white’s diagonal push with his own diagonal extension.
“If he wasn’t absolutely certain, he would never play that position right now. See how he got up immediately? That’s proof he’s reading the moves ahead of Lu Queran.”
Park Ji-man drew a deep breath.
Visibly composing himself.
He turned back to the monitor and spoke again.
“Listen. I’m going to make a bold statement. I’m prepared to be criticized for saying this. If In-ha wins this game today—”
Park Ji-man paused to gather his breath.
Then, slowly and deliberately, his tone filled with conviction, he continued.
“From this moment on, the name Kim In-ha cannot be left out of the world’s go elite. Remember this. Today is the beginning of that era.”

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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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