The New Problem
As everyone probably guessed, the conversation with reporter Lee Dong-hyun wasn't improvised—it was a scripted performance.
No normal person would ever imagine that the five-year-old kid sitting right in front of them is the author of that hot-topic paper, right?
So I deliberately kept my name out of it and joined the chat.
Plus, I got to snag some delicious strawberry bomb cake out of it. Uwhehing.
Anyway. Reporter Lee Dong-hyun will drag a bunch of broadcast cameras into the lecture hall where I'll announce the proof of the Riemann Hypothesis.
Of course, a journalist from some random media outlet doesn't have that kind of pull on his own. But with that kind of dogged determination, I figured he'd somehow rope in a TV station. I could see it in his eyes—that desperate hunger for success. How badly does this guy want it? It's off the charts.
"A-yeon-ah. Everything go as you wanted?"
"Yup! Thanks for helping, Mommy!"
Oh right, my bad. I forgot to explain the biggest premise of that whole conversation: me giving the lecture.
Obviously, I didn't have the clout to host a major lecture. Neither did Mom.
But before we even had to ask, Professor Park Mu-yeol stepped up with the offer.
How about holding a lecture demonstrating the process of proving the Riemann Hypothesis?
And since he knew we didn't have the connections to gather mathematicians, the professor even volunteered to use his academic network to set up a big event himself.
Putting a random five-year-old on stage would normally tarnish a professor's reputation.
But Professor Park is a mathematician driven by intellectual curiosity first and foremost. He just wanted to witness the Riemann Hypothesis being solved with his own eyes, pure and simple.
So he took the risk of damaging his own prestige to make us the offer. That must mean he judged my paper to be of top-notch quality.
Our interests aligned perfectly. No reason to turn it down.
"Nihehe. This is what a massive honey pot looks like. Ahh~ connection power is so sweeeet~!"
"A-yeon-ah, bad words!"
"Hweht! Sorryyy..."
Mom scolded me... Hing.
"But A-yeon-ah, can you really handle lecturing in front of a huge crowd? That's what worries Mommy."
A place where all eyes are on you is terrifying. Stage fright doesn't exist for nothing.
Mom was fretting over me standing in such a spotlight.
Especially since she'd presented in English at an overseas conference back in grad school—she knew that fear better than anyone.
"Psh, no prob, Mommy! In my past life, I was Professor Shin I-jun! I lectured to college kids and defended my dissertation during my PhD! Speaking in front of people is a piece of cake!"
"Still... Mommy's worried about you. That's something Professor Shin I-jun overcame in his past life, but it's not like current Yoo A-yeon has conquered it herself, right? Your body doesn't seem to remember that experience."
"Hmm..."
Mom had a point.
The terror of being surrounded by countless stares. The dread of your reputation crashing. From an evolutionary psychology standpoint, those are primal human fears.
For our ancestors, being encircled by predators or ostracized from the group for a bad rep literally meant death.
Our brains kick into survival mode in those situations—activating the sympathetic nervous system, spiking heart rate, making your voice tremble.
And in modern times, that manifests as stage fright. Even when you know it's safe, your amygdala reacts unconsciously.
Even actors and celebrities who seem comfy on stage aren't born without the fear—they've just desensitized to it through endless repetition.
So just because Shin I-jun's body overcame stages in the past life doesn't guarantee Yoo A-yeon's won't shake up there now.
The amygdala is a muscle that needs training. You can't just willpower your way through it.
"Then whatcha gonna do, Mommy? If I go on like this, I might end up trembling like A-rin left alone at the kids cafe, bawling my eyes out...!
Then people'll be like, 'Who the heck dragged this noisy brat here?' and roast me hard...! I'd be so embarrassed I'd burrow under the covers pounding my fists for days...!"
That was a horrifying vision.
For the five years I've lived as Yoo A-yeon, I wrote that paper imagining thunderous applause from crowds.
But if I actually got on stage and wailed, "Waaah, Mommyyy, I'm scared!"? No applause—just doubts about the paper's authenticity...
Mom would get finger-pointed as the "insane child abuser shoving a clueless five-year-old as first author." Professor Park Mu-yeol would face whispers of dementia...
To shield everyone who's helped me from scandal, I have to deliver an overwhelming performance at that lecture.
Show off my IQ 160, rattle off seven languages fluently, and explain the Riemann proof step-by-step without a single logical flaw—for a massive audience.
'Whoa, this kid really is a genius who wrote the whole paper. Her mom's not crazy, Professor Park's not senile. Amazing! Yoo A-yeon must be a goddess. Time to give the cutest, smartest girl in the world a huge round of applause.'
I need to make them think that.
"You're right, A-yeon-ah. We shouldn't rush the lecture. Let's prepare thoroughly until you're satisfied."
In the end, unlike my starry-eyed idealism, Mom's concerns were grounded in reality.
"Guess I gotta ask Professor Park Mu-yeol to wait just a teensy bit longer..."
I needed to train my amygdala to stay cool under overreactions, control my emotions calmly, and prep to lecture flawlessly in front of hundreds.
The operation to activate A-rin's brain was going smoothly.
We played all sorts of board games together, and I taught her chess here and there too.
"Daddy! Take my castling attack!"
"A-rin-ah, castling is a one-time move per game—it's not like a ultimate special attack."
"Still my ultimate for me!"
"Arrrgh! A-rin's ultimate is too strongggg~!"
"Uwheheeng."
Dad took charge of teaching A-rin chess.
Honestly, I didn't know much about chess myself. I only knew the piece names and basic rules from general knowledge—nothing on winning strategies.
Makes sense. Back when I was Shin I-jun, chess was a niche game with no real chance to learn it. And after reincarnating as Yoo A-yeon in 2020, I spent my growth years buried in books.
But Dad got hooked on the Netflix drama Queen's Gambit in 2020, right when chess started booming, so he jumped in then.
A five-year player. Perfect teacher for A-rin.
"Don't worry about my skills. Dad's got a Chess.com rating in the 1800s."
"How good is that?"
"Top 0.83%. Like Diamond in LoL terms."
"Ooh! That's super good!"
"Kekeke. I only lose to my genius daughters, but this dad's pretty smart too, y'know?"
I have fond memories of Dad and me sneaking out of late-night self-study in science high school to hit up a PC bang for LoL. We both kinda sucked—hovering between Silver and Gold. Diamond back then? Total superstar.
Never hit Diamond in LoL, but got it in chess. Way to go, Dad.
"So, A-yeon-ah, learn chess with A-rin too."
Dad suggested.
"Eh... sounds annoyiiing."
Chess has a BGG difficulty rating of 3.6—a real beast. Takes tons of time to learn.
With a great teacher like Dad, I figured A-rin didn't need my help anymore.
Honestly, with stage fright training and lecture prep staring me down, I'd rather spend time on that...
"Unni! Unni!"
A-rin came charging at me.
"Eek!" "Let's learn chess together, okay?"
A-rin hit me with those sparkling puppy-dog eyes. If she had a tail, it'd be wagging like crazy.
Ugh... can't say no to A-rin's eyes like that...
"Mommy approves too."
"Huh, Mommy?"
"Think about it, A-yeon-ah. We're considering a chess club to build A-rin's social skills, right?"
"Yup."
"And you need to overcome stage fright too. That means getting used to crowds more often, doesn't it?"
"Whoa... yeah!"
"You've been cooped up at home forever. Go with A-rin this time. It'll motivate her since she adores her big sis."
"Chess! Chess!"
A-rin beamed and burrowed into my arms.
And so, I started learning chess from Dad alongside A-rin.