Cheon Kyujin's Lingering Grief and NoName's Fractured Psyche

Cheon Kyujin, the entertainment god professor, said his fiancée had passed away in an instant due to a tragic accident. Along with the baby in her womb. It had been 27 years since he'd overcome the pain of losing his family and kept living.

"I might have been afraid that my personal desire to reclaim a family was hurting a child. Or maybe I was scared of losing family again. So..."

Cheon couldn't finish his sentence. The tall, handsome young man he once was had vanished completely, replaced by wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth—he was now old enough to have grandchildren. He couldn't shake the faint speculation that if his fiancée hadn't died and had lived on healthily, she might have given birth to a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠child as clever as this one, inheriting her parents' brilliance.

But the past was the past. He couldn't drag Nami into his own pain.

"Still, I'll give it my best, Doctor."

If it was for Nami's sake, he'd have no choice but to live even more cautiously from now on. He listened intently to the counselor's advice and accepted it.

The production crew didn't know what words of comfort to offer, so they lapsed into heavy silence. Only the counselor quietly empathized, sharing the sorrow.

Then the director of the psychological counseling center squeezed through the narrow camera setup.

"Ah, Director Park!"

"The atmosphere here feels a bit heavy. I just finished NoName's multifaceted personality test."

Following the Wechsler intelligence test, Nami had somehow completed the MMPI—even with its 600-plus items—in just one day. Considering the average child's attention span, it was astonishing.

The PDs desperately hoped the director brought good news, given the incredibly weighty conversation that had just passed between the two.

This time too, the director explained the results while showing various bar graphs.

"The MMPI analyzes scores that are higher or lower than average like this. For example, Scale 1 here is hypochondriasis—you can see it's lower than the other items, right?"

"Yes."

"High scores mean excessive fixation on health issues or complaining of physical symptoms under stress. Patients with actual physical illnesses tend ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to score around 60. But NoName's is very low, suggesting she has a tendency to ignore pain unless it's a serious illness."

"Does that mean she's hiding when she's hurting?"

"Yes, that's entirely possible. So the guardian should pay extra close attention in daily life."

It wasn't a good start. The production crew watched Cheon Kyujin's face twist, feeling suffocated in the cramped space.

Fortunately, the subsequent scales all fell within normal ranges. No depression, hysteria, antisocial tendencies, or paranoia. Midway, it noted a strong rejection of traditional feminine roles, but since Scale 4 (antisocial) was low, it wasn't a major issue.

The center director hesitated briefly before the next item. The camera supervisor, who had previewed the screen, coughed anxiously at the towering peaks of Scale 7 and Scale 8.

"Scale 7 is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Psychasthenia, obsessive-compulsive tendencies."

"That's... incredibly high..."

Finally, it had arrived—Cheon Kyujin straightened up in his seat.

"High Scale 7 indicates frequent obsessive thoughts as a defense against anxiety, a pursuit of perfection, self-deprecation, and strong feelings of guilt. If it rises with Scale 2, depression accompanies it, but as you see, it's not that bad here. If Scale 8 rises too, it could involve thought disorders."

And Scale 8 was high as well.

"Then what about Scale 8?"

"Scale 8 is schizophrenia. But don't misunderstand—this doesn't mean she has schizophrenia just because it's high. It encompasses various domains, so interpretation is complex. We also did a subjective survey..."

Director Park continued in a grave tone.

"The child reported depersonalization—feeling her thoughts aren't her own—ideas of control, as if someone is manipulating her, and occasional auditory and visual hallucinations."

"Ah..."

Even healthy people go mad in solitary confinement—there was no way a child locked in VR for seven years could be normal.

Over the past two months, sales of children's VR capsules had surged significantly. Even discontinued VR helmets were trading secondhand in Korea.

The reason was obvious. Watching Nami's brilliant talents had sharply reduced prejudice against VR.

However, amid parents demanding the removal of daily login limits on children's capsules, experts voiced concerns.

Few took a 30-year veteran's words at face value. How do you explain NoName, then? The odds of a child trapped in a capsule by terrorists randomly becoming Korea's smartest person were vanishingly low.

Experts couldn't easily answer that. Nothing else explained it.

While VR capsule companies raked in marketing profits, the Genius Discovery Unit 'NoName' special (Part 1) aired.

It immediately rocked online communities.

The production crew seemed determined to push NoName's abilities to 100%, assigning diverse challenges. Their method? Recreate everything Ham Chorong had shown in her old '13-Year-Old Ham Chorong' episode.

Ratings spiked from memorizing a 100-page novel verbatim, peaking at the one-on-one duel with Adella.

As awe and relative deprivation sank in over the little girl's prowess, her painful past drew focus. Her health had improved thanks to her guardian, but Nami remained psychologically unstable.

Cheon Kyujin even shed tears at the center director's calm report, leaving viewers gasping in unison.

Communities turned into oceans of tears. Nami's game interview video resurfaced via algorithms, drawing fresh attention.

Viewers watched Genius Discovery Unit to the end through misty eyes—until suddenly, all gasped in shock and fury.

"Hi, Nami."

"Hello, PD Park Yeo-reum."

"You remember my name? Must've been tough today, huh?"

"Since the junior PD came to see me, I guess this wraps up Part 1 filming."

"Gasp—how'd you know?"

Predictable. Junior PDs handle grunt work—her visit meant no more shoots for a while.

"Actually, I got one last mission: interview you to close it out."

"Sure. One sec."

I'd been lounging on the sofa, so my hair was a mess. While the junior PD set up the camera, I frantically fixed my bangs in the mirror.

"Did you have fun filming, Nami?"

"It was a novel experience. First time realizing how many people work behind the scenes to make a show."

"You originally said no to Genius Discovery Unit. What changed your mind?"

"There was a reason. Do you know? If I'd been rescued from the capsule even a week later, I might've died. The connection would've cut first, and I'd have shivered alone in that pitch-black, cramped space until my heart quietly stopped in my sleep without me knowing."

Maybe too heavy a start? The PD bit her lip, listening intently.

"I'm grateful. I wanted to say thanks. My mom most of all, but starting with Professor Cheon who helped me grow up without lacking anything, the detective and rescue team who came to the abandoned house themselves, and even my current cousin-oppa who spotted the rescue signal."

"Rescue signal?"

"Anyway, that's a thing. But I heard those heroes are in a tough spot now—when they deserve medals, they're being shipped off somewhere far. It feels unfair, so I appeared to spread the word."

"Whoa... Nami, you're always looking out for others—like a real angel!"

"Nah. One of them's just a friend from academy's dad. In a bad way, it's nepotism, right?"

That topic would come in Part 2. We chatted casually about the shoot schedule and impressions.

Then a question popped up.

"But I saw a script yesterday and got curious about something."

"Ack, the script...!"

Even Genius Discovery Unit was a variety show—scripts from writers were unavoidable. Most viewers didn't know.

"Everyone in the know already knows. In that Ham Chorong episode, they skipped one thing she did—crossed it out with scribbles."

"Was there?"

The PD was hearing it for the first time too. It was an old broadcast; she hadn't watched the whole thing.

"Why didn't you ask about unique magic?"

"Unique magic? Ah!"

Park Yeo-reum finally nodded, something clicking.

"You're still too young for that—"

"I have one too. My unique magic."

"Huh? Really...?"

"Yeah."

"Wha—why?!"

"Just made it?"

Ham Chorong invented hers at 13, then at just 14 reached the quarterfinals of the national magic tournament against high school seniors. From 15, she won four straight years—a unique record in Korea.

Her genius played a part, but everyone agreed her unique magic was huge. In tournaments where you hide your spells, it gave casting advantages and easy variations.

"Registered...?"

"Not yet."

"If it's real, register ASAP!"

"I applied already. Probably approved by now—"

Perfect timing—chills. Was this what they meant by the entertainment god helping?

I showed the camera the message from the Japanese Magic Copyright Association to the wide-eyed junior PD.

"A-grade? Not as high as hoped, but not bad."

"What do all these words mean?"

Park Yeo-reum asked about the all-Japanese notice. The crew shifted the camera from my phone back to me.

Tempted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to troll, I raised my index finger, stared at the screen dramatically, and said,

"Hmm... We'll reveal it 60 seconds after the commercial."

The PD gaped blankly, looking utterly dumbfounded.

This is fun. Gotta use it on my streams sometime.