Chapter 10 - The Seminar
Chapter 10 - The Seminar
It was just past 8 AM when the CNN production team arrived at Boston Airport.
James Lowell checked his phone as soon as he got off the plane.
More emails had piled up overnight.
The MIT PR team had sent only short replies: interviews were difficult, research content could not be disclosed, and please refrain from contacting the family.
Seeing that, James smirked at the screen.
"Please refrain from contacting the family, huh."
A reporter next to him asked.
"Does that mean it's true?"
"At the very least, it means the existence of the subject is real."
"What about the Hodge Conjecture?"
"That's what we're going to verify."
After the Boston Globe article came out, the American media moved almost simultaneously.
At first, most were skeptical. An eight-year-old Korean genius, an MIT visiting research program, rumors of research related to the Hodge Conjecture—it was too sensational a combination.
But MIT didn't deny it.
Usually, if it were an exaggerated article, MIT would have drawn a line immediately, but this time it was different.
MIT only repeated that the research content was private, and the media didn't miss that silence.
The MIT PR team was already a war zone.
The phone didn't stop ringing, and the number of emails increased every time they refreshed the inbox.
One staff member hung up the receiver and said.
"This time it's the New York Times."
A colleague next to them replied immediately.
"I just had the Washington Post."
"FOX is calling again."
"ABC is requesting a shoot."
The team leader pressed their hands onto the desk and closed their eyes.
"Do not disclose the family's movements under any circumstances."
"Same for the child's schedule. Research content is also off-limits. Professor interviews are not allowed without approval from the President's office."
"Then what are we supposed to answer?"
The team leader sighed.
"Nothing..."
"Does that count as an answer?"
"For now, it's the best we can do."
The situation was no different in the President's office.
The President was reading the PR team's report, and Jonathan Reed and Andrew Miller were there as well.
On the first line of the report, a number was written in bold.
Official interview requests surpassed 300. The President put the paper down.
"We can't hide it anymore."
"It wasn't something we could hide for long from the beginning."
Andrew said.
"The problem is the speed. It's too fast right now."
The President nodded.
"That's why we have to control it even more."
"I have no intention of putting the child in front of a camera."
"I agree."
"But the requests from the mathematics community are different."
Jonathan looked back.
"Have they already come in?"
The President pushed another report forward.
-Princeton
-Harvard
-Stanford
-Caltech
-University of Chicago
-Institute for Advanced Study
Andrew muttered lowly.
"In just one day..."
The President looked at Jonathan.
"They have requested the data."
The media can be blocked. Or, at least, time can be bought.
But the academic world is different; they don't just look at articles—once they get a whiff of something, they try to verify it to the end.
"We cannot disclose all the data."
The President said.
"So, I intend to propose an invitation-only seminar."
"A verification group?"
"That's not the official name."
"But effectively, that's what it is."
Jonathan nodded slowly.
"That must be done."
"The mathematics community needs to verify it before the media does."
That afternoon, MIT quietly sent out invitations, and the target list was limited.
No public disclosure, no filming, no taking materials out, no media contact, and compliance with Yoon Siwoo's two-hour limit—the conditions were strict, but all the professors who received the invitation agreed.
Harold Grant, a veteran mathematician from Princeton, read the invitation and took off his glasses. His student, who was watching, asked.
"Isn't this just gossip?"
Harold shook his head.
"When MIT sends an invitation in this format, it's not gossip."
"...They say he's eight years old."
"You don't solve problems with age."
"Still, it's hard to believe."
"That's why I'm going."
Similar conversations took place at Harvard, Caltech, and Stanford. The professors didn't say it out loud, but they all felt the same way.
No way, right? But what if?
That single "what if" moved people.
Siwoo didn't know about those movements. At home, Siwoo was watching a baseball broadcast with Taesik, and Hyejin was checking the schedule for the next day next to them.
On the schedule sent by MIT, it was written as "Invitation Seminar," and Hyejin frowned as soon as she saw the words.
"Another seminar."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"How many people are coming?"
"They said it's a small number."
Taesik smirked.
"Is that 'small' by MIT standards?"
"Two hours is fine."
Hyejin narrowed her eyes immediately.
"It's not up to you to decide if it's fine."
"Then who?"
"Mom has to decide."
Taesik quietly put down the remote control.
"You shouldn't argue with this."
"Yes..."
The next day, the largest seminar room in the MIT Department of Mathematics was put under access control.
Students were crowded in the hallway, but most couldn't get inside; only invited professors and designated personnel were allowed to enter.
"Who's coming today?"
"They said someone from Princeton is coming."
"Harvard is coming too."
"Caltech as well?"
"Stanford is there too."
"What is this, an All-Star game for the math world?"
"And there's an eight-year-old kid right in the middle of it."
"That makes even less sense when you say it like that."
The inside of the seminar room was completely different from the outside.
Harold Grant from Princeton, Eleanor Shaw from Harvard, Marcus Levin from Caltech, Daniel Ortega from Stanford, Lewis Han from the University of Chicago—these were people whose names alone made graduate students lower their voices.
They greeted each other briefly but didn't smile.
Today wasn't for sightseeing a prodigy; it was for verification.
As the door opened, the gazes in the seminar room moved all at once.
Hyejin stiffened at those gazes, and Taesik's expression also hardened.
Siwoo looked around at the people for a moment and said very quietly.
"There are a lot of people."
Taesik replied in a low voice.
"They said it was a small number..."
Hyejin looked at Jonathan, and Jonathan bowed his head immediately.
"I apologize."
"It was difficult to reduce it any further."
Instead of answering, Hyejin placed a stopwatch on the table.
"It's two hours."
Harold Grant saw that and smiled slightly.
"That's a good rule."
Hyejin looked at him.
"Please make sure to keep it."
Harold nodded seriously.
"I promise."
Siwoo stepped onto the platform.
There were three chalkboards, and as befitting the largest seminar room, the entire front wall was a chalkboard.
Siwoo looked at it for a moment, and his eyes brightened slightly.
Andrew asked.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes. There are a lot of chalkboards."
First sentence
-Not a wall, but a threshold
Second sentence
-The blank space is not an error, but a connector
Third sentence
-The assumption creates the wall
"May I start with a question?"
"Yes."
"That term, 'connector'—is it a poetic expression?"
"Or is it a structural definition?"
Siwoo thought for a moment.
"Neither."
"Then?"
"It's a leftover part."
"A leftover part that shouldn't be removed."
Harold's eyebrows moved slightly.
"Why shouldn't it be removed?"
Siwoo drew a line on the chalkboard.
"If you remove it, it breaks here."
"If you leave it, it connects here."
Siwoo moved to the second chalkboard and connected the arrows.
Harold watched quietly.
At first, he was still expressionless, but when the third line connected, his fingertips stopped.
Eleanor Shaw asked.
"Then does that mean the error handling of the existing method is wrong?"
"Not all of it."
"Then?"
"Some are errors, and some are doors."
"What's the criteria for distinguishing them?"
Siwoo didn't answer immediately; instead, he drew a small baseline on the left side of the chalkboard and placed a dot below it.
"If you align it with this, you can see it."
Marcus Levin said lowly.
"It's too intuitive."
Siwoo nodded.
"That's why it's still lacking."
"..."
"It needs to be organized."
The questions followed rapidly.
The mathematicians didn't go easy on him; they poked at the difficult parts from the very beginning.
The point that looked the weakest, the part most likely to collapse, the spot that had always failed in existing approaches—they touched those one by one.
"What about under this condition?"
"That won't work."
"Why is that?"
"That's outside the baseline."
"Then do we discard it?"
"No. It needs to be moved to a different coordinate system."
"Is that possible?"
"I think it's possible. I haven't looked at it all yet."
"So you mean you don't know."
"Yes."
Harold nodded at that answer instead of being disappointed.
Admitting he didn't know was quick; most genius children hate saying they don't know, but Siwoo wasn't afraid even while saying he didn't know.
After an hour passed, the atmosphere changed.
At first, it was verification, and then it was interrogation, but now it was becoming more like a discussion.
The professors' questions became sharper, but their voices became lower.
They weren't testing this child anymore; they were trying to follow what this child was seeing.
Eleanor suddenly said.
"Wait."
"If we go in this direction, doesn't that lemma over there become unnecessary?"
Siwoo looked at the chalkboard and said.
"Yes. That's a detour."
Marcus let out a dry laugh.
"A detour? A path we've been using for decades?"
"Yes."
A strange laughter spread through the seminar room.
It was funny, but no one could laugh lightly.
Because they thought that what he said might be true.
1 hour and 40 minutes in, Harold Grant threw the final question.
"Yoon Siwoo."
"Yes?"
"If you organize this to the end... do you think you can prove the Hodge Conjecture?"
"I don't know yet."
Harold wasn't disappointed.
"But there is a path."
He had said those words to the MIT professors before, but this time the listeners were different.
Princeton, Harvard, Caltech, Stanford, Chicago—they all heard the same words at the same time.
-Beep beep beep
The stopwatch rang, and Siwoo put down the chalk.
Eleanor, who was about to ask a question, closed her mouth, and Harold looked at his watch and nodded.
"Precise."
"It's finished."
This time, no one said "just a little more."
Because for Yoon Siwoo's seminar, the rules came before the math.
Taesik approached and asked quietly.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm hungry."
Taesik nodded.
"Let's go eat."
After the seminar ended, only the professors remained, and the chalkboards weren't erased.
Harold stood in front of the chalkboard and stared at it for a long time, and Jonathan approached.
"How is it?"
Harold didn't answer immediately.
"Jonathan."
"Yes."
"Do you know what we are looking at right now?"
"I don't know yet."
"It's history."
The conference room went quiet; Eleanor didn't refute it, and Marcus kept his mouth shut.
That word wasn't something that could be used easily, but no one in this room laughed.
"It's not a proof yet."
"There are flaws, and it lacks organization. But there is a direction."
"And the person who saw that direction is that child."
Jonathan looked at the chalkboard.
"That's why we must be more careful."
"That's right."
Harold nodded.
"We must protect him before the world rushes in."
Before those words could even finish, the door opened, and a PR team staff member entered in a hurry.
They were holding a phone memo in their hand.
"I apologize."
"We've received contact from the Clay Mathematics Institute."
Jonathan's expression stiffened.
"Already?"
"They have requested a review of the materials related to the Hodge Conjecture."
The seminar room went quiet again.
A space where the word "history" had been floating just a moment ago now had a more realistic name enter it.
Clay Mathematics Institute, Millennium Prize Problems, Hodge Conjecture. Andrew said lowly.
"Now, it's really starting."
That night, the lights in the MIT President's office were turned on again.
The President looked at the PR team's report and the requests from the mathematics community at the same time.
Media inquiries had exceeded 500, and data requests from outside mathematicians were continuing to come in.
Even the Clay Mathematics Institute had moved.
The President looked at Jonathan.
"This is no longer a simple visiting program."
"I know."
"We need the next step."
"What step are you talking about?"
The President said slowly.
"We must protect Yoon Siwoo's research as an official project."
That didn't mean an announcement; it was the opposite.
Protection, control, verification, blocking the outside, and at the same time, official recognition—it meant that the name Yoon Siwoo was no longer a small secret within MIT.
"Then we must begin."
The President asked.
"What?"
Jonathan replied briefly.
"Preparation of the proof draft."