I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 78

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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 Money-Making Talents — Episode 78
Compound National Team 1st Selection.
I found the International Archery Range located in Gyeongsangbuk-do.
“……I miss the Branch Manager.”
It was quite a distance.
I’d driven for over two hours just to get here.
In the old days, he would have picked me up at dawn, scouted out places to eat near the venue, and arranged everything in advance.
When schedules got longer, he’d book a quiet hotel himself — the way he used to take such meticulous care of me suddenly felt painfully distant.
The moment I arrived at the venue, the first thing that greeted me was overcast skies.
“The wind is strong.”
The sky was completely obscured by clouds, and there was a sense that rain could pour down at any moment.
The wind was no trivial matter either.
Keeping that in mind, I stepped inside.
I stood in front of the registration counter to confirm my participation.
Quiet, yet a chill hung in the air.
Most wore uniforms emblazoned with corporate team logos.
Occasionally, I spotted athletes from the police department and military units.
And next to each of them, without exception, someone stood alongside.
‘They all have coaches.’
Cases of club membership or independent participation like mine were rare enough to count on one hand.
I was the most out of place among them all.
Sidelong glances stealing looks at me.
Eyes comparing me to smartphone search results, as if checking whether it was real.
Whispers of someone saying that Professional Baduk Player Kim In-ha really was the one.
It was a familiar reaction.
First comes surprise, then skepticism, and finally an urge to pass judgment.
But this time it was more blatant.
This wasn’t just any archery tournament — it was the National Team 1st Selection.
‘……A familiar gaze.’
At best, someone from a club.
With no affiliation at that, just independent status.
Archery is still the exclusive domain of elite-trained athletes.
No matter what the entry requirements say, there was the discomforting gaze of someone applying to a national team selection without proven skill verification.
It was as if treating the Compound category lightly had become a matter of insult.
“You’re Kim In-ha, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Your participation is confirmed. Please go inside for equipment inspection first. And this is a consent form for filming related to the selection — if you could sign it.”
I nodded and signed.
It was content about how it could be used for documentaries, promotional material, and analysis videos ahead of the Olympics.
As I turned away from registration, cameras had already begun to follow.
They didn’t speak directly, but their intent was clear.
‘A publicity participant.’
A means to energize and promote the Compound category.
That was precisely the atmosphere — as if I was only worth that much.
I said nothing.
I simply let them film me without resistance.
What they thought of me was their own business.
“Excuse me, you are Kim In-ha, aren’t you?”
Someone spoke to me carefully.
A participant not wearing a corporate team uniform.
I could infer he was either club-affiliated or an independent participant like myself.
“I’m Kim Hyeon-tae. I didn’t want to bother you, but……I thought if not now, there wouldn’t be another chance to talk.”
His expression was gentle and warm.
And the fact that he’d approached me during the equipment inspection waiting period, mindful not to interfere with the competition, showed good instincts.
“Yes, I’m Kim In-ha.”
“That’s what I thought. My son goes to a Baduk academy, and he’s a fan of yours. Would you mind signing something for him?”
“Of course. It’s no trouble at all.”
Conversation flowed naturally between us.
“By the way, which club do you practice at, Kim?”
A form of address tinged with respect for me as a Professional Baduk Player rather than as an archer.
“I don’t really belong to a club. I’ve just shot at Gwangrim Archery Club once.”
“Really? Gwangrim? I go there too…….”
He widened his eyes in surprise.
I smiled lightly.
“I didn’t go often. Just dropped by here and there.”
The truth was I’d only visited once, but I saw no reason to mention that.
“Ah, now and then… I’m not a member or anything. I just wanted to gain some experience and learn, so I decided to participate once.”
Humble in tone.
I accepted his words with a smile.
“I came out because I want to earn the Taegeuk Mark.”
“……Really?”
His pupils flickered for a moment.
The expression of someone doubting their own ears, wondering if they’d misheard.
Then, a small laugh escaped him.
“Ah, haha. You have quite the sense of humor, sir. I’m watching your interviews too! The way you speak is just remarkable.”
I merely smiled quietly, making no effort to correct him.
It was the same when I started Baduk—I was used to this kind of reaction.
But.
A few of the other participants shot me glances that suggested displeasure.
The mention of the Taegeuk Mark had struck a nerve.
Perhaps they felt the Compound event itself was being dismissed.
Yet I paid it no mind.
Just as with Baduk, I was always the newcomer stepping onto unfamiliar ground.
And I was the one who crushed that unfamiliarity with skill.
After equipment inspection, I headed toward the outdoor range.
Booths scattered throughout.
Unfamiliar faces in earnest conversation with coaches.
Among them were former national team members who had competed in the World Championship and Asian Games two years ago wearing the Taegeuk Mark.
Even they had to compete in the selection fairly, without any special advantage.
That’s why Korea’s archery system is the strongest in the world.
‘The sky’s gotten darker.’
I lifted my head quietly.
Humidity had risen, and the wind had grown stronger.
It looked as though rain could pour down at any moment.
A wind-laden current carrying rain.
A storm brewing.
Even among the competitors in their booths, each preparing with their own routines for the selection, a restlessness stirred.
Some hardening their expressions.
Others checking their equipment, unable to hide their unease.
‘Weather full of variables.’
And just as much weather to show how much more one could deliver.
I picked up my bow quietly.
The weight at the end of the Stabilizer.
The tension of the Release.
The brightness of the Scope and the angle of the lens.
I made every adjustment possible with my fingertips.
Then the range’s announcement system chimed.
“Opening the range.”
For the Compound event, they provide 2 Ends of practice—roughly fifteen minutes—before the selection begins.
The final chance to make last-minute adjustments.
I stepped up to the Shooting Line.
The flags whipped violently.
But it didn’t matter.
I nocked an arrow and slowly drew the string.
I reviewed the Release feel and elbow angle.
Snap!
The feeling of the arrow leaving my hand.
And the feeling of it striking true.
‘No need to shoot any more.’
The rain hadn’t fallen yet.
But the current of the wind had been read completely.
“My condition is incredible today.”
I rolled my wrist lightly, testing it.
After the final practice ended, I walked to the target, retrieved my arrows, and returned to the line.
In that time, the judges finished their briefing and descended; the entire arena fell into a grip of tension.
The rules were explained briefly—scoring submission procedures, contingency protocols should irregularities arise—all delivered with methodical precision.
“We will now commence the Compound National Team 1st Selection. Participants, please take your positions at the designated shooting lines.”
Total participants: eighty-four.
Targets: forty-two.
Format: 180-Second Simultaneous Shooting.
That is, all competing archers advance at once and fire six arrows simultaneously from their respective lines.
I walked to the shooting line.
Others had taken their positions before me, but I was the first to draw a bow.
First arrow.
I drew the string.
My left arm locked steady; through the blur above my brow, I sighted the target.
‘Tailwind.’
A current pushing at my back.
Hair drifting slowly forward.
That sensation felt like a signal itself.
I drew the finger resting against the release as naturally as breathing.
Bang!
A small sharp crack.
The arrow sailed forward as if it already knew the answer.
‘Perfect ten.’
No scope needed.
My senses and touch told me exactly where it struck.
‘Hold onto this feeling.’
Second arrow.
Third arrow.
Reading the wind’s grain, tracing the true arc.
Rapid Fire in steady rhythm.
Bang! Bang!
I chose the fiercest moment, drawing a trajectory that rode the wind itself.
‘The wind is perfect.’
Rain began to fall.
The flag’s tremor.
The minute vibration at my fingertips.
Fourth arrow.
Fifth arrow.
Sixth arrow.
Through the final shot, I fired without hesitation.
‘Done.’
I lowered the bow quietly and stepped back three paces.
Some nearby archers lingered, peering through their scopes.
Like someone who only moves to the next problem after checking the answer key.
I, by contrast, had already fired all six.
Verify?
I saw no need.
Difficult conditions for most.
Weather that many sought to avoid.
But not for me.
The grain of the wind.
Even the weight of moisture hanging in the air.
My fingertips gave me certainty instead of a scope.

* * *
“Time! Everyone, lower your bows and move to the targets.”
At the judge’s call, Shin Cheol-hui, twenty-five, of the club team Gwangjin City, quietly lowered his bow.
His mouth felt dry.
‘What kind of wind is this…….’
Damp, gusting from behind.
Sudden crosswinds that caught him off-guard.
The erratic, unpredictable currents affected every single shot.
‘I’d wager…… at least three nines came out of that.’
He kept his head down, walking quietly toward the target.
Outwardly he gazed at the ground, but he was really watching the other competitors’ reactions.
Especially the archer using the adjacent target.
Kim In-ha.
He’d heard the man was a famous professional Baduk player.
But still.
‘The Taegeuk Mark?’
The reason he’d overheard for the man’s participation was absurd.
How cavalier did someone have to be about the National Team to say such a thing.
He should just stick to playing Baduk.
It rankled him that an ordinary participant—not even in the selection process—would presume to speak of the Taegeuk Mark.
Perhaps that was why.
The man’s approach to the selection round grated on his nerves.
‘Hah. Won’t even check his Scope in weather like this?’
Everyone else verified each shot, but he’d never once looked through the Scope.
And then there was the Rapid Fire.
With the wind so erratic, most competitors had taken their time, but he’d done the opposite.
He was the fastest of all participants to loose six arrows.
‘What’s he betting on, shooting like that?’
If he was going to shoot that way, why enter at all.
There was no caution in it, no visible desperation for the Taegeuk Mark.
All mouth, no substance.
Exactly what people said—a publicity stunt and nothing more.
Shin Cheol-hui checked his score at the target.
As expected: three tens, three nines.
Not bad, but not good either.
‘I need to focus harder.’
Today he would shoot six rounds of thirty-six arrows each.
The top sixteen competitors, ranked by total score across all rounds, would earn a place in the National Team 2nd Selection.
As he turned to collect his arrows and head back to the Shooting Line.
Just beside him, at target number fifteen.
A referee standing before it glanced down at Kim In-ha’s scorecard, then fell silent for a moment.
“……Five X-Tens. One ten. Perfect.”
Shin Cheol-hui’s ears went numb with disbelief.
‘……What?’
Shocked, he found himself staring at the target without thinking.
It was exactly as the referee had said.
Arrows that had pierced nothing but the dead center of the target.
And in weather like this—wind-driven rain and all.
An impossible score.
A sight he didn’t want to believe.
Yet Kim In-ha himself was retrieving his arrows with an utterly unbothered expression.
‘……It’s coincidence. Has to be coincidence.’
Shin Cheol-hui denied the reality before him.
But the more he resisted, the more a disquieting sense of wrongness crept in.
And gradually, that unease transformed into something colder—a creeping wariness.

* * *
I looked up quietly at the sky.
Gray clouds blanketed the heavens.
Beneath them, the rain fell heavier.
Inside the booth, the referees finished a brief conference and nodded to one another.
Then they conveyed their decision to the athletes who had been waiting out of the downpour.
“We will proceed with the selection as scheduled.”
In that instant, a subtle tension rippled through the competitors.
Their expressions were all different.
Some sighed; others bowed their heads.
But I was smiling quietly.
‘Next one too. I’ll sink it.’
Second end.
Third end.
No—all the way through the sixth match.
This wind was unmistakably on my side.

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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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