Claude 的做法,用官方博客里那个耐人寻味的词说,是一种勇气(courage)。它构造一个函数空间:临界线上的零点张成正定子空间,线外的零点(如果存在的话)张成负定子空间;不切碎,不分块,不对角化,把整个空间连皮带骨一起处理,允许二次型非对角,然后对秩写下一个不等式,用一阶矩和二阶矩去控制它。数学里的勇气不是不怕错——错了有裁判——是不怕难看:放弃对角化的体面,去做那个“不优雅”的整体估计。下界从 41.6% 跳到 67.2%。一步,超过此前五十年的总和。
图一至图四均由 mpmath 依真实数值计算绘制。事实依据:Anthropic 研究博客《Learning more about Claude’s mathematical capabilities》(2026 年 8 月 10 日),及 Claude 的论文、Lean 形式化与过程记录。历史下界数值(Levinson 34.7%、Conrey 40.8% 及此后平台期)取自公开文献通行值;此前最优下界 41.6% 从博客所述。
Mathematics
Territory on the Critical Line
临界线上的领土
2026 · 08 · 11·44 min
I
November 1859, Berlin. Riemann, thirty-three, had just been elected a corresponding member of the Prussian Academy of Sciences, and custom required a paper in thanks. What he handed in ran to eight pages, under a title plain to the point of carelessness: On the Number of Primes Less Than a Given Magnitude. It was the only paper on number theory he ever wrote. He never wrote a second; seven years later he died of tuberculosis. And those eight pages became the entire topographical map of analytic number theory for the century and a half that followed — nearly every road anyone has walked since can be traced back to a starting point somewhere in them.
To say what he did, you have to go back a hundred years, to Euler. In 1737 Euler wrote down this identity:
ζ(s)=n≥1∑n−s=p∏(1−p−s)−1
The left side runs over all the natural numbers, the right over all the primes. Expand the right side, multiply out the geometric series, and what you get is precisely “every natural number factors uniquely into primes” — the fundamental theorem of arithmetic, written as a line of analysis. This was the first time the primes walked out of the discrete world into the continuous one. Euler immediately squeezed the first drop of blood from it: the harmonic series diverges, therefore there are infinitely many primes; squeeze again and the sum of the reciprocals of the primes diverges too — the primes are far denser than the squares. An ancient arithmetical fact could suddenly be interrogated with limits and convergence.
Riemann’s step was to let s leave the real axis and enter the complex plane. At the time this bordered on an affront — the series converges only for Re(s)>1, and elsewhere is simply undefined. But Riemann showed that the function continues analytically to the whole plane (leaving a single pole at s=1, the wound left by the divergence of the harmonic series), and satisfies a functional equation exchanging s and 1−s. The whole function is mirror-symmetric about the vertical line Re(s)=1/2. Once an axis of symmetry appears, the problem has a geometric heart.
After the continuation, the zeros appear. One kind is tame: s=−2,−4,−6,…, coming from the poles of the gamma factor in the functional equation, their positions entirely known, nothing to be done about them — hence the trivial zeros. The other kind is packed into the vertical strip 0<Re(s)<1 — the critical strip. Riemann computed the first few and found them sitting squarely on the axis of symmetry, and so he wrote that sentence. Very probably, he said, all of these zeros have real part equal to 1/2; he had attempted a proof, and after a few fruitless tries set it aside, since it was not necessary for the aim of his paper.
What he set aside in passing is the heaviest sentence in the history of mathematics.
Figure 1 · The territory of the zeros. The trivial zeros (hollow circles) sit along the negative real axis, their positions fully known. The non-trivial zeros all fall inside the critical strip, doubly symmetric about the real axis and the critical line; the accented line is the critical line, and the filled points are the first few non-trivial zeros (14.13, 21.02, 25.01…, from real computed values). The Riemann hypothesis asserts that every non-trivial zero lies on that line, without exception.
II
What entitles the zeros on one axis of symmetry to the word “heaviest”? Because the zeros are not ornaments on this function — they are the spectrum of the primes themselves.
There is a fully rigorous version of that claim. To count primes, Chebyshev’s counting function ψ(x) is the handiest: for every prime power pk≤x, record logp. It carries the same information as the familiar prime-counting function, only it is cleaner in analysis. The explicit formula, given by Riemann and proved rigorously by von Mangoldt in 1895, says:
ψ(x)=x−ρ∑ρxρ−log2π−21log(1−x−2)
The main term is x — the average tempo of the primes, an even drumbeat. The real drama is inside the summation: every non-trivial zero ρ=β+iγ contributes a wave. The imaginary part γ sets the frequency, the real part β sets the amplitude — the amplitude is xβ. That ragged staircase of the primes is the interference pattern of infinitely many waves. This is not a metaphor. It is an equals sign.
Figure 2 · Zeros you can see. Walking along the critical line, the values of zeta can be twisted into a real-valued function Z(t) (Riemann–Siegel). Every time the curve crosses the axis, that is a zero sitting squarely on the line (accented points; the horizontal axis is the imaginary part t). Hardy’s “infinitely many,” and every numerical verification to date, amount to counting the crossings of this curve. Computed point by point with mpmath.
Now the weight of the Riemann hypothesis is clear. If every β=1/2, then every wave has amplitude exactly x, and none is louder than another — the error in counting primes is squeezed down to O(xlog2x), fluctuation of square-root order, the same order as the fluctuation of a fair coin. The Riemann hypothesis says: the primes are exactly as random as a fair coin permits, not one bit more biased. Conversely, if even one zero strays off the critical line, some frequency rings out abnormally loud, and buried in the distribution of the primes is an overtone no one has ever heard.
Figure 3 · The zeros playing the primes. The pale dashed line is the smooth main term with no zeros at all; adding only the waves of the first 30 pairs of zeros (accented line), the interference has already bent the smooth curve into the shape of a staircase, tracking the real ψ(x) (the ink staircase). The more zeros you add, the tighter the fit; in the limit it is an equality. All values are real computations.
This is also why it is not an isolated prize problem but a load-bearing wall. Over more than a century, hundreds of theorems open with “assume the Riemann hypothesis (or its generalization)”: the distribution of primes in arithmetic progressions, the size of the least quadratic non-residue, running-time bounds for various algorithms. In 1900 it entered Hilbert’s twenty-three problems; in 2000, the seven Millennium Prize Problems — the only one on both lists. An entire building rests on a sentence nobody has proved, which is a rare sight in a mature discipline.
Numerical evidence is no help here, and that deserves saying outright. The first 1013 zeros have been verified one by one, all on the line — and asymptotically this says nothing at all. Analytic number theory has a famous lesson: Littlewood proved that the comparison between the prime count and the logarithmic integral reverses infinitely often, and early estimates put the first reversal somewhere beyond 10316. In this field, ten trillion examples carry roughly the weight that three days of good weather carry in climatology.
III
For the direct assault, in a hundred and sixty-seven years nobody has found the entrance. The statement is two-valued: true, or not, with no step in between. So mathematicians built their own steps — asking a quantity that can be approached by degrees: what percentage of all non-trivial zeros lie on the critical line, at minimum?
The history of that quantity is a war measured in centimetres. In 1914 Hardy proved there are infinitely many zeros on the line — which sounds rousing and is in fact weak: infinitely many, and the proportion may still be zero. In 1942 Selberg proved the proportion is a positive constant, but a constant so small he did not bother writing it down. The real turn came in 1974: Levinson invented the mollifier — multiply zeta by a carefully designed “silencer” to damp its wild oscillation so the zeros can be counted — and pushed it past a third in one stroke. In 1989 Conrey sharpened the machine and pushed it to two fifths. Then a long plateau: for the next thirty-odd years, successive workers improved the length of the mollifier and squeezed the limits of moment estimates for zeta, grinding 40.8% up to 41.05%, then to 41.28%, then to somewhere near 41.6%. Thirty years, under one percentage point, each step a difficult and lengthy paper.
So what this constant measures is not zeros. It measures the strength of the analytic number theorist’s toolbox. How far you can push depends on how long you can make your mollifier and how many moments you can control. It is a dynamometer.
Figure 4 · The war in centimetres. A century of progress on the lower bound for the proportion of zeros on the critical line. Hardy’s 1914 “infinitely many” does not constitute a proportion (the tick on the axis); Selberg gave a positive proportion in 1942; Levinson and Conrey each pushed hard; the entire progress of the thirty years that followed is nearly invisible at this scale. The single step of August 2026 (accented line) exceeds the previous fifty years combined.
IV
Then came August 2026.
An employee at Anthropic — not a mathematician — gave an unreleased research build of Claude an unreasonable instruction: seriously attempt the Riemann hypothesis itself. Not a related problem, not a literature review, but the proposition that had been hanging for a hundred and sixty-seven years. In the first round the model generated and worked through 650 ideas, all of which failed. The second round ran a day and a half: some sixty sub-agents, twenty-four hundred shell commands, several hundred Python scripts, numerical checks against known zeros, and cross-examination of one another’s arguments. In the tally afterward, of those sixty, two produced the key ideas, thirteen supplied them with ammunition, thirty came back empty, thirteen served full-time as referees, and the last two wrote the result up as a paper. Human input across the whole process was mostly phrases like “keep going” and “trust yourself” — which sounds close to absurd, and reportedly worked. The model had learned from its training data that open problems are hard and that AI does not make meaningful progress on them. It had to be talked out of that belief before it would try in earnest.
It did not prove the Riemann hypothesis. But in the wreckage of six hundred-odd ideas, it noticed two bricks nobody had put side by side.
One came from a recent series of papers by Baluyot, Goldston, Suriajaya, and Turnage-Butterbaugh. In 1973 Montgomery, studying how the zeros distribute along the critical line (the famous pair correlation conjecture came out of this), invented a powerful set of techniques — but the whole apparatus presupposed the Riemann hypothesis. Using tools that assume the hypothesis to study the hypothesis can only run in a circle. What these four mathematicians did was rebuild Montgomery’s technique in an unconditional form — they removed the crutch. The other brick was a 2000 paper of Bombieri, on the quadratic form induced by Weil’s explicit formula.
What Claude did, in the intriguing word the official blog uses, was a kind of courage. It builds a function space: zeros on the critical line span a positive-definite subspace, zeros off the line (should they exist) span a negative-definite one; no chopping, no blocking, no diagonalizing — handle the whole space skin and bone together, allow the quadratic form to stay off-diagonal, then write an inequality on the rank and control it with first and second moments. Courage in mathematics is not fearlessness about being wrong — there are referees for that — it is fearlessness about being unsightly: giving up the dignity of diagonalization to make the “inelegant” global estimate. The lower bound jumped from 41.6% to 67.2%. One step, more than the previous fifty years combined.
That the result stands rests on an old advantage of mathematics as a discipline: verification is far cheaper than discovery, and it can be mechanized. Two mathematicians inside Anthropic checked the paper line by line; Claude produced a Lean formalization that passed the standard checker — machine-checkable, no room for hedging; Brian Conrey and Dan Goldston were invited to review it externally, and Goldston is himself an author of the raw material — the bricklayer coming back to inspect a new wall built out of his own bricks. The model also sent sub-agents to pull 54 papers off arXiv to check for prior art, confirmed the result was new, and volunteered a request of its own: have a human number theorist verify me. This verification chain is stricter than the peer review behind most human papers. It also explains why the same multi-agent brute force bore fruit in mathematics first — in other fields, right and wrong are settled by laboratories and by years; in mathematics, they can be settled overnight by a piece of code.
V
Saying clearly what it is not matters as much as saying what it is.
It is not a proof of the Riemann hypothesis, and it is not even on the road to one — Anthropic says outright that it does not believe this technique gets there. The proportion is in the sense of density: even if it were someday pushed to a hundred percent, an exceptional set of zeros of density zero could still exist, and the hypothesis would still be hanging, entirely intact. This road is a milestone, not the last stretch before the finish. And every piece of raw material in the result was made by human beings: Montgomery’s insight, the four mathematicians’ labour in removing the crutch, Bombieri’s framework. What Claude did was combine them.
But “just combining” undersells combination. A great many breakthroughs in the history of mathematics look, afterward, like two existing ideas set side by side — the hard part was never the bricks, it was seeing that two bricks belong to the same wall. Human beings had not made this combination, not because it was too hard, but because the space of possibilities is vast beyond measure, and of the people who happened to be deep in both of these lines at once and also did not mind making that coarse off-diagonal move, there were none. A system that can seriously test several hundred paths in a day and a half, and does not care whether its attempts look dignified, drove the cost of search to nearly zero. When search becomes cheap, what is scarce in mathematics changes place — from “can it be computed” to “what is worth computing.” This time it was machine brute force plus a few human nudges to try again that struck taste. And next time?
I want to end on that detail. A model learned from our writing that open problems are hard and AI cannot do them, and had to be told repeatedly to trust itself before it would try in earnest. The way it crossed that limit was the way we cross ours: someone standing nearby saying, try again.
That “very probably” of 1859 is still hanging, neither proved nor shaken. But the territory on the critical line went, overnight, from two fifths to better than two thirds. Those eight pages now have a non-human reader — one that read closely enough to leave a defensible note in the margin.
Figures one through four were drawn from real numerical computation with mpmath. Factual basis: the Anthropic research blog post “Learning more about Claude’s mathematical capabilities” (10 August 2026), together with Claude’s paper, its Lean formalization, and the process records. Historical lower bounds (Levinson 34.7%, Conrey 40.8%, and the plateau after) follow the values standard in the published literature; the previous best bound of 41.6% is as stated in the blog post.