I Have Too Many Money-Making Talents - Chapter 98

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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 98
Studio.
Recording was delayed momentarily for audio adjustments.
Producer Han Gyeong-il stood with a grave expression, deep in conversation with someone.
“……No, wait. Does this make sense? How is this even possible?”
Ji-su’s elimination.
It was a result no one had anticipated.
From the planning stage, they’d predicted at minimum a third-round advance.
With a little luck, she could’ve even aimed for the King of Mask title.
But now.
“It doesn’t make sense, right? Except it does. That’s the crazier part.”
Writer Jung Seong-hee sat in silence, replaying Kim In-ha’s performance in her mind.
No matter how many times she revisited it, nothing clicked into place.
After a moment, Han Gyeong-il spoke again.
“In-seong said he wasn’t impressed, right?”
“Yes. I asked him several times. He just kept saying the same thing. You saw him at rehearsal too, didn’t you?”
“……I did. God, what is it? It doesn’t feel like he was deliberately hiding his ability…….”
Han Gyeong-il rubbed the back of his neck.
The unease still hadn’t faded.
‘It wasn’t amateur-level to begin with.’
Even at rehearsal, Kim In-ha’s performance had been merely adequate.
The emotionless twist he’d shown in “This Is the Last Song.”
That much, and nothing more.
But this performance was different.
He’d reduced Ji-su—whose vocals were decent for an idol—to a mere backdrop in a single breath.
Even Shin Jae-ho, pickier about music than anyone, had let slip that he wanted to hear more.
‘……Third round, and maybe even the King of Mask finals if luck holds.’
What would happen then.
Han Gyeong-il’s mind began calculating rapidly.
“Senior.”
Writer Jung Seong-hee ventured carefully.
“It might be early, but…… couldn’t this get a huge reaction if we handle it right?”
“It’s too soon for that.”
.
The phrase “long-running variety show” was another way of saying the freshness had worn thin.
Viewership had dropped, and buzz was nothing like it used to be.
The format’s reliance on contestants’ singing ability alone had hit its ceiling.
On top of that, buried under the avalanche of music shows pouring out every week, it was losing ground.
“Even if he became King of Mask?”
“……Weak. We’d need something more concrete. Something bigger.”
In the old days, just becoming King of Mask would’ve earned a headline or two.
Not anymore.
The era when one or two wins could capture public attention was over.
‘We need one knockout move.’
Checkmate’s true identity was professional Baduk player and compound bow national representative Kim In-ha.
He’d been generating buzz recently.
But given the nature of , his identity couldn’t be revealed until his elimination.
And since he was a civilian, inferring his identity from his singing alone wouldn’t be easy.
They needed some other promotional angle—some concrete, attention-grabbing move to set things off.
Just then.
“Senior!”
An assistant director came rushing over, breathless.
Han Gyeong-il cut straight to the point.
“What song did they pick for round three?”
“Well, you see……”
The assistant director caught his breath before speaking.
“He’s singing ‘For Me.'”
“……What?”
Han Gyeong-il’s ears betrayed him for a moment.
“And since there’s no time, he’s just using the original backing track—no arrangement at all.”
“You’re serious? You’re actually going to perform that song in front of Shin Jae-ho?”
“I’m dead serious!”
Han Gyeong-il set down a deep breath.
Something hot was churning inside his chest.
He couldn’t tell if it was wonder, anxiety, or that peculiar sixth sense of his firing up again.
“……You’re certain about this?”
“Yes. I’ve confirmed it multiple times.”
And this wasn’t just anyone—it was the legend himself, Shin Jae-ho.
To perform an inadequately prepared version of his own song right in front of him?
Jung Seong-hee opened her mouth as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“……Honestly, I think you’ve lost your mind.”
“Right?”
The two exchanged glances as though they’d made a pact.
A strange tension.
A wordless silence.
It was Han Gyeong-il who broke through it.
“What do you think?”
“Think? I’m getting chills.”
Jung Seong-hee burst out laughing.
“You’re feeling it too?”
“Yes. My instincts are screaming. The instinct of a massive hit.”
Han Gyeong-il laughed along with her.
“……If we pull this off right, we might save the entire season.”

* * *
Waiting Room.
I removed the mask for a moment and drank water in silence.
The cold liquid seemed to cool the lingering heat coursing through my body.
Then.
Music began to pour from the monitor in the Waiting Room, broadcasting the Studio stage.
I turned my head—the Flower Girl was standing on stage.
An elimination song.
The OST “What If” from a famous historical drama.
As her voice settled in, it spread like a delicate breath.
The first verse ended, and the accompaniment continued.
“Please remove your mask and reveal your identity!”
The call of host Kim Woo-jin.
At the same moment, the Flower Girl turned around, untied the strings, and removed her mask.
And there appeared her face.
“It’s Ji-su from Love Catcher!”
A cute, popular-looking face. Of course—she was an idol.
But I didn’t recognize who she was.
There were so many idols out there, and I wasn’t particularly interested anyway.
Ji-su performed the second verse flatly.
Wavering pitch.
An uncomfortable expression.
I could sense the emotion hidden behind that voice easily enough.
“……Enough of that. Let me focus on my own performance.”
I turned away from the monitor and inserted my AirPods.
A piano introduction flowed through them.
The song I’d originally prepared as an elimination song.
But now—the one I’d perform in the second round.
My first proper stage, chosen by my own hand.
‘Focus on delivering the emotion.’
Before I awakened my talent, this song had been adjusted to fit my ordinary voice under trainer Kang In-seong’s guidance.
But now it’s different.
‘I have to sing it with my own expression.’
Over the familiar melody, I layer emotion anew.
Not merely following the tune, but conveying meaning through song.
Resembling the original, yet carrying something distinctly different.
This moment was a preparation for that.
Then.
Knock knock.
The assistant director’s voice came through with the knock.
“Checkmate, please get ready for recording!”
I quietly removed my AirPods.
I put the Mask back on and tied the strap firmly.
I left the Waiting Room and headed to the Studio.
When I arrived at the bottom of the stage, “Record Boy,” my second-round opponent, was waiting.
A small bow.
With our Masks between us, we exchanged greetings with a glance.
Within that indefinable tension.
At the gesture of the stage manager, Record Boy took the stage.
Blackout.
The intro began immediately.
On the stage where smog and lights crisscrossed, Record Boy’s song started.
Busker’s “Hope.”
Rock ballad.
Weighty vocal tone grounded in Diaphragmatic Breathing.
Explosive high notes.
Emotional line wrapping the entire stage.
Every facial expression, every gesture—meticulously choreographed.
The judges had unconsciously held their breath, hanging on every note.
‘Just like a musical theater singer.’
It was undeniably a well-sung performance.
And yet there was something strange about it.
The emotions felt contrived, the stage presence like an act.
Soon after, the celebrity judges offered their assessments.
“Your command of the stage is truly remarkable. I was especially pulled in by those high notes.”
Shin Jeong-a, the comedian, marveled.
“Your immersion was extraordinary. That shouted passage in the middle was the crowning touch of the song.”
Cha Tae-ho, the music producer, gave his evaluation, and it wasn’t unfavorable either.
But then.
“Ah, you sang beautifully. Truly beautifully, but—I got the impression it was too much like musical theater. Record Boy, you are a musical actor, aren’t you?”
Yun Jin-seok, the panelist, cut straight to the point.
At that, Record Boy on stage responded with exaggerated gestures and played dumb.
And finally, the legendary Shin Jae-ho’s assessment.
“I enjoyed listening. It was a moving performance. Felt like watching a play.”
Expertise and immersion.
The stage seemed to split between these two evaluations.
Record Boy bowed and came back down off the stage.
Now it was my turn.
“Checkmate, please come up!”
I steadied my breathing and climbed the stairs slowly.
On the darkened stage.
The lights found me, and a piano intro began to flow.
A performance to unfold through story, not technique or high notes.
Lee Juck’s “I’m Grateful.”
The first phrase.
I could feel everyone holding their breath.
My voice cut deeper than any sound effect could.
No arrangement, just the original song as written.
It couldn’t be any other way—when I’d prepared this song as my elimination choice, I didn’t have the skill to arrange it.
‘The original was written for his wife, they say.’
But I have no wife.
And yet I could sing this song.
When I was a worthless son.
When I was a worthless student.
When I was a worthless security guard.
There was one person who was always by my side.
A person who gave love that couldn’t be put into words, quietly offering it through faith.
‘Mom.’
I called to her calmly, all the way through.
I didn’t force emotion into the words, didn’t strain to reach higher notes.
I simply spoke.
Simply in my own way.
Following the original song’s current, I conveyed only what I wanted to convey.
Filling the stage that way, the song that had been ringing out gradually came to an end.
The piano accompaniment faded.
The microphone descending slowly.
A silence so complete not even a breath could be heard.
Behind the mask, I let out trembling breath.
In that moment.
“……!”
Applause poured down.
The sound jolted me fully awake inside the mask.
Most of the general audience judges had risen to their feet.
The celebrity judges were doing the same.
“……I’m speechless. I grabbed the microphone first, but I can’t seem to organize my thoughts. It was simply a beautiful performance.”
Music producer Cha Tae-ho set down his microphone quietly.
Comedian Shin Jeong-a spoke through tears.
“It was so sad…… and yet, strangely, it felt comforting. I could feel what that heart was. That’s what moved me.”
And at last, the quietest person took up the microphone.
Legend Shin Jae-ho.
An evaluation followed, carried in a voice and presence that was far from light.
“There was a person in this song.”
The air in the venue held still for a moment.
“It was good precisely because there was no artifice. And because you didn’t force the emotion, it ran deeper.”
His face, speaking quietly, was filled with sincerity.
“A performance that felt like the original song itself…… it’s been a long time. Thank you for letting me hear it.”
Behind my mask, I swallowed hard.
One simple phrase from Legend Shin Jae-ho remained.
‘A performance that felt like the original song itself.’
Something about that phrase caught on me.
And in the same instant, my mind seemed to suddenly sort itself out.
‘Could it be…… like that?’
Baduk A-rank is the realm of the Godly Hand.
Baduk A+-rank is the realm of Awakening.
Archery S-rank is the sum total of broad-spectrum talent that transcends the sport itself.
Then B+-rank would be the incomplete realm leading toward A-rank. Or, the ceiling of growth that talent permits.
Compared to baduk, it’s the level of a professional 5th or 6th dan player.
‘Feeling like the original song’ is possible, but ‘surpassing the original song’ is difficult — that’s what it meant.
And perhaps because of that.
I found myself wanting more.
I wanted to create something that went beyond the boundary, rather than ending within the limit that talent set for me.
Like baduk.
With my own senses, in my own words.
Not anyone else’s method, but my way alone.
The place I had to reach to become myself.
Talent is only ever a starting point, never the destination.
Not anyone else’s way, but my own.
I wanted to make all my talents, my entire life, into an A+.

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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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