240 - Comprehensive Psychological Examination
To stream properly, what Adella needed right now wasn't an avatar—it was a resident registration card. World of Arceria had given her various conveniences through Wearsoft, so she could create an account there, but other games didn't allow that. Unless she played on a ghost account, she needed at least a resident registration card or an alien registration card to prove her identity.
To qualify as a Twitch partner, she also needed a bank account in her own name. In the end, it all circled back to the same conclusion: to live a normal economic life, she had to prove she was a citizen of some country.
But getting such a swift approval from Japan was truly unexpected. Wasn't it a developed country notorious for its sluggish bureaucracy? Turns out there was already a precedent.
One otaku developer's relentless persistence had overturned Japan's bureaucracy after tireless efforts, even systematizing the manual. But that was possible because the AI's developer was Japanese.
I'd explored various options myself and brought up the "Japan Highly Talented Special Naturalization" system. If she registered a unique magic of A-grade or higher under her name in Japan, wouldn't that meet the conditions? Japan might be inflexible, but I realized it reacts sensitively to anything that benefits its national interests, even if just a little.
The previously vague responses from the official suddenly shifted in tone, and within a single day, they sent back a reply confirming legal review was complete.
Adella's heart already seemed to have sailed across the sea to Japan. Maybe I should just let her go.
Thanks to the PDs' broad-minded meddling to protect my innocence, after leaving the community center, we visited several more places. I even met a sitting congressman, but as expected, Korea wasn't going to produce an answer in such a short time.
"I'll review this carefully and do my utmost to propose a bill. Thanks for the great idea, kid."
Yeah, off to Japan it is.
I sorted through the tangled plans in my head one by one. I'd need to prepare the forms to submit to the Japanese government and write up proof that it was Adella's unique magic. As I sat quietly in the back seat of the car with my eyes closed, I dozed off without realizing it.
The highlight of Genius Scout was always the child's intelligence test. At a psychological counseling research institute in Seoul, as Nami underwent the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children (K-WISC VII), Professor Cheon Kyujin was once again giving an interview to the PDs.
When it was revealed that Cheon Kyujin, whom they'd thought was just an ordinary Korea University professor, was a Middle East war veteran, the production team was stunned. An extraordinary child adopted into an extraordinary family. Sensing a ratings jackpot already, the writer came up with questions on the spot.
"You've seen not just Korea University students but countless geniuses in your life. What level do you think Nami is at, Professor?"
"It's been a little over a year since I started watching Nami, and she still surprises me from time to time. She learns so fast that when she brings up a field I don't know, I have to pull all-nighters studying just to keep the conversation going."
"Is that true? You have such an incredible passion for education, sir!"
Parental upbringing is a crucial factor in the sustained development of young geniuses. In that regard, Professor Cheon was undeniably the ideal parent.
His specialty was transmutation circle studies, but over the past year, he'd been forced to study number theory, control engineering, molecular biology, and comprehensive magic circle theory. He even confessed to scouring the internet for game terms when Nami entered a gaming tournament.
"As a Middle East vet, you must have met Ham Chorong in person. What do you think of her? Do you see Nami growing into a mage who could represent Korea someday?"
The figure who created the golden age of the original Genius Scout. She had her share of scandals and controversies, but her shocking feats on air were still talked about on VTube, so it was impossible not to be curious.
Professor Cheon narrowed his eyes unpleasantly, furrowing his brow, but quickly composed himself and replied flatly.
"I hope Nami doesn't live that kind of life."
The PD was taken aback by the cold response. "Pardon? But—"
"Of course, I'll support whatever Nami wants as much as I can. But the position of representing the nation that you mentioned? It would just burden her unnecessarily. I want her to find her own happiness."
Click. After the grueling hour-long test, Nami emerged from the testing room. She gulped down water from the dispenser and sat next to Professor Cheon.
"All done? Wasn't too tough?"
"I'm a bit drained. But the counselor probably had it worse than me."
"Seeing you smile like that, I bet you tormented someone again."
"Hey, what do you take me for?"
The harmonious laughter of the two was captured in a single shot. Then the counselor printed out a few test sheets and sat across from them. The PDs all tilted their heads. Normally, you'd have to wait ages after the test for result interpretations. They'd even prepared interview scripts to fill the time, but the counselor skipped straight to the conclusion without needing more time.
"As you can see here, verbal comprehension, perceptual reasoning, working memory, and processing speed—all perfect scores."
The camera immediately zoomed in on the results sheet.
"In terms of the IQ you're familiar with, it's the theoretical maximum on the Wechsler—172—"
"172? Goodness..." Professor Cheon rested his chin on his hand and glanced at Nami.
Nami shrugged. "It's called an intelligence test, but it felt pretty sloppy overall. It doesn't use the whole brain—just biased toward one side, like a puzzle. Don't take the results too seriously; treat it as just for fun."
She shared her impressions of the test instead. The counselor nodded with a smile.
"Nami's right. You can't definitively judge a person's intelligence based on whether they do well or poorly on this. But as a counselor reporting the results, this is the first time I've seen numbers like these in my career. In percentiles, she's in the top 0.0001%—or one in a million."
Professor Cheon's heart grew even heavier at those words.
"Nami, want to go with your sister for the next test?"
Even after Nami left for the next psychological exam, the interpretation continued.
"Nami keeps calling you 'Professor' instead of 'Dad.' Is there a reason?"
Professor Cheon's expression darkened rapidly. He stared at the door Nami had exited through for a long moment before confiding in the counselor.
"As you know, Nami has a complicated past."
"Yes, she didn't seem like a typical child."
The counselor cautiously speculated it was probably due to prolonged virtual reality confinement.
"The Nami I first met wasn't as bright and cheerful as she is now. Her eyes were always filled with anxiety, and she was really guarded around people."
"I see... That makes sense for her behavior."
"I originally met Nami as a student auditor in my Korea University class. So when I adopted her, I didn't want to burden her with our relationship. I just hoped she'd grow up in a better environment—"
"But sir, I understand the sentiment, but it actually hinders attachment formation with the child."
"Is that so?"
The counselor nodded lightly. "Yes. The intimacy from terms of address is a crucial element in socialization. Have you read The Story of Hong Gildong?"
"Yes, I know it."
"Do you know why Hong Gildong ran away and became the leader of the Robin Hood-like band? The root cause was that his family didn't fulfill his need for belonging. Even later, when seeking respect and pursuing dreams, unfulfilled belonging from family could hold the child back."
"Hmm..."
"Of course, if Nami's content with a professor-student relationship, that's fine. But as you've seen, she has school friends, streams broadcasts, and has broadcaster friends too, right?"
"That's what I understand."
"Building these groups might unconsciously be her way of filling an inner void. For more details, you'd have to hear from Director Park conducting the current exams."
"It's more important than I thought. I was unaware."
"Yes, it's often overlooked. Especially common in stepparent or adoptive families."
Silence fell. Professor Cheon cleared his throat softly, lost in thought.
Since Nami confessed her past, he'd been trying harder to show more care. But he hadn't even considered that the initial relationship he'd set might be drawing a line himself.
"This case is a bit unique, though. Usually, adoptive parents hope the child calls them 'Mom' or 'Dad' quickly, right?"
The counselor added. Even if Nami called him whatever she wanted, why had Professor Cheon unnecessarily drawn the line? It still didn't make sense.
By now, the evening sun had slipped out from behind the clouds, casting orange rays through the curtains. The antique wooden desk was bathed in vibrant autumn hues. The shadows of his clasped hands stretched long across it.
Professor Cheon gazed at the distant sky outside the window and reluctantly spoke.
"Counselor, the truth is... I once had a child long ago. I didn't even know if it was a son or daughter."
His voice trembled slightly toward the end after a shallow breath.
"The child was too young to even have a proper name."