The Five-Year-Old Prodigy Shocks the World

The live stream of Yoo A-yeon’s lecture kept drawing in more and more viewers. By the time she finished her presentation, the audience count had reached a staggering 120,000. Reactions among them split sharply: fifty percent suspected a hoax, thirty percent simply found her adorable, ten percent believed it was real, and the remaining ten percent just wanted to stir up trouble. After all, ninety-nine percent of the viewers couldn’t understand a single word she had said.

Then the camera showed the mathematicians in the hall rising to their feet, applauding thunderously.

The chat ratios shifted to thirty percent “cute,” twenty percent “no way it’s real,” twenty percent “it must be real,” twenty percent still doubting, and ten percent just trolling.

Once the Q&A began and A-yeon logged into the archive to prove her identity, viewers finally accepted the truth—one beat behind the mathematicians on site.

When A-yeon’s actual age was revealed, the viewers were stunned once more.

“May I ask how old the author Yoo A-yeon is?”

“I’m five years old right now!”

After Shin I-jun’s name settled in the air, a brief moment of remembrance passed. The mathematicians returned to their questions. Hands shot up again, but this time the questions were purely academic—no more doubts about A-yeon herself.

“In the section where you construct the spectrum of Operator H to correspond with the zeros of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the zeta function…” A young professor stood up with his notes. “You show that the spectrum actually lies on the line where the real part is 1/2, not just a formal similarity. Could you elaborate on the logical steps on page 58 of the paper?”

I smiled brightly at the question. ‘Yes! Finally, proper academic questions!’

Holding Mom’s hand, I climbed back onto the platform and picked up the chalk. “Yup! I spent a lot of time thinking about that part too!”

Tap tap. I wrote equations on the board while explaining the construction of the operator on Hilbert space, the boundary conditions for self-adjointness, and how those conditions aligned with the structure of the Riemann Hypothesis. The professor nodded as he took notes.

Next, a professor from Japan raised his hand. “E-etto, trace formula and self-adjoint properties—”

“Ah, are you Japanese? I can speak Japanese too!”

“…Arigatou gozaimasu.”

He asked about the trace formula and self-adjointness proof. I answered fluently in Japanese, writing new equations on another part of the board. The professor looked genuinely surprised—I had answered even the mathematical explanation in his language without hesitation.

Questions kept coming, sharp and detailed, probing every logical gap. I fielded them all smoothly, responding in each professor’s own language. ‘I’ve done this defense thing for years. Thinking they could trip me up is laughable. Hehe.’

Satisfied, I wore a bright smile. The Q&A ran far past its scheduled time.

“Haa… haa…” My stamina had finally hit its limit. My head spun, and little dizzy marks probably floated in my cute eyes. Mom noticed right away and gently wiped the sweat from my forehead with a handkerchief. She took the microphone ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from me.

“A-yeon has reached her physical limit, so we’ll conclude the lecture here. Thank you very much.”

Mom bowed slightly, and I followed with a small bow of my own. Applause erupted again—shorter than before, but filled with genuine respect this time.

“Huheheh.” I soaked up every last drop of that final applause.