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"It's not that it's more important than mathematics, it's that mathematics is just one aspect. I don't want to be tied down by a position, even if it's the position of vice president."

"I thank you and the association for your kindness, but I am not suitable to join any organization right now. I need free time to do what I want to do."

Zhou Weihan's eyes widened slightly.

He has studied mathematics for over fifty years, mentored countless doctoral students, and witnessed countless young people experiencing ecstasy, anxiety, and sleepless nights in the face of honor.

But this young man is facing one of the highest honors in the national mathematics community.

His expression was as calm as if he were refusing a cup of tea he didn't want to drink.

A thought suddenly came to his mind.

This person was unlike any other person he had ever met.

The assistant next to him finally put down his teacup.

He placed it very slowly and gently, as if he were placing something fragile.

He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his sleeve.

He put it back on, and then said something that stunned everyone present.

"Chen Mo, do you know what the vice president of the Mathematical Science Association means?"

"I know," Chen Mo said.

"You know?"

The assistant's voice rose slightly.

"Did you know that the youngest vice president of this association since its inception was 58 years old?"

"Do you know what this position means in the Chinese mathematics community?"

"It's equivalent to—you don't need to apply for any funding; the funding committee will proactively contact you."

"You don't need to fight for any projects; projects will come to you. You don't need to publish any papers; every one of your papers will be automatically accepted by top journals. Do you know that what you're rejecting isn't just a title, it's a—"

"I know."

Chen Mo interrupted him again.

His voice remained unchanged this time, still in that calm tone.

"Professor, I know all of that, but I don't need funding, projects, or top journals. What I need is to be able to research whatever I want, whenever I want, and not research at all if I don't want to."

The office fell silent.

The assistant's lips moved.

I wanted to say something, but I didn't say anything.

He has taught for over forty years and supervised doctoral students for over thirty years, and has never been rendered speechless by a single student.

It's not because what Chen Mo said makes sense.

It's because he was telling the truth.

What can you offer to entice someone who doesn't need funding, projects, or top journals?

Titles? He doesn't care.

Status? He didn't care.

Fame and fortune? He didn't want them.

Zhao Mingcheng stood up from the windowsill.

He walked up to Chen Mo, extended his hand, and instead of shaking hands, patted him on the shoulder.

The force was neither too light nor too heavy, as if he were patting a junior.

But there was no condescension in his eyes, only a level gaze.

"Chen Mo, when I was young, if someone offered me the position of vice president, I would be so happy that I couldn't sleep for three days."

"You turned down the position. How can I put it? I admire you not because the act of turning down the position itself is difficult, but because you know what you want. That's harder than proving the Poincaré conjecture."

Chen Mo looked at him and nodded.

"Thank you, Professor Zhao."

Zhou Weihan stood up.

When he stood up, the young professor next to him tried to help him, but he gently pushed him away.

He walked up to Chen Mo, stopped, and looked him up and down several times, as if he were appraising an antique.

Then he spoke, his voice not loud, but every word was like a nail driven into a wooden board.

"I've lived for eighty years and have seen three geniuses. The first was my teacher, the second was myself—not my words, but my teacher's—and the third is you."

Everyone in the office held their breath for a moment.

When Zhou Weihan said this, his tone was as calm as if he were saying, "Today is a sunny day."

But everyone knows the weight of those words.

Zhou Weihan's teacher was one of the founders of modern mathematics in China, and Zhou Weihan himself was a leading figure in the Chinese mathematics community. He said that Chen Mo was the third genius.

This means that he placed Chen Mo on the same level as his teacher and himself.

Chen Mo looked at him and remained silent for a second.

"You're too kind."

Zhou Weihan shook his head.

"It's not an overstatement. It's the truth. I've read your approach to proving the Poincaré conjecture, and it's not 'a young man did a good job,' it's 'I couldn't have done it.' I'm not being modest; I'm telling the truth."

He paused, his gaze becoming even more profound.

"I understand why you declined the vice president position, because I declined similar offers when I was young. But I want to tell you something—geniuses are not meant to be understood, but to be remembered. Do what you're supposed to do, and leave the rest to time."

Chen Mo did not speak.

The atmosphere in the office has changed.

Shock turned into silence, and silence turned into acceptance.

It wasn't that she accepted Chen Mo's rejection.

Instead, it was an acceptance of a fact.

This young man cannot be swayed by titles, status, fame, or fortune.

The only things he can be moved by are things he himself wants to do.

What they could do was not to persuade him, but to wait for him.

Zhou Weihan let out a long breath.

He smiled again, a smile that showed no reluctance, only a sense of relief.

"Alright. We won't force you, but I want you to know that the association's doors are always open for you. Whenever you want to come, the position of vice president is yours."

Chen Mo nodded.

"Thank you, Chairman Zhou."

Zhou Weihan turned around and walked back to the sofa, picked up his briefcase, took out a business card, and handed it to Chen Mo.

The business card was dark blue with gold lettering; it only contained the name and phone number, without any title or position.

"This is my personal number. If you need any help from the association in the future, just call me directly. No need to go through the secretary or make an appointment. Anytime."

Chen Mo took the business card, glanced at it, and put it in his pocket.

Zhou Weihan did not retract his hand.

He rummaged through his briefcase again and pulled out a black envelope.

The envelope was thin, without a postmark or sender's name, only a line of gold-embossed English letters—ICM.

He took the envelope, paused for a second, and then handed it to Chen Mo.

"This was given to you by the International Mathematical Union."

His voice regained its calmness.

"The reward for the Poincaré conjecture is one million US dollars."

The office fell silent again.

One million US dollars.

It's not one million RMB, it's one million US dollars.

An eighteen-year-old boy sat in a chair in the principal's office.

He held a black envelope in his hand, inside which was a card that could make him a millionaire instantly.

Su Wanci stood behind Chen Mo, her breath catching for a moment.

She knew there was a reward for the Poincaré conjecture.

But I didn't expect it to be given to Chen Mo so easily.

All she knew was the black envelope in Chen Mo's hand.

That's enough for her to make a down payment on a house in Beijing.

It's enough for her parents to stop working, and enough for her to never have to worry about money for the rest of her life.

Chen Mo held it with an expression as calm as if he were holding a library card.