I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 73

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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 073
Min is from the wealthy class.
He was born in Gangnam, attended school in Gangnam, and now runs an entertainment agency in Gangnam.
A model of success born from the established generation.
An authoritarian personality grounded in that success.
For someone like him, Baduk was his only hobby—one of the rare pursuits where he could truly lose himself.
Perhaps that was why.
He wanted the old order to be preserved, both in how he viewed the game and the manner in which he played it.
‘The young fellow lacks humility,’ he thought.
Min had never quite taken to Kim In-ha.
It wasn’t personal animosity.
By the standard of ‘Baduk’—which he loved—Kim In-ha was simply anomalous.
Most took to Baduk fiercely at a young age.
They became research players, fought their way through cutthroat competition, and earned Professional Promotion.
Then, through steady effort and results, they climbed to positions of eminence.
That was the normal path for a professional player.
And Min believed it was how things should be.
That was what Baduk meant to him.
But Kim In-ha was different.
There was no process.
He’d jumped straight from Amateur to Professional Promotion, then immediately claimed a championship.
He’d crossed difficult terrain as if it were nothing.
His interviews were the same.
To the established generation, they came across as somewhat sharp-edged and uncomfortable.
A man who didn’t diminish himself.
A man who didn’t shrink.
He’d proven himself through skill and results, but humility—you’d need to search hard to find even a trace of it.
As if he accepted his current position as a natural consequence.
Beyond youthful boldness, there was an absence of ‘propriety’.
Resentment kept building.
It felt as though the noble Baduk he knew was being corrupted.
By Min’s standards, Kim In-ha seemed an exception that disrupted order.
‘Jeong Si-hu and Kim Eun-woo were nothing like that.’
Two men who’d followed the elite path to reach the highest positions.
When they placed a stone, there was weight to it; every word carried refinement.
And that was as it should be.
In Baduk, demeanor was just as important as results.
‘Arrogant. And this talk of playing a Simultaneous Match against twelve opponents too.’
It wasn’t merely a matter of victory or defeat.
For him, there were protocols to observe at the Go Board, standards to uphold, boundaries to maintain.
Tap.
Kim In-ha placed his opening stone and moved to the next board.
Min waited at leisure, arms folded.
When Kim In-ha had made a full circuit and returned to stand before him, Min responded with a high approach to the corner stone.
As Kim In-ha completed another circuit, a white stone was laid.
‘Nothing special,’ Min thought to himself with an inward smirk.
So far, White hadn’t delivered any threatening moves.
Adequate. Unremarkable.
Move forty-seven.
He’d attempted his first Disruption move then, but it was exactly what Min had anticipated.
‘I’ll make the necessary concessions.’
He wouldn’t introduce unnecessary complications.
He’d play the Handicap Go to its advantage, focusing rigidly on territorial gain.
Min was confident.
After Jeong Si-hu 9-dan, then Kim Eun-woo 9-dan.
He’d won one-on-one Teaching Matches against them both, giving five stones.
Now he’d add another title: he’d defeated a Professional.
Specifically Kim In-ha 9-dan.
And with only four stones given.

‘Where else should I go and brag about this?’
Already, the corners of his mouth were lifting.

* * *
Kang Gil-su came from an elite academic family.
He learned Baduk from his father as a child.
He made it to the threshold of becoming a professional player, but his parents’ opposition forced him to abandon it.
Even so, his Baduk skill was among the strongest amateurs.
He had experience winning national tournaments and possessed an official 7-dan Rank Certificate.
‘Baseless Baduk.’
That was how he saw Kim In-ha’s playing style.
The age of AI.
The Blue Spot provided the answer key.
‘The closer to AI, the more perfect the Baduk.’
As befitted a professor of statistics, Baduk too should be approached through numbers.
Joseki is science.
Move Reading is calculation.
Playing style must ultimately converge on probability, he believed.
But Kim In-ha’s Baduk did not follow that principle.
He placed stones without hesitation where the AI Concordance Rate was low.
He turned the game around even from statistically unfavorable positions.
‘It might not last long…….’
True, his Position Assessment and Endgame showed mastery.
But his playing style itself carried substantial risk.
That meant that once studied and understood, it had a high probability of being defeated.
Click.
A White Stone repelled Kang’s attack from below.
‘I need to block here.’
Theoretically correct.
He suspected it was the move the AI would recommend.
But as he reached for a stone to block, he hesitated.
‘This could be a trap.’
He set the stone down again and fell into careful thought.
He played a two-point move.
In a Simultaneous Match, playing two points down against a Professional 9-dan was a very bold undertaking.
But he was confident.
‘I don’t see anywhere else to play.’
Kang Gil-su hesitated for a moment, then ultimately chose his original move.
Click.
A Joseki-standard response.
A move even AI would approve.
A safe move.
Kim In-ha, returning after circling the boards, placed his next stone.
Click.
Far too thin, far too daring.
If this was what they meant by a Disruption…….
‘I won’t fall for it.’
Kang Gil-su smiled faintly and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

* * *
Click.
A White Stone was placed on the Go Board.
But the sound was slightly different with each board.
Twelve boards.
Twelve board states.
I walked quietly between them, placing one stone after another in turn.
‘Jang Jun-man.’
By Three Kingdoms standards, approximately 8-dan Amateur strength.
Three-point handicap.
Playing heavily.
He forces thoughts and moves toward a central fight.
‘Lee Won-tae the accountant.’
Cautious, defensive moves.
They leave cracks.
But when he presses his advantage, he drives like a storm.
Each of the others, too, began showing their own distinct patterns—the shape of their Go slowly coming into focus.
‘Almost complete now.’
In each game, I was carving ‘my Go’ into them.
Like a pattern.
Like a seal.
This is not a response.
I’m not playing to match my opponent.
‘One-way traffic.’
I design unilaterally, creating the board state entirely on my terms.
Twelve different games unfolded in my mind.
The work of slowly engraving them onto the board.
Loosely for one opponent’s style.
Harshly for another’s.
Suffocatingly for yet another’s.
Each game is different, but the end is the same.
Not a single exception permitted.
Especially.
My gaze crossed Min and Professor Kang Gil-su.
‘Those two need to understand clearly.’
As the game entered its middle phase, their true thoughts were transparent to me.
Underestimation.
Shallow contempt.
They believed we were equals.
I had intended that, too.
‘I should show respect to the Branch Manager.’
Part of me wanted to play rougher, harder, to crush them—but I held back.
I didn’t want to embarrass the Branch Manager who had invited me.
But I won’t hold back entirely.
I’m not a magnanimous person.
I’m a petty one.
I’m someone who holds things in.
If wronged, I repay it; if slighted, I need to see it through to the end—that’s my nature.
It’s just.
I want to show it through Go, not words.
In my own way.

* * *
“You’re short by one point.”
The first game to finish was against Lee Won-tae the accountant.
He held up well until the middle game.
But he collapsed in White’s endgame.
“You played well.”
Regret colored his expression, but his mood wasn’t poor.
Even in a simultaneous match, his opponent was a Professional 9-dan.
Losing by one point to such an opponent was consolation enough.
Kim In-ha bowed lightly and moved to the next board.
Soon the second and third games concluded with scoring in turn.
“One point difference. Ah, what a shame. I thought you played quite well.”
“Pardon? You also lost by one point, sir?”
“Kwak lost by one too?”
“……Yes. I also fell short by one point.”
Jang Ju-young and Kwak exchanged glances, blinking at each other.
Three games already—each a “one point difference” defeat.
“Ha. A relentless coincidence.”
Coincidence.
There was no other way to explain it.
But was that really true?
A simultaneous match.
Even if the opponent was a professional, reading the flow and board state correctly in every game against twelve players was nearly impossible.
And yet all of them lost by one point?
Logically, it had to be coincidence, but the three men felt an inexplicable sense of wrongness.
And then another game ended.
“Wait—it’s not just me who lost by one point?”
Again.
Again, one point difference.
A quiet, eerie silence fell over the faces of those who had finished scoring.
And.
Min’s game, which had entered the scoring phase, was also concluded.
“Ah, what a careless mistake. I should have cut here instead of letting it stretch… what a shame. One point difference, what’s that.”
Min shook his head with a rueful laugh.
His tone was tinged with regret.
But then.
A heavy silence descended over everyone else’s faces.
An atmosphere where it was difficult to say anything.
Weighty, frigid silence.
Min, sensing something strange, tilted his head and asked.
“Why do you all look like that?”
“Well… we all lost by one point.”
“What?”
Min’s eyes widened.
This was the fourth game.
All of them had lost by one point, he was told.
“Well, doesn’t that just mean our Kiwoo Society members are quite skilled?”
A forced joke.
When no response came, Min’s gaze hardened by degrees.
‘That can’t be.’
It made no sense.
A professional wasn’t a god, and statistically this was impossible.
Yet.
That impossible thing was happening right before his eyes.
An inexplicable uneasiness crept down the nape of his neck.
At the same time, an overwhelming oppression bore down on his entire body.
Min bit his lip hard.
And he shifted his gaze toward Kim In-ha, who had been moving quietly between the go boards.
Then another game ended.
“…One point difference.”
Someone’s voice.
The result, repeated.
Kim In-ha lowered his head without a word.
A quiet acknowledgment.
Yet that single bow fell upon them like thunder, impossibly heavy.
No one moved.
No one even gasped.
All of them wore expressions frozen in shock.
“…It’s just coincidence. Coincidence. You’re all taking this too seriously.”
Only Min continued to deny it.
But those words echoed hollowly into the void.
One point again.
One point again.
Ten out of the twelve games had ended with a one-point difference.
Now only two remained.
The games between Professor Kang Gil-su and Chairman Jang Jun-man.
“You play remarkably well.”
Chairman Jang Jun-man spoke in a tone of admiration.
Then he set down his stone in resignation.
“Do you want to skip the scoring?”
Kim In-ha’s question drew a quiet nod from Jang Jun-man.
“I learned a great deal.”
Kim In-ha offered a brief bow and moved toward the last remaining Go Board.
At that moment, Min called after him.
“Director, what was the margin?”
Jang Jun-man stepped aside and spoke.
“If you’re curious, score it yourself.”
Min tallied the black territory while Lee Won-tae counted the white.
After a moment, both their faces went rigid.
“It’s… one point.”
Every member felt their skin prickle.
There was no denying it anymore.
Kim In-ha’s victory had been meticulously engineered.
And.
Professor Kang Gil-su’s match was drawing to a close as well.
“Professor, shall we score?”
“……”
He said nothing.
He couldn’t lift his head, only repeated the count again and again.
Once more.
Three times, four times—but the result never changed.
‘One point… short.’
The victory he’d been certain of through the midgame.
He’d weathered the Probing Moves, survived the successive assaults.
Yet in the end, he couldn’t overcome that single, slender point.
Professor Kang Gil-su broke the silence, his voice shaking.
“Did you leave it this way on purpose?”
His voice trembled at the end.
He seemed not to believe it himself.
“I’m asking if you intended this one point.”
Kim In-ha lifted his head and met his gaze quietly.
Wordlessly, calmly.
Silence enfolding twelve games of Go.
And then he finally spoke.
“Yes. There are many ways to conduct a Teaching Match.”
A brief answer.
Yet it held everything within it.
Design without a single exception.
He hadn’t taught by pressing down from above.
He hadn’t deliberately let them win.
Rather, he had inscribed it precisely into each board.
The weight of ‘one point’ as spoken by a professional.
That weight, transmitted whole and undiminished.
“……”
Everyone fell silent.
Even breathing ceased.
Twelve boards.
Twelve margins of one point.
They all felt the hair on their arms stand on end.
‘This is… elite-level professional.’
The same Go Board.
The same rules.
Yet the depth of thought, the unit of reasoning—entirely different.
A sense of being overwhelmed without being pressed.
A thrill bordering on awe.
What the Go played by world-ranked professionals looked like.
That shock, that resonance, carved itself deep into their bones.
Kim In-ha bowed his head quietly.
“Thank you for the matches.”

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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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