Connecting to the Internet
After A-rin's monumental first words, I decided to redouble my efforts, spurred on by my little sister.
My original goal: proving the Riemann Hypothesis.
I'd put it on the back burner until now, but it was time to refocus.
Plus, my feelings about writing the paper had shifted a bit.
In my past life as Professor Shin Ijun, the only reasons to write papers were intellectual curiosity and the thrill of achievement. Not to toot my own horn, but I was basically a boring guy who only cared about research and results.
But now, as Yoo A-yeon, fame and glory were my main motivations—more than curiosity or achievement.
'If I become the first person in the world to prove the Riemann Hypothesis, I'll get tons of praise and applause...!'
I ran a mental simulation of what would happen after proving it.
The venue is Seoul National University's grand auditorium. (I picked domestic since flying still scares me.)
1,500 seats are packed.
Front rows: professors who claim to know their math.
Middle: grad students with notebooks open.
Aisles: reporters snapping photos, shutter clicks echoing; drone cameras buzzing overhead.
KBS, MBC, SBS, CNN, BBC, NHK—live broadcasts from major networks worldwide.
The stage is empty.
Then.
Pop-pop-pop. A small, cute, brilliant presenter toddles out.
Yoo A-yeon. Age: five. Height: 105cm. IQ: 160.
Cheers and applause erupt from the audience.
"Waaaaah—!"
A-yeon raises a hand at the mic, waiting silently for quiet.
The hall falls still.
Bow. A light greeting.
She climbs a kid-sized step stool.
Clack-clack. Cute handwriting on the blackboard: the definition of the Riemann Hypothesis.
[All nontrivial zeros of ζ(s) = 0 have real part 1/2.]
Ah, plenty of foreigners, so English below for good measure.
[Every nontrivial zero s of ζ(s) satisfies Re(s)=1/2.]
And with confident baby voice:
"—I'm gonna prove this now!"
50 minutes later.
"—And that's the proof!"
Bow.
One second of silence. Then.
Thunderous applause and cheers explode again.
"Waaaaaaaah—!"
Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap!
A 70-year-old professor in the front wipes tears, stands for a standing ovation.
"Oh, Jesus…!"
Next one stands, sobbing.
"Holy moly…!"
And the next. And the next.
The wave spreads—1,500 people on their feet in under 10 seconds.
CNN anchor, voice trembling to the live camera:
—Oh my god! Historic moment! After 160 unsolved years, Korea's five-year-old kid, A-yeon Yoo, has cracked it—!!!
After that, A-yeon skyrockets.
Tons of praise. Media genius hype. Fan clubs online. TV ads, docs. Schools begging for lectures. Influencers lining up for collabs. Even Time's Person of the Year...!
"Heu-heung."
Just imagining it was bliss.
"Ah, slurp—drool's dripping."
How amazing would it feel for real?
'Yeah, I can do this...!'
I clenched my tiny fist, resolve burning.
I headed straight to the study and opened my past life's research notes.
Now I could move freely, and Mom and Dad didn't bat an eye at me coming in.
Time to make this a habit for decoding.
Professor Shin Ijun's Research Materials — Riemann Hypothesis Studies? (Order Unknown)
A clear file on the bottom shelf. A whopping 200 pages of notes.
ζ(s) = Π(p: prime) 1/(1 - p^(-s))
ζ(s) = 1/Γ(s) ∫₀^∞ t^(s-1)/(e^t - 1) dt
θ(t) = Σ(n=-∞ to ∞) e^(-πn²t)
My past life's scrawl covered approaches to the Riemann zeta function.
Three months locked in the lab, in a trance—didn't care about readability, just scribbled intuitively. God, the handwriting was atrocious.
Worse, the order was a mess. Decoding the logic and approach was a challenge itself.
"Hmm… Even though it's my past self, this handwriting sucks..."
But no whining allowed.
To get all that praise and applause, I had to grit my teeth.
One line. Two. Three.
Deciphering the mess, tracing equations—fragments started surfacing.
Too faint for full memory, but not brand new.
Like humming sheet music, then fingers recalling forgotten technique.
'...Kinda coming back to me.'
The ideas' outlines sharpened.
How I'd approached in Hilbert space. How I'd built the self-adjoint operator.
Not all yet, but progress.
One step at a time.
Deep into the paper notes, I hit a realization.
'I wanna access the cloud storage...!'
Right before collapsing from heart failure in my past life, I'd summarized the core proof idea and logical progression on my personal cloud.
Shallow compared to three months of scribbles, info-light.
But cleanly organized—a perfect roadmap.
'Any way to get online?'
Other families, who knows. But here, no internet for a two-year-old.
Bad for education. Even begging for a phone got a firm no.
Stuck.
Then, opportunity knocked.
'Mom left her laptop out and went for a nap...'
Lately, she'd been using it in the living room—probably researching my education.
With Mom and A-rin snoring, this was my shot. Miss it, no next time.
I slipped from Mom's arms, tiptoed to the living room.
Quiet.
Creak. I eased open the laptop lid.
'Wait...'
Hand froze. Sneaking on Mom's laptop? Bad. Wrong. Caught? No excuse. Conscience pricking my chest.
"But still..."
I wanted to. To write the paper. Share what only I knew. Fame aside—it was a scholar's duty.
'Steel yourself, A-yeon...!'
Slap on cheeks, focus.
Lid up: lock screen, password prompt.
I knew it: 2019/09/07. Parents' wedding anniversary.
Typed fast, unlocked.
Browser open, cloud URL.
Fingers not fully developed—typing a hassle. Typos galore.
"Ugh..."
Delete, retype. Repeat. Finally, login screen.
Slowly poked past life's ID and password.
Past life's space, untouched since that night, slumbering online.
Luckily, no 2FA phone—could access despite owner dead three years. Weak security saved me.
Scanned folders.
Riemann Hypothesis — Idea Summary Memo
Opened the last saved file.
Short memo. One A4 page summary.
Reading it: fog in my head cleared bit by bit.
'Ah, right... that's how it was.'
Paper notes stayed blurry despite hundreds of reads. But meshed with this, logic sharpened.
'That's why I went this route...'
Mentally expanded equations.
Swing-swing. Feet kicked air from high chair.
'Then the stuck part resolves naturally. How'd I miss it till now...'
Fully immersed in the memo.
So I missed the footsteps.
"A-yeon? What're you doing there?"
Mom's sleepy voice.
"Kyak!"
I froze. No time to close laptop.
Mom right behind, staring at the screen. Eyes widening.
She knew this account. Had to.
Grad school: hundreds of emails. Co-authored papers.
Impossible to mistake.
Thoughts raced across her face.
No way a random two-year-old stumbles on this.
So, the unbelievable conclusion slipped out.
"No way... Professor Shin Ijun?"