Late into the night, the light in Seoha’s room remained on.
Worried, Miyeong paced outside her son’s door.
Creak.
After hesitating for a while, she carefully opened the door to find Seoha pressed against his desk, writing something.
He seemed so focused he didn’t even know the door had opened.
Miyeong wanted to tell her son not to push himself too hard, but the thought that he might be doing something important made her close the door quietly.
‘Other people worry because their kids won’t study…’
Seoha had been like that since he was young.
Once he became absorbed in something, he couldn’t hear someone telling him to eat even from right beside him.
Miyeong gazed at Seoha’s door, let out a quiet sigh, and walked away.
The organizing he had started in the evening only finished at dawn.
“Ah! Already?”
Seoha looked at the clock in surprise. But his face was full of smiles.
Seoha turned his head to look at the portrait of Pascal on the bookshelf.
“I told you, didn’t I? I’d make a discovery greater than yours. Of course, I’m not saying this is it.”
He couldn’t compare something like the already-proven Four Color Theorem to Pascal’s theorem. But Seoha wanted to solve this before anything else.
He was convinced that if he broke through just a few more stages, he would see the light.
“I wonder how long it’ll take until then…”
It could be tomorrow, or next year.
If his luck was bad, it might take much longer.
“Urgh.”
As Seoha stretched, he looked at the duck on his pencil.
“Deoki, you’re excited too, right? The time might come when I have to pour out all the abilities you possess. Until then, don’t get hurt and stay put.”
Perhaps due to the stress of the environmental change, the cycle in which he needed to release Deoki was growing shorter. He was taking special care because he felt panic symptoms would come if he didn’t vent it in time.
“How long can I endure like this?”
Seoha fell into thought.
Deoki would calm down if allowed to calculate to his heart’s content in a stable environment.
The anxious Seoha had recorded and watched himself, but the sight of himself immersed in calculations like a madman felt somehow unlike him, so he was reluctant to show others.
‘I feel like I can find a way for both Deoki and me to be satisfied…’
Something felt within reach, yet the method wouldn’t come to mind easily.
* * *
“No, don’t these people have eyes! What on earth do they think Seoha is?”
Uhyeon’s expression twisted as he read the internet article.
[Can Korea’s Gifted Prodigies Narrow the Gap with the World?]
Reading the content, the reporter pointed out that Korean basic science lagged significantly in terms of research achievements, number of papers published in international journals, and so on.
It introduced prodigies who had distinguished themselves in international competitions, expressing hope for the future. Among them, the content about Seoha grated on Uhyeon’s nerves.
— In particular, Yoo Seoha, who claimed first place as the youngest ever at the International Mathematical Olympiad, received praise from some scholars as “the future of Korean mathematics.”
However, there were also voices of concern from some quarters.
The criticism was that Korea’s gifted education had been excessively focused on competition results centered on problem-solving. Indeed, many of those who had won awards at international competitions during high school failed to distinguish themselves in academia after adulthood or chose paths other than researcher.
Experts pointed out that “there is an essential gap between the ability to quickly find the correct answer and the ability to present and develop new theories.”
Click.
Uhyeon scrolled down the webpage.
These days, he was barely suppressing the urge to talk about Seoha.
When Seoha won first place at the IMO, Uhyeon had raised a toast alone at home. He had thought it was only natural, but you never know what life will bring.
Among ordinary people who didn’t know mathematics, there were probably almost none who truly understood Seoha’s achievement.
Especially that Problem 6.
The night the problem was announced, Uhyeon set aside his lecture preparations and sat at his desk.
“Sin Uhyeon, you’re not dead yet.”
Uhyeon, whose mathematical abilities had developed to a point incomparable to his student days, tackled the problem boldly from the start.
Then, as if hitting a speed bump, his pen stopped at Problem 6.
The difficulty was absurd.
He wrestled with the problem all night, groaning, but ultimately couldn’t find the answer.
Only after seeing Seoha’s answer later was he able to understand the problem creator’s true intention.
‘I’ve already been overtaken.’
He had known it, but as a mathematician, he felt bitter that he seemed to be finished. At the same time, a thrill surged through him that his eyes had not been wrong after all.
[…I would have given a perfect score.]
Especially when he saw the praise from Eliya Kronen, whom he could not help but loathe, he felt like he was flying through the sky.
“Right? You can’t help but admit it too, can you? I told you Seoha is greater than you.”
Uhyeon poured out intense emotions toward Kronen, who was smiling on the monitor.
13th floor of the Princeton research building.
When he had first opened that door, he had believed he had finally entered the path of a mathematician. The pride of standing shoulder to shoulder with the most brilliant minds in the world.
He had thought that he too would someday carve his name into the solving of a difficult problem.
But hope collapsed in less than half a year.
That cold gaze looking at him—Uhyeon still dreamed of that day.
“You lack mathematical intuition. A human without it can never become an outstanding mathematician.”
The 13th floor was hell.
His colleagues collapsed one by one. And Uhyeon too left that place one day, silently packing his bags like the other colleagues who had disappeared without a word.
“Professor, Seoha broke your record as the youngest Olympiad winner. That Millennium Problem you’re working on now—who knows if that child might solve it first someday, don’t you think?”
Uhyeon stared at the monitor, then clicked on the forum.
[Isn’t Yoo Seoha overhyped?]
— He’s just good at solving problems, right? I acknowledge it’s an achievement showing Korea’s rote education works in the world too, but let’s not go overboard. In the end, he’ll probably just remain an ordinary genius. He’ll probably end up working as some big company researcher later.
“How dare these ignorant things run their mouths!”
Clack, clack.
└ I archived your post. When Seoha receives the Fields Medal later, I’ll flood the entire community with it.
└ LOL, is the Fields Medal the name of someone’s pet dog? Do what you want. If that happens, I’ll even do a dogeza at Gwanghwamun.
└ OK, archiving this too. Keep your promise.
└ For your information, I majored in math. This isn’t an uninformed opinion.
└ Yeah, you’re dead now.
* * *
“Hooo…”
Seoha lowered a box full of campus notebooks to the floor with effort.
After discovering a clue about the Four Color Theorem over the weekend, Seoha couldn’t easily calm his excitement. Eventually, he had moved all the records he had kept at home to the dormitory.
‘Let’s look through them again from the beginning.’
He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone about research that had only resulted in failure. So he had done it only when at home as much as possible, but now he no longer had the confidence for that.
Seoha’s head was completely filled with the Four Color Theorem.
When he neatly stacked the notebooks taken from the box on the floor, the room quickly became cramped.
Seoha picked up one of them.
Countless formulas and drawings, memo notes stuck in between, and traces of messy corrections scratched out with a pen.
There were times when he despaired, thinking it was meaningless, but all these efforts were now serving as the only breakthrough for solving the problem.
‘I’ll never give up.’
When he looked at the clock, it was already time for his run.
Seoha hurriedly changed into his training clothes and left the dormitory.
‘Should I go that way today?’
The exact name of this school was the ‘Korean Academy of Science and Arts for the Gifted.’
In other words, half the student body consisted of Arts track students.
Since enrolling, Seoha had never once gone toward the Arts side.
‘The buildings are pretty.’
As if reflecting each department’s characteristics, the Science side had many inorganic concrete buildings, while the Arts side had many buildings using warm-feeling wood and glass.
After leaving the dormitory and following the path, the air gradually changed.
Seoha looked around the school scenery he was seeing for the first time with curiosity.
‘Was the school always this beautiful?’
Various sculptures were placed throughout the lawn.
From abstract curved structures made of metal, to giant face sculptures carved from wood, to installation art with colored glass plates sparkling in the light.
Running a bit further, he saw students sitting on benches drawing in sketchbooks. Next to them were mixed brushes, paints, and pencils.
Feeling somehow like he had come somewhere he shouldn’t be, Seoha hurried to pass through.
Students practicing in an orchestra came into view.
Perhaps because they had just started, the harmony was a mess. Suddenly breathless, Seoha stopped.
Screech—, bang, twang—.
Sounds collided in the air, unable to harmonize.
The disorderly notes tormented his ears like nails on a chalkboard.
Thump-thump.
His heartbeat quickened.
Seoha’s body swayed for a moment. A dizziness as if the ground beneath his feet was tilting.
‘This is bad. Here?’
He remembered that he hadn’t given Deoki time today because he had been moving his luggage to the dormitory.
Seoha staggered and kept walking. He had to get away from them quickly.
If he found a quiet place and composed himself, he would recover soon.
After walking for a while, another sound was heard from afar. A resonance producing a constantly precise sound like a metronome.
Ding—, ding—.
Each time a key was pressed, a regular rhythm pulsed like a heartbeat. Soon harmony was added and melody flowed out.
‘What piece is this?’
Schubert’s Serenade.
Seoha, who had no knowledge of classical music, couldn’t know the piece’s name.
A heavy yet soft harmony filled the space.
His violently pounding heart gradually regained its pace to the piano’s rhythm.
Seoha moved his feet as if entranced by the sound.
The building from which the music flowed was a music room with large glass windows. Inside, a female student sat in front of a piano playing.
Perfect harmony and beautifully calculated transitions of notes brought calm to his mind like an orderly sequence.
Seoha leaned against the music room wall, sat down, and closed his eyes.
As he closed his eyes, the unpleasant traces of dissonance that had shaken his mind gradually subsided.
‘Is music… mathematics?’
Without realizing it, Seoha matched his breathing to the rhythm of the keys.
His heart regained peace as if tuning to that tempo.
The piece ended, and the hands resting on the keys quietly stopped.
Silence flowed for a moment.
When Seoha opened his eyes, the performer turned her head and was looking at him. Seoha started and tried to rise, but their eyes had already met.
In a neat school uniform with long hair hanging down,
She was a frail-looking person, unbelievable considering the passionate performance she had given moments ago. But her face looked very young.
At most the same age?
“Who?”
Perhaps tired of the staring contest, she opened her mouth first.
“Ah… hello. I’m Yoo Seoha.”
At Seoha’s answer, her expression brightened.
“Ah! I’ve heard of you! Science track, right? That math genius.”
“I don’t know about genius, but I am in the Science track. But… nu-… what about you?”
Seoha had habitually tried to say “Nuna” but held his tongue. No matter how he looked at her, she didn’t seem older.
“Han Gyeoul. You don’t know me?”
Gyeoul tilted her head and asked back.
“If you go to this school, how can you not know me? I’ve heard your name a lot. My mom talks about you so much.”
It bothered him that someone who looked young kept saying “you, you” so casually.
“But why are you speaking informally?”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen…”
Gyeoul asked again with a brazen expression.
“What month is your birthday?”
Seoha’s eyes narrowed.
“Hm?”
“I’m the same age as you. But seriously, you don’t know Han Gyeoul, the winner of the Tchaikovsky Junior Competition?”
It was rare for a thirteen-year-old to win at a prestigious international competition for those under 17. Gyeoul had gained national fame after winning there. Her pretty appearance had helped too.
Of course, her admission to the gifted high school was a free pass.
“Don’t know.”
“Suddenly speaking informally.”
“You started it.”
“Anyway, since you listened for free, pay up.”
Gyeoul held out her palm like a debt collector.
“I have to pay?”
“Of course. Did you think listening to my performance was that easy? I’ve even held a solo recital at a chamber hall.”
Seoha averted his eyes from Gyeoul slightly.
‘Is this a joke? It must be serious? She looks so earnest.’
It was true that he had secretly listened to her performance. But he hadn’t known he’d have to pay.
“How… much? I don’t have any on me since I’m out running. Do you take cafeteria meal tickets?”
At Seoha’s face, which looked so serious, Gyeoul couldn’t hold back and burst into laughter.
“Puhahaha!”
But Seoha couldn’t laugh.
The sophisticated appearance and way of speaking of Gyeoul made Seoha, a country boy, feel intimidated. It was a completely different feeling from dealing with older brothers and sisters.
“What money between students. It was a joke, a joke.”
“Ah, really?”
Seoha’s face brightened as if he had survived.
“Instead, teach me some math homework. Just so you know, I’m not stupid?
I don’t know middle school math because I skipped grades, and now they’re teaching me high school math. At thirteen! Does that make sense?”
Arts track students had to study math too.
She poured out her complaints with her whole body as if devastated.
‘Huh? Then could this be…’
Seoha recalled the memory of his mind and body stabilizing while listening to Gyeoul’s performance. Perhaps she could control Deoki.
He had never felt this way when listening to other music.
“Okay. In exchange, play me a piece every time we meet. It was so good to listen to.”
At Seoha’s proposal, Gyeoul’s eyes widened for a moment, then she berated him as if she understood everything.
“I understand how you feel, but it’s no use. I’m too busy for things like dating.”
Seoha was so dumbfounded he was momentarily at a loss for words.