Chapter 68
Time rewinds to a few weeks earlier.
At the time when news spread around the world that the Riemann Hypothesis had been officially proven and that the Clay Mathematics Institute had awarded Yu Ayeon one million dollars.
Yu Ayeon.
Those three syllables were mentioned in almost every news outlet.
Until then, the superintendent hadn't paid much attention to the name Yu Ayeon.
He had only seen it on the news and thought it was interesting.
At most, he'd had the frivolous thought that if he met her once and took a picture, public opinion might turn in his favor.
But then.
A few days later, the president of Seoul National University suddenly came to visit.
Without any prior appointment.
“President, what brings you here all of a sudden, without even calling?”
As soon as the president sat down, he got straight to the point.
“Superintendent, we absolutely cannot let Yu Ayeon be taken overseas.”
“Pardon?”
“A genius child unprecedented in human history has miraculously been born in Korea. Losing that talent to another country would be a devastating national loss.”
The superintendent looked at the president.
He thought it was a joke, but the expression on his face was completely serious.
“As you know, historically, geniuses with exceptionally high intelligence have often been unable to adapt to ordinary school life. Yu Ayeon will probably be the same. It's obvious without even looking.”
“Hmm… that's a fair point.”
“And although Yu Ayeon is still young, prestigious universities all over the world are probably already laying the groundwork to snatch her away. They'll offer an annual salary in the hundreds of millions of won just to lure her in.”
“R-really?”
“Yes. Something that terrible must not be allowed to happen. We have to bring Yu Ayeon to a university in Korea no matter what!”
The president's real motives were obvious.
The desire to put that child at Seoul National University, rather than at any other university, was obvious throughout the conversation.
“In Korea, the dissertation-only doctorate system was abolished long ago, so no matter how outstanding a dissertation Yu Ayeon writes, there's no way to award a doctorate. Then, inevitably, Yu Ayeon, who has no degree, will run into compulsory-education issues.”
(Dissertation-only doctorate system: a system that grants a doctorate based solely on a written dissertation. It was abolished in Korea in 1975, and Japan still maintains it.
Representative examples include Akira Yoshino, who invented the lithium-ion battery and won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, and Shuji Nakamura, who developed the blue LED and won the Nobel Prize in Physics; both earned doctorates through dissertations alone.)
“Please, I trust you'll make a wise decision, Superintendent, so that Yu Ayeon won't be blocked by Korea's education system and fail to realize her talent.”
What he was saying made sense.
A mathematician who proved the Riemann Hypothesis going to elementary school to learn dictation made no sense by any common standard.
And then.
What if that child said she didn't want to go to school.
He had the authority to exempt her from attending, legally.
The Act on the Promotion of Gifted Education.
A clause allowing the superintendent, at his discretion, to recognize special cases in gifted education.
In other words, it also meant he had the authority to exempt Yu Ayeon from compulsory education.
After the president left.
The superintendent kept thinking.
First, he wanted to go see Yu Ayeon himself.
However, the problem was that he had no idea who Yu Ayeon was or where she lived.
At least, since the chess club from the documentary seemed to be a business in Seoul, it looked like she did live in Seoul.
But he couldn't tell anything beyond that.
Apart from her name and age, her personal information was thoroughly hidden.
What's more, when he looked up Yu Ayeon in Seoul, there were far too many namesakes.
The education office had no special authority to dig any further into her personal information.
It wasn't an investigative agency, and the requirements for accessing information for public interest weren't met either.
In the end, there was only one thing the superintendent could do.
Wait for Yu Ayeon to show up in person.
He figured that eventually a school enrollment notice would arrive, and that the family would make some kind of move.
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At last, that day came.
A report came in that Yu Ayeon's family had shown up at the local Office of Education's civil complaint desk.
And at that moment.
The worst-case scenario flashed through the superintendent's mind.
If.
If this family had come to file a complaint with the education office, but Korea's notoriously strict administrative procedures got in the way.
If document screening alone took weeks, the relevant departments kept bouncing it back and forth, and they spent months reviewing it just because there was no precedent.
And then, if Yu Ayeon grew tired of it and said something like this.
— Ugh, Korea is such a pain! I'm just gonna immigrate to the U.S.!
And.
If that fact were reported by the media.
[6-year-old genius mathematician Yu Ayeon, headed to the U.S. after hitting the limits of Korea's education system]
[Genius girl who proved the Riemann Hypothesis leaves her homeland after being snubbed]
Just imagining what would come after that sent a chill down his spine and gave him goosebumps.
From that point on, public opinion against Korea's education system would grow fierce.
He himself would be dragged out and turned into the nation's punching bag.
‘The worst incompetent superintendent in history, who kicked away a talent Korea could never replace.’
That stigma might follow him for the rest of his life.
— Run, run ~ OOO-ah~ Talent drain, talent drain~
In his mind, his own image being mocked through an AI deepfake composite video, one of today's MZ-generation trends, flashed by.
No, being ignored by people in their 20s and 30s was still okay.
But being ignored by middle-aged adults, who would be deeply concerned about their children's education, was fatal.
His public career had to end peacefully, without any major incidents.
He had no intention of being talked about by the public because of this matter.
So.
As soon as he heard that Yu Ayeon's family had come to file a complaint.
The superintendent canceled the work he had been handling and hurried to that location.
“Where to?”
“To the Seoul OO District Office of Education. Hurry, hurry!”
The superintendent shouted at the driver in a frantic voice.
Vroooom-!
The driver sped up.
The speedometer hit 70, then 80, on a road with a 50-kilometer-per-hour speed limit.
They narrowly made it through two traffic lights.
The superintendent kept agonizing in the car.
He had to somehow stay in their good graces.
He had to handle this family's request as quickly and cleanly as possible.
He absolutely had to prevent overseas brain drain.
If this child stayed in Korea and researched under a Korean university, it might even become his own achievement.
As for the opposite case… he didn't even want to think about it.
The black car arrived at the parking lot of the district Office of Education.
The superintendent opened the door before anyone even finished telling him to stop.
Squeal-.
The tires came to a rough stop.
There was no time to worry about parking.
The superintendent jumped out of the car and dashed into the building.
“Huff… huff…”
Running that hard at his age left him short of breath.
But he couldn't stop.
Because this moment might be the one that decided his entire public career.
✒️✒️✒️
The superintendent said, sweating profusely.
“I'll use as much of my authority as I can to make things as convenient as possible for you.”
Hearing such words from someone so high up somehow made me feel like I was the one with the upper hand, and it felt good.
Is this what it feels like to be the one in charge...?
At this rate, I was practically going to have to put on the armor worn by the powerful—armor, literally.
Clank-clank-.
Just as I was imagining Yu Ayeon (112 cm) wearing full plate armor, waddling around, and then finally thudding to the ground under the weight.
the superintendent said.
“B-but you should know something. Even I don't have the authority to recognize her academic standing right away.”
“Ehh, really? I thought you'd just slam it down once and say, 'From now on, Yu Ayeon is an elementary school graduate and a middle school graduate,' bang-bang-bang.”
The superintendent broke out in a sweat.
“Haha… I'd love to do that too, believe me, but recognizing academic standing without completing the curriculum could cause problems later. Since compulsory education is a constitutional duty, it's a pretty sensitive matter.”
the superintendent went on.
“If the Board of Audit and Inspection audits us later, or an administrative lawsuit comes in and they ask what basis we had for granting academic standing when she didn't complete the curriculum, we can't avoid problems. And if a precedent is set, parents will start flooding in with complaints saying, 'Please exempt our kid from school too.'”
“Ah… that's probably true.”
Mom, who had been listening from the side, nodded.
Come to think of it, that made sense.
Korea's entrance-exam market, with its private-education craze at full throttle.
Because of one precedent I set.
— Our kid's a genius too, so recognize them as a high-school graduate too! If that kid can do it, why can't ours!
If complaints like that poured in from parents, public education could completely come crashing down.
That could become a pretty serious social problem.
The superintendent kept going.
“So I'll use as much of my authority as I can to create a special achievement test exclusively for Yu Ayeon, and I'll hold a separate evaluation committee as well. If she passes that achievement test, the committee can recognize that Yu Ayeon completed the curriculum—this way, we can bypass the issue as much as possible. That way, there won't be any legal problems later.”
“With my authority, this is the most I can do—could you please just cut me some slack, sniffle-sniffle-.”
“That was the feeling his tone gave off.”
“Aha.”
Aunt had spoken as if compulsory education could be skipped entirely, but under Korean law that was honestly a bit much.
At the superintendent's discretion, taking a substitute test and busting through the academic requirement was at least the most realistic option.
“I see. What do you think, Ayeon?”
Aunt asked me.
Needless to say, if they'd gone this far to accommodate us, we should be grateful.
“Okay! Let's do it this way! Thank you so much for being so accommodating, sir!”
I bowed my head.
Mom, Aunt, and even Arin, who had been reading the room, also thanked him.
Then the superintendent looked relieved.
“I'm the one who should be thanking you.”
But the superintendent's expression was quite different from a normal expression.
Something like, “Phew, I survived”?
Why had he made that expression?
We couldn't tell the true meaning behind that expression.