177 - Talulla: "Professor Cheon Kyujin in Pure Math? That's Utter Nonsense."
'Professor Cheon Kyujin doing pure math? What a load of crap.' That was what Professor Baek thought, sharing the same floor's lab space as Professor Cheon.
Professor Cheon's field was materials engineering. Sure, he mainly dealt with transmutation circles, so he had some background in theoretical physics or analysis, but there was no doubt he'd overreached. Baek was convinced Professor Cheon had taken a request from the kid's parents as part of some star-making scheme. That was why he'd been the first to testify that NoName was a fabricated genius.
'Probably that Maria or whoever wrote the whole proof for him.'
In the end, the first author turned out to be a pseudonym. There was good reason why they always chose math over magic when creating these 'fake geniuses.' The math world was far smaller than magic studies, so there were absolutely fewer people up to date on the latest trends—which meant, worldwide, there were pathetically few reviewers for proofs. Toss out a few dozen pages of proof, and it was only natural it'd take ages to verify. Suck up the popularity in the meantime, then vanish when the fraud came out. It was a classic scam from twenty years ago.
So why had Professor Cheon taken the request? 'Beats me.'
Professor Cheon was a typical elite: graduated from Korea University, straight to the US for his master's and PhD. Theoretical transmutation engineering didn't pay, so maybe he was pivoting to poli-professor—political professor. Baek could only guess cautiously. He had no idea who the kid's parents were, but they had to be heavy hitters in politics. Otherwise, why risk it?
Honk honk!
Blasting the horn in condemnation of a government that advanced self-driving tech daily but did nothing about rush-hour hell, Baek stewed in traffic.
"If this guy's using my car, at least switch the damn channel back."
Professor Baek's commute always featured Channel 132, the golf channel. His hand paused on the dial as some game broker stream popped up.
Baek vaguely recalled hearing at a recent press conference that NoName had entered some game tournament. Next to the interviewer holding the mic stood a seven-year-old kid and a girl in an animal hoodlum tee, both tense on stage.
Professor Baek kept watching the Twish broadcast. She mixed in tough game terms, so the nearly fifty-year-old professor caught more gibberish than sense.
And the final interview question:
The interviewer handed over the mic. Kariri, in the middle, was told to pass it along. The girl's eyes and hands trembled fiercely.
The kid on camera, meanwhile, gripped the mic with both hands and stared straight ahead.
"What?"
Honk honk!
Professor Baek's startled yelp drowned in the horns.
The interviewer, taking back the mic, felt her mind go blank.
* * *
In the two-day full-league round robin with six teams, Nami's team went 5-0 for a straight finals ticket.
The girls' unique personalities drew huge crowd cheers. Eager, the interviewer ad-libbed beyond her list. Parents' video letters usually embarrassed pros on camera—wholesome wrap-up, flips gamer stigma for boomers. Win-win-win.
But she shouldn't have asked.
Chat exploded. Or everyone thought it did—the scrolling chat froze right then.
The broadcast blew up right after.
* * *
"I'm way past the age where that hurts. And you didn't know, right? I'm really fine, so stop apologizing already."
I helped up the announcer bowing solemnly. She'd try to speak, lips quivering, then choke up again—ended up consoling her till I was drained.
Personally, I didn't think no parents was that special. Nice if they were around, sure. But even in my past life, plenty gave up dreams because of parents. Especially post-war—kids without parents littered streets more than with, blood ties useless under survival threats.
After her sincere apology, World of Arceria teammates' loving stares, now Legacy of Legend tourney loomed with weird team vibes.
"Nami..."
"No, Sia-unnie, no need to freak that mu—"
"Nami! Waaaaaah, I didn't know and waaah!"
Yoo Sia scooped me up. Should've kept the avatar.
"Why now, tourney's starting. Miss minimap from crying, get ganked, then what."
"You... you..."
"Why...?"
"Waaaaaah!"
"No crying, talk!"
"Hic... I'll! Hic be your mom...!"
"What? I'm adopted, living fine! And my foster dad's at least thirty years older than you."
Sudden silence.
"Sniff... yeah, that."
"Right. Ban-pick time."
"Yeah..."
Everyone's so extra.