Skill Verification (1)
Somehow, that bloodbath of a day finally ended, and the next morning arrived.
At the CEO's summons, I went down to the company with Jia.
"Pick anything you're confident with. Just name it."
The reason: a skill test for me.
You might wonder why on earth singing mattered for streaming—but it was a necessary step, plain and simple.
Maybe it wouldn't have been, back in the earliest days of virtual broadcasting. But now, when people started with cover songs aimed at the same audience and went all the way to original tracks…
Modern VTubers had effectively inherited the mantle of utaite—so much so that they sat at roughly the same level. For a VTuber, music had become something you simply couldn't peel away.
I didn't even need to look far for proof. Lunabis itself had a recording studio packed with top-tier gear.
Which meant even I, nowhere near a professional musician's level, would still have to sing.
…Well. Not that I hated the idea, or planned to pick a fight about it.
"…Do people usually do this now?"
"…Ahem."
"My house already has a full broadcast setup and a soundproof booth. And now you're asking?"
If you were going to do this, shouldn't you have done it ages ago…?
No—what was the point of stuffing all that equipment in first? Even if they'd already accepted me, they still needed the bare minimum of verification, right? If I turned out completely unsuitable after all that, wouldn't I be the scam of the century?
"W-Well, things were just that rushed. I was out of my mind too."
"No, even so…"
"Just hear me out. I'm seriously the victim here."
…I looked at the CEO with eyes gone completely cold at the thought—and she launched into a desperate defense.
"We had three first-gens, so I was dead set on getting four for the second gen, okay?"
"Uh… sure."
"Whether you're trying to land investment or anything else, you have to show you're growing, right? Mm?"
"…"
"But there was no one usable, and the ones who seemed fine had personality problems… I thought I was going to lose my mind."
Ah. Right. I see.
But what did that have to do with me?
"Please don't take your interview hysteria out on me."
"You little— Huuu."
My unchanging stance seemed to piss the CEO off even more. From what I'd heard lately, the first-gens—my seniors—had been giving her hell in all sorts of ways. Maybe she just needed somewhere to dump it. Maybe I should listen to her vent later…
"…So. What are you going to do?"
"No Ceiling. That okay?"
"Huh? For real?"
I decided my attitude problem for the day could be paid back later as filial piety. When the CEO, returning to the point, asked her question and I gave her the song title… her eyes suddenly went wide.
"You know it? A lot of people surprisingly don't."
"No, I know it, but… you're doing that?"
"I'm allowed, right? Going in."
…I had a feeling that if she caught me, things would get annoying. So I fled into the recording booth as I was and gently warmed up my voice.
"…Ah, ah. Mm-hm."
…It had been a pretty long time since I'd sung anything.
Hopefully it would turn out okay?
Having said only what she wanted to say, Sihyun slipped straight into the recording booth. Kang Yura stared after her, limp, and found herself rather lost.
…She's actually doing that?
No Ceiling.
Anyone who listened to foreign hip-hop would know the track. Its signature was the heavy beat and the low, mid-register opening that hit hard—then a midsection so blisteringly fast it had once spawned its own challenge trend.
Which was why the doubt crept in.
She had spotted the fragment of talent herself and snatched Sihyun up on the spot—but Sihyun was still an ordinary person with no musical background to speak of. Could she actually pull this song off?
"Jia."
"…Yes?"
"Is Sihyun… good at singing? Or is it just the rapping?"
She couldn't hold the curiosity in, so she tossed the question at the only person who might know—
"…I don't know?"
"Huh?"
"Even when we went to karaoke, Sihyun… didn't really sing much."
…The answer that came back was utterly useless.
"Ready. Music, please."
"…Alright."
…Right. No point stewing over it here. The person in question was right there. She'd know once she listened.
So Kang Yura, half worried and half expectant, carefully pressed play—
"Step, in the game─"
…and immediately went rigid with shock.