My IQ has been increasing year by year.

Zurich, Switzerland.

Headquarters of the International Mathematical Union.

In an office on the third floor, the overhead light was off, only the lamp on the desk was lit.

The light from the lamp shone on the dark solid wood table.

On the table was a proof of a typed edition of the "Annals of Mathematics".

Thomas leaned back in his leather swivel chair, his entire body hidden in the shadows outside the aperture.

He is not only one of the core secretaries of the alliance, but also an internal selection committee member for the next Fields Medal.

The room was very quiet.

Only an old-fashioned wall clock emitted a monotonous ticking sound.

Thomas didn't look at the formulas in the proofbook.

He had been watching it all afternoon.

He turned his head, his gaze falling on the wall to one side.

A large work calendar was posted on the wall.

The year printed on the calendar is 2006.

In the square of August, someone drew a heavy circle with a red marker.

A line of handwritten text was written next to it:

Madrid, Spain.

That's where the next International Congress of Mathematicians will be held, and where the next Fields Medal will be awarded.

Thomas stared at the red circle for a long time.

He slowly sat up straight and entered the circle of light.

Reach into the pen holder and pull out a pencil.

Pull over a blank sticky note.

He wrote a number on the paper:

The pen paused for a moment, then wrote another line below:

This is the birth year of the Asian man named Zhuo Chen in the notable authors section of the proof.

Thomas drew a minus sign between the two numbers.

The answer is 15.

If we were to award that young man, he's only fifteen years old at most.

Fifteen.

Thomas stared at the numbers on the sticky note, his fingers unconsciously tightening.

With a snap.

The pencil tip broke, leaving a black line on the paper.

Thomas dropped his pencil.

He picked up the landline phone on the table and dialed a number.

The phone rang five times before being answered.

"Robert."

Thomas spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse.

Robert, on the other end of the phone, was the chairman of the judging panel.

"You've finished reading it."

Robert's voice came through the receiver, carrying the same weariness.

"I've finished watching it," Thomas said.

There was a long silence on both ends of the phone call, lasting about half a minute.

Neither of them spoke first.

"There are no vulnerabilities."

Thomas broke the silence.

"Cyril and his team spent a month refining the calculations, without changing a single punctuation mark, and then published it on the front page."

"I know," Robert said.

"I called Cyril this afternoon."

Thomas leaned back in his chair.

"Robert, we're in trouble."

Thomas looked at the red circle on the calendar on the wall.

"Big trouble."

The sound of Robert pouring water came through the phone.

"In those forty-three pages, he completely blocked the path for continuous manifolds to approximate the Hodge conjecture, and then he built a bridge himself," Thomas said slowly.

"This is more than just solving a mystery."

"He created a new ruler for algebraic geometry."

Robert picked up the conversation.

"right."

Thomas rubbed his temples.

"So, Madrid two years later."

Thomas paused for a moment.

"We can't get around him now."

Robert did not respond.

This is precisely the enormous problem they are facing right now.

The age limit for the Fields Medal is under 40.

However, for nearly seventy years, in order to highlight the prestige and heritage of this award, the judging committee has had an unspoken rule: the medal is generally awarded only to mature mathematicians around thirty-five years old who have been deeply involved in the field of mathematics for many years and have achieved fruitful results.

The highest honor was awarded to a fifteen-year-old boy.

This is a complete subversion of the entire century-old mathematical tradition.

"What if we don't give it to him?" Robert asked on the other end of the phone.

Thomas chuckled, but his laughter was full of bitterness.

"Robert, stop lying to yourself."

Thomas looked at the numbers on the sticky note.

"If it's the Madrid tournament, we won't put the medal around that Asian kid's neck."

"Then it's not his loss."

Thomas spoke calmly.

"If it's the Fields Medal, it will become a laughing stock for mathematicians all over the world."

"In the face of truth, we have no right to be ranked by seniority."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"A 15-year-old Fields Medal winner."

Robert sighed, his voice sounding somewhat hollow through the receiver.

"We old bones are going to tear the sky apart with our own hands."

Thomas hung up the phone.

He looked at the calendar on the wall.

One year.

Only one year left.

All the world's top universities and research institutes will soon realize this.

The academic community is about to go crazy.

Bonn, Germany.

Max Planck Institute for Mathematical Research.

The dean's office at the end of the corridor had its door tightly shut.

Anna, the assistant outside the door, was fidgeting.

Professor Schultz, the director, has been locked up inside for two full days.

Since receiving the fax from the *Annals of Mathematics* two days ago, Professor Schultz has cancelled all his meetings and appointments, locking himself inside, with Anna even bringing his meals to his door. Professor Schultz is a leading figure in the European school of continuous differential geometry.

He devoted most of his life to approximating the Hodge conjecture using calculus.

Anna glanced at her watch.

I was just about to knock on the door.

"Clatter."

The office door lock clicked.

The door was pulled open from the inside.

Professor Schultz came out.

He was wearing a wrinkled shirt, his hair was a little messy, and his eyes were sunken.

Anna quickly stood up.

"Professor, you need to rest."

Anna looked at his tired appearance and felt a little worried.

Schultz did not speak.

He walked up to Anna's desk.

There was no anger at being overthrown, nor hysteria on his face.

He appeared unusually calm.

That tranquility was like someone who had walked in the desert for forty years suddenly seeing a real oasis.

Although he didn't create the oasis, he finally confirmed his direction.

Anna.

Schultz spoke, his voice hoarse.

"Pour me a glass of water, warm."

Anna quickly poured a glass of warm water and handed it to her.

Schultz took it, took a big gulp, and moistened his chapped lips.

"Connect me to Princeton, to Pierre's office," Schultz said.

Anna paused for a moment.

The director and Pierre had always been bitter rivals on academic paths, and the two had even publicly argued at several international conferences. But Anna didn't dare ask any more questions and immediately made a phone call.

The call connected, and Anna handed the receiver to Schultz.

Schultz took the receiver and walked to the window in the hallway.

Outside the window was a somewhat gloomy sky over Bonn.

Pierre.

Schultz spoke.

Pierre's voice sounded somewhat surprised on the other end of the phone.

"Schultz? You actually called me on your own initiative."

"I have reviewed the proofs you sent."

Schultz looked out the window.

Pierre chuckled on the phone, then remained silent, waiting for what would happen next.

"You won."

Schultz spoke calmly, without any hint of resentment.

"Back then, we mocked your discrete algebra theory at the conference as logically flawed garbage. Now it seems we've taken too many detours on this path." "This old man here admits defeat."

Pierre stopped laughing on the other end of the phone.

Faced with the candor of an old man who had dedicated his life to mathematics, Pierre showed him respect.

"There's no right or wrong way, Schultz," Pierre said.

"It's just that continuous manifolds happen to be unsuitable for that area."

"yes."

Schultz sighed.

"Give my respects to your fourteen-year-old student."

Schultz turned around and looked at the fax on Anna's desk.

"I thank him for allowing me to see hope in this problem before I go to my grave."

"I will relay your words to him," Pierre said.

"besides."

Schultz straightened his back.

"The Max Planck Institute's tenured visiting professorship will always be reserved for him."

Schultz's tone became serious.

"No approval process is needed, no thesis defense is required, as long as he is willing to come to Germany, even if it's just for a few days."

"The doors of the Max Planck Institute are always open to him."

hang up the phone.

Schultz handed the receiver back to Anna.

"Draft a formal invitation letter and send it to Huaguo University of Science and Technology."

After giving his instructions, Schultz turned and walked out.

"Professor, where are you going?" Anna asked.

"go home."

Schultz waved his hand.

"sleep tight."

University of Cambridge, UK.

Newton Institute for Mathematical Sciences.

Deputy Director Richard, carrying a document, hurried down the corridor and pushed open the door to the director's office.

In his office, Sir Michael sat in a large armchair, holding a cup of black tea.

This Fields Medal winner, who is nearly seventy years old, represents the most orthodox academic prestige of Cambridge University.

He highly values ​​academic traditions and despises any behavior that breaks the rules.

At that moment, on the coffee table next to him was an open copy of the "Annals of Mathematics".

"Jazz."

Richard walked over to the sofa.

"We just received news that the Max Planck Institute in Germany has extended a formal invitation to the University of Science and Technology of China."

Richard glanced at the magazine on the coffee table.

"Do we need to take any action?"

Sir Michael put down his teacup.

The teacup and saucer clinked together, making a soft sound.

What do you think?

Michael countered with a question.

"He did indeed solve a problem that spanned centuries."

Richard carefully considered his words.

"But his qualifications are too limited; he hasn't even officially obtained his undergraduate degree yet. If we extend an invitation now, wouldn't that be against Cambridge's rules...?" "Rules?"

Sir Michael looked up at Richard.

He stretched out his hand, which was covered in age spots, and tapped twice on the magazine on the coffee table.

"These forty-three pages will outline the new rules for algebraic geometry for the next fifty years."

Sir Michael's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable authority.

"Go and check his whereabouts."

Richard opened the document in his hand.

"He is currently spending his summer vacation in China. In September, he will go to Princeton, the United States, to study under Pierre."

Sir Michael frowned.

"September."

He leaned back on the sofa, his fingers tapping on the armrest.

"Those guys from Princeton, they're always so lucky."

He stopped tapping his fingers.

"Draft an official invitation letter."

Sir Michael looked at Richard.

"On behalf of both the Department of Mathematics at Cambridge University and the Newton Institute, we have invited Mr. Zhue Chen to Cambridge to give a public lecture on discrete grids," Richard noted.

"How should I write about compensation?"

"Just tell him."

Sir Michael had a sharp eye.

"If he agrees, Cambridge will make an exception and grant him an honorary doctorate, give him an independent research lab, and set no performance targets." Richard was taken aback.

"Sir, this... there has never been such a precedent before, and he is going to W country in September."

"Then let's do it before September."

Sir Michael stood up.

"After you send the fax, you should personally book a plane ticket to China."

Sir Michael looked out the window at the lawn in Cambridge.

"I don't believe Princeton can give him that, and neither can Cambridge. Get him to England before he boards his flight to New York." "Yes, sir."

Richard closed the folder and left.

Boston, W country.

Conference room at the MIT School of Science.

The atmosphere in the meeting room was tense.

The long table was filled with senior executives from the Department of Mathematics and the College of Science.

Dean Davis of the Faculty of Science stood at the front of the conference table, his hands resting on the surface, his tie already loosened.

In the very center of the table lay the copy of "Annals of Mathematics".

"In just the last two hours."

Davis surveyed everyone in the conference room, his voice deep and powerful.

"Max Planck Institute, École Normale Supérieure in Paris, and that self-righteous Cambridge across the river."

Davis held up three fingers.

"We have extended the highest-level invitations to China in all cases."

He slapped the table.

"And we, MIT, haven't even sent out a single official email yet!"

The head of the mathematics department sat next to him, adjusting his glasses.

"Davis, there's no need to get so worked up. He's coming to Princeton in September. We can't exactly try to steal him from Princeton." "From Princeton?"

Davis gave a cold laugh.

"He hasn't signed his acceptance letter to Princeton yet! As long as he hasn't stepped through the doors of the Institute for Advanced Study, he's free!" Davis picked up a journal from the table and waved it in the air.

"Do you even understand what this document means?"

No one speaks.

They are all top scholars, so of course they understand.

Davis threw the journal back onto the table.

"This is not an ordinary paper; it's a ticket."

Davis stared at the head of the mathematics department.

"Have you looked at the calendar? One year from now, Madrid, International Congress of Mathematicians."

Davis lowered his voice and spoke slowly and deliberately.

"Fifteen years old."

The people in the conference room paused slightly.

They certainly calculated that age.

"Do you really want to sit here at the Madrid conference a year from now and watch Princeton's Cyril walk up to receive his award and hug a fifteen-year-old Fields Medal winner?" Davis's eyes were red, revealing a fiercely possessive urge.

"This is a historic honor, and Princeton must not be allowed to claim it all!"

The head of the mathematics department remained silent for a moment.

What terms did Princeton offer him?

"Pierre's personal guidance, the highest level of student treatment."

Davis looked on with disdain.

"That stingy old man Cyril, that's all he's got."

What conditions should we set?

Davis straightened up.

"Send a fax to HKUST immediately, skipping all student procedures."

Davis tapped the table.

"MIT is willing to offer you an associate professor position, an independent lab, and no undergraduate teaching duties."

Davis looked at the vice president in charge of finance next to him.

"Approve another million dollars in personal start-up funding."

A collective gasp filled the conference room.

Offering a fourteen-year-old an associate professorship and a million-dollar grant is simply insane.

"What are you still standing there for?"

Davis clapped his hands.

"While he's still in China, send someone to fly over and go directly to his home."

Davis looked at everyone.

"Stop him, and bring him to Boston at all costs."

Princeton, W country.

Advanced Institute.

In Cyril's office, the fax machine was frantically spitting out papers.

Cyril ripped off a piece of paper that had just been printed.

He glanced at the signature above, his face turning ashen.

He crumpled the paper into a ball and slammed it into the wastepaper basket in the corner.

"These shameless old bastards!"

Cyril launched into a tirade of profanities.

He paced back and forth behind his desk, his beard trembling with anger.

"The Max Planck Institute, Cambridge, even MIT's Davis, who's obsessed with money, has jumped in!"

Cyril pointed to the mountain of faxes and emails piled on the table.

"Zhuo is Pierre's student! Princeton's acceptance letter has already been sent to him! How dare they openly snatch him away in broad daylight?" Pierre sat on a single sofa in the corner of the office.

He was holding a steaming cup of black coffee.

Seeing Cyril's exasperated expression, Pierre slowly took a sip of his coffee.

There was not a trace of panic on his face.

"What's your hurry?"

Pierre placed the coffee cup on the small table next to him.

"How can I not be in a hurry?"

Cyril walked to the sofa.

"Look at what they're offering! An honorary doctorate! An associate professorship! One million dollars!"

Cyril stared at Pierre.

"What are we giving them? We're like beggars trying to scam children at the market!"

The phone on the table suddenly rang.

Cyril glanced at the caller ID.

It wasn't a university number; it came from Europe.

Cyril answered the phone.

An old but familiar voice came through the receiver.

"Cyril, it's me, Thomas."

Cyril pressed the speakerphone button.

Thomas's voice could be heard throughout the entire office.

"Thomas?"

Cyril glanced at Pierre.

"What, even IMU is planning to get involved and snatch them away?"

"We at IMu are not hiring."

Thomas chuckled on the other end of the phone.

Thomas's tone then became somewhat serious, even carrying a hint of probing.

"I'm making this call to confirm something with Pierre."

Pierre sat on the sofa and began to speak.

"Speak, Thomas."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"Pierre, tell me the truth."

Thomas's voice came through the speaker.

"What month is the birthday of your student named Zhus Chen?"

Upon hearing this question...

Cyril paused for a moment, then immediately realized what was happening.

He turned to look at Pierre.

Cyril knew perfectly well why Thomas had asked that question; it was a preliminary assessment for the Madrid Conference a year later.

Pierre sat on the sofa, his smile slowly widening.

He did not answer directly.

Instead, he picked up the cup of black coffee and took another sip.

Thomas.

Pierre's voice was calm, carrying a cunning and Versailles quality unique to an old fox.

"What, is your judging panel now even calculating the time for ordering medals so precisely?"

Thomas on the other end of the phone remained silent, clearly having been tricked by Pierre.

Pierre put down his coffee cup.

"Don't worry, Thomas."

Pierre glanced at the pile of faxes on the table, seemingly unconcerned.

"He will definitely not be more than sixteen years old by the time the Madrid Congress convenes."

Pierre paused for a moment, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"You'd better inform the organizers in Madrid in advance."

Pierre's voice echoed in the quiet office.

"Lower the microphone stand for the award ceremony a bit. After all, Chen Zhuo is still growing."

Thomas hung up the phone immediately on the other end.

A busy signal came through the receiver.