I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 66

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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 – Episode 66
Dawn broke.
Clear sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains.
I stretched and rose, then threw open the window wide.
A cool breeze swept pleasantly through the room.
“If I win today… this hotel life ends too.”
An ordinary bank security guard.
A pittance of a salary, disrespect as my daily bread.
I lived a life far removed from five-star hotels.
But then.
My life had done a complete 180.
Money accumulated in my account—more than if I’d saved every paycheck for a lifetime.
A bank commercial model?
What I couldn’t have imagined just months ago had become reality.
It was no longer surprising to see “Kim In-ha” mentioned across news outlets and YouTube.
“Yesterday they even had me on the national broadcasts.”
Public interest at its peak.
By now, this was a life others would envy.
And yet.
“Why… why can’t I feel satisfied?”
I turned my head and surveyed the table.
The laptop with DeepStone still open.
Beside it, an old Jeongseok textbook.
They bore the traces of Lu Queran’s research from deep into last night, preparing for the match against the nine-dan master.
For the past three weeks.
I had studied specific Jeongseok variations and run simulations over a hundred times.
The memory from my Talent—Go.
AI adaptations.
Ancient Jeongseok patterns.
I’d combined all three to research every possible variation that could arise on the board.
I hated losing.
I wanted to win.
Not just the Championship Victory—my ambitions kept climbing higher.
The desire, the hunger that lay coiled in my chest, drove me relentlessly forward.
I craved more, greedily, endlessly more.
“I should start getting ready soon.”
I went down for breakfast, then showered.
I put on the same shirt and trousers from yesterday and adjusted my appearance.
I combed my hair neatly and changed into fresh shoes.
Standing before the mirror, I steadied my mind.
Then I descended to the lobby on the first floor.
The elevator doors slid open, and reporters surged toward me.
The shutter clicks.
Camera flashes.
The reporters’ stares.
By now I was quite used to it.
I naturally positioned myself before the photo wall.
I’d already arranged to give only three pre-match interviews.
The moderator began.
“Kim In-ha, if you win Game 2, the Championship Victory is yours. We’d like to hear your thoughts as you head into today’s match.”
“I’ll play Go without defeat.”
A predictable answer.
The next question followed immediately.
“There are some who argue that your recent actions amount to unsportsmanlike conduct that harms player courtesy and disrupts the match itself. How do you respond to that?”
I lifted my head slightly.
Everyone held their breath.
Briefly, very calmly.
But directly, I delivered one sharp remark.
“It’s not ‘some’—it’s the Chinese media, isn’t it?”
The impact was considerable.
The reporters’ expressions shifted from surprise to sheer astonishment.
Keyboard keys clattered rapidly across the room.
And the faces of the Chinese journalists flushed crimson.
The moderator pressed forward, as if sensing the moment was right for the final question.
“Then do you plan to accompany him again this time?”
I looked straight ahead.
“Yes.”
Short. Resolute.
“Whether it takes ten times or a hundred times… I won’t let him go alone today either.”
Murmurs rippled through the gathered reporters.
The Korean journalists looked almost satisfied.
The Chinese journalists shot daggers at me with their eyes.
A stark temperature difference between the two camps.
The atmosphere had grown heavy.
Then.
Ding!
The lobby elevator doors slid open.
Lu Queran, 9-dan.
The same crisp white dress shirt and black slacks as yesterday.
He emerged slowly, his face expressionless.
In that moment, one of the Chinese journalists hurried over and whispered something to him.
‘He’s telling him what I said. Definitely.’
And I was right.
Lu Queran’s eyebrows twitched—barely perceptibly.
Just a fraction of a second, but unmistakably a grimace.
Yet he quickly composed himself.
Then he glanced at me sideways.
His eyes burned with raw emotion.
I didn’t meet his gaze.
Instead, I gave the moderator a light nod.
“All right. We’ll conclude the questions here. Kim In-ha, thank you.”
I bowed briefly.
I slipped away from the photo wall and made my way slowly toward the Match Hall.
A torrent of stares burned into the back of my head, but I didn’t need to care.
‘I’ve accomplished what I set out to do.’
A questionable entrance into the professional ranks.
Psychologically anchoring Lu Queran in the game—a tool for that very purpose.
No pressure tactic was more effective than the interview itself.
I headed toward the studio.
I took my seat at the designated spot before the neatly arranged Go board.
Then Park’s words from the Kisung Association came back to me.
‘When professionals talk about championship victory, they use the word “shimmering.” It means something that looks just within reach yet impossible to grasp, and appears impossible to grasp yet within reach. You have to know how to seize it.’
Especially for new players—most of them crumble under the mental pressure that a finals brings.
I’d interpreted that to mean: when the opportunity comes, you have to seize it.
‘I’m going to win.’
I steeled myself once more.
A faint edge of nervousness.
The pleasant tremor of readiness.
Now, even the mental pressure had transformed into sharp focus.
If anything, the silence was almost frightening.
Beyond mere composure—so eerily still that even I found myself strange.
‘I’ve never been in a state like this before.’
A part of me was afraid.
At this moment, it felt like I could pull off any move on the board.
Then.
Soft footsteps. Soft footsteps.
Faint sounds and a subtle presence registered in the space.
I didn’t look. I kept my breathing steady to maintain this peak state of concentration.
The chair scraped as Lu Queran sat down across from me.
The studio’s preliminary check was complete.
The arbiter signaled the start of the match.
I had played Black in Game 1, so now I held White while Lu Queran took Black.
We bowed to each other.
Click.
Ciel Bank Cup Final, Game 2.
First move.
Small Point Opening at the upper right.
I played a Small Point Opening at the lower left.
Black claimed the upper right corner’s vital point.
Click.
I withdrew my hand and extended through the upper right’s Small Point Opening with an Nal-ilja move.
From the outset, I intended to drive the game toward complexity.
Lu Queran did not accept it.
Instead, he claimed the upper left corner’s Small Point Opening.
Click.
I did not stop.
Again, I extended through the Small Point Opening with an Nal-ilja.
This time Black responded without hesitation, blocking in the shape of a garlic bulb.
Solid and thick—a move that prioritized substance without sacrifice.
In a position like this, the AI typically suggests a Samsan Invasion next.
A flow that balances Black’s influence and material gain.
Usually I preferred that kind of equilibrium.
Early balance, after all, was just preparation for the fighting Go that came later.
But today was different.
I did not play the Samsan Invasion.
Instead, I resolved the upper left corner quickly.
Ceding material, yet building influence toward the right side.
‘So far, it’s going according to plan.’
I took a breath and turned my attention to the upper right.
Black had withdrawn after White’s Nal-ilja extension.
The standard sequence would be to press down on the black stone at the Small Point Opening while building influence.
But I would not.
‘I can’t play it safe.’
I refused the obvious move.
I refused the obvious continuation.
Click.
I covered the opposite Nal-ilja with an Eye-point Extension.
At first glance, a pincer attack from both sides.
A wide, diagonal opening of the entire edge.
And in doing so, I forced Black to break through White’s Eye-point Extension.
An old Jeongseok that rarely appears in modern Go, where AI strategy has become dominant.
But I deliberately took out this Jeongseok.
For one reason.
‘A Jeongseok that allows no compromise.’
The moment one side retreats, the other gains clear advantage.
Someone wins for certain.
Someone loses for certain.
……Today, in this game, I had no intention of compromising.

* * *
“In-ha. What is this? It’s not Dae-sa-baek-byeon—it’s Dae-sa-cheon-byeon!”
Park Ji-man could barely contain his excitement.
He mimed tearing at his hair while raising his voice.
“Viewers, what you’re seeing is what we call Dae-sa-byeon—when a player opens up the entire edge of the board with a sweeping move.”
He spoke passionately, spittle flying as he gestured.
A Jeongseok rarely seen in modern Go since the advent of AI.
As an older professional, he was visibly thrilled.
“There are so many variations that ordinary Move Reading cannot keep pace with. That’s why it’s called Dae-sa-baek-byeon or Dae-sa-cheon-byeon.”
Dae-sa-baek-byeon—a signature shape of the old influence-focused Go.
The representative style of a bygone era.
A move that spreads broadly across the side at an angle to seize space, pressuring the opponent or tempting them into invasion.
Yet the opening strategy itself was as variable as heaven and earth, making fair compromise between black and white difficult.
“The opening strategy itself is brutally complicated. One slip and it all crumbles. Even at the professional level, entire groups die.”
It had been a full decade since retiring from active play and becoming a YouTube commentator.
Seeing the Dae-sa-baek-byeon again after so long stirred unexpected emotion.
“……With the AI era, practical Go has become the standard, but Dae-sa-baek-byeon is a battle for space. It gets complicated, uncertainty grows.”
Modern professionals evaluate Dae-sa-baek-byeon this way.
Romantic, but risky.
So it’s rare to see anyone deploy it outright.
“But In-ha pulled it out?”
On the live broadcast screen, Lu Queran, deep in thought, appeared as a 9-dan.
“Because the opponent is playing orthodox Go faithful to AI standards…….”
Park Ji-man added slowly.
“He’s confident. He’s confident he can shatter Lu Queran’s Go by refusing convention and deploying unconventional tactics.”
And indeed, Kim In-ha’s calculation was spot-on.
Lu Queran took enormous amounts of time from the opening.
A push-back seeking the initiative.
The shifts in Dae-sa-baek-byeon following that push-back.
And the lengthy deliberations that followed again.
It was spiraling into infinite repetition.
Park Ji-man marveled aloud.
“Man. In-ha, you really…… you see it, everyone? Lu Queran can’t play the next move easily, can he? There are too many variations. Too much to think about. But In-ha doesn’t hesitate at all. It means his research into Dae-sa-baek-byeon is complete.”
Viewers on Park Ji-man’s Go Channel YouTube were in festival spirits.
-This could be an event that draws a line across the Go world today.
-I’m moved. I thought Go had lost its romance, yet here I am watching Dae-sa-baek-byeon again.
-Thank you for the difficult commentary. I’ll send a small donation, so please buy yourself coffee.
-If he wins today, I’m curious about the Chinese reaction.
Click.
After move upon move of deliberation, Lu Queran finally played.
“Wait, what? That’s a compromise move. Even for compromise, isn’t it too loose?”
After all that thought—a weak move.
A choice to narrow space and pursue material gain.
This made Kim In-ha’s Dae-sa-baek-byeon spectacularly successful.
Park Ji-man couldn’t hide his excitement.
“This puts In-ha way ahead? It’s early-middle game, but AI shows black ahead by four points. And you see that white influence on the upper side? That absolutely must be attacked. Black can’t win if he doesn’t. So what does that mean? In-ha’s shake-up is working perfectly.”
The commentator Park Ji-man was reading the board state himself.
Lu Queran couldn’t possibly miss what he was reading.
Yet Lu Queran still couldn’t bring himself to play the next move and remained in deep thought.
Dae-sa-baek-byeon.
Variations spread broad and long.
The angled influence lacks stability.
Invasion, fighting, transformation—inescapable now.
It meant being dragged into the kind of Go that Kim In-ha wanted.
“Lu Queran’s thinking again? Well, if he’s too loose, he can’t close the gap, and if he overreaches, he gets attacked immediately. His head must be pounding.”
Park Ji-man and the viewers relaxed, savoring the moment.
“So, what’ll it be? Need the bathroom? Oh, he can’t go. In-ha would chase him down, wouldn’t he?”
The next move.
A move that could decide the game.
At every critical juncture like this, Lu Queran had always left his seat.
And every time he returned, he’d played a Blue Spot move with 100% accuracy.
Each time, he’d narrowed the gap with his opponent steadily.
But this time was different.
Kim In-ha had declared in several interviews that he wouldn’t let him leave.
So until now, as the early-middle game wound down, he hadn’t once gone to the bathroom.
Then.
“Wait, what? He’s going. He’s going. Lu Queran stood up!”
Park Ji-man cried out in surprise.
Lu Queran disappeared from the studio screen.
“In-ha, quick! Go after him. Don’t let him cheat!”
Park Ji-man was brimming with satisfaction.
A tone that said, “Go ahead and give it a try.”
But then.
Kim In-ha, captured by the studio camera, didn’t move a single step.
He simply sat there, his gaze fixed quietly on the Go board.
Bewilderment flickered across Park Ji-man’s face.
“Hey, In-ha? What are you doing? You need to go, hurry.”
Ten seconds, twenty seconds……
The silence stretched longer and longer.
Soon a full minute had passed, and still Kim In-ha made no move to follow.
Only then did Park Ji-man understand.
Kim In-ha had no intention of going after him.
Stunned, he muttered to himself in confusion.
“You…… what on earth are you thinking?”

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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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