Why Is a Lowly One in Such a Noble Place (1)
"Hello to all our dear Parallel fans who always shower us with love. And to every new viewer who dropped in from all over to watch today's Lunar New Year special content. It's wonderful to see you. I am Shirahoshi Momo, Parallel's star shining high in the sky, serving as your reaction commentator for the day!"
Enthusiastic applause followed the boss's introduction. I clapped along just as vigorously before bowing my head.
"Hello. I am Assistant Manager Mazia, sharing reaction duty with the boss today. Please treat me well."
The chat exploded.
Once a stream passes ten thousand viewers, it's hard to gauge the population density just by watching the chat scroll. There is, however, another way to tell exactly how many people have shown up and how many new eyes are pouring in. It's the growing list of banned usernames.
In normal, relaxed streams the ban count stays relatively low. Chat moves at a manageable pace except during dopamine-spiking moments, so anyone acting up gets caught immediately. People tend to read the room and behave, which keeps the ban list quiet. Days like today, though, are different.
When the dopamine hits too hard and the mood sweeps everyone away, plenty of people start spamming nonsense and lose their heads. With the sheer volume of messages, others make the exact same mistake and get executed right beside them. Even temporary bans add up on the permanent list, so the length of that list becomes a perfect thermometer for how heated the broadcast has become.
Of course, the longer the list grows, the more the managers want to die. Today, for once, every manager who had been on break volunteered to work. Not just one or two—every single one of them. When I told them they didn't have to, they replied that they might as well work while watching the stream. I was so grateful I promised to send them all chicken gift cards once the broadcast ended.
Some might wonder why I'd spend the money, but since we can't hire them as full-time staff, these people are incredibly precious to us. Besides, letting the relationship sour would create endless headaches later, so it's best to manage the connection in advance. After all, if a post titled "I Was Unfairly Banned" goes up in the cafe and it really was an unjust ban, the entire community—not just the cafe—will go up in flames. Frequent communication is the only way to prevent that.
Back when I was still called "General Manager" instead of "Team Leader," the single most important part of my job had been managing all these managers. That should explain it.
While the boss and I chatted about recent events, we reviewed the photos the managers had sent and decided whose heads were ambiguous enough to chop. Immersed in the work, we let the broadcast segments flow by one after another.
"Shall we talk about the awards for a moment? Wow, Jia, there are a whopping six prizes this time?"
"Correct. Thanks to the generous sponsorship from Aurora and Pazizik, the prize pool is exceptionally rich. There are two evaluation methods. First, viewer votes. These are tallied in two categories—skill score and entertainment score. First and second in skill receive the Aurora Award, while first and second in entertainment receive the Pazizik Award."
"After those four winners are decided, Deputy Manager Mazia and I will each select one additional person we like and award them the Parallel Award. Since we obviously won't be picking each other, your merch is safe, everyone!"
"Please refer to the next page for detailed prize information."
Before the main content began, we finished explaining the selection process and prize details. The time had come to introduce the participants. We would play their preliminary audition videos and then exchange comments based on the judges' evaluations.
"For reference, the preliminary judging was handled by the record producer who worked with us on Parallel's original and cover songs. Shall we meet contestant A first?"
To protect anonymity, every participant used a capital letter instead of a nickname. The letter assigned to me was F, taken from Flare, like a signal flare. Since I was placed fairly early in the lineup, my turn came quickly.
The boss glanced at the cue card with contestant F's evaluation, then froze. She slid her eyes toward me. The meaning was clear: 'Is this you?'
We were seeing the preliminary videos for the first time as well. Watching them in advance would have increased the chance of recognizing someone, so we had deliberately delayed viewing them to keep the judging fair.
"The… next participant is F, and apparently their voice sounds remarkably similar to a VTuber we all know."
The chat stirred.
"I'll let you judge for yourselves which VTuber it might be after you watch the preliminary video."
For the record, I had not sung trot. If I had, the recent slow-train incident would have come to mind instantly and blown my cover.
As soon as the song began playing, the chat speed skyrocketed.
Do-hee recognized right away that F was me. After all, I was the only person who would pull a stunt like this. While the video played, she muted her microphone and asked,
"You really surprise me every single time."
What I had submitted for the preliminary was none other than Momo's very first original song. The imitation was absurdly good. It had been recorded on a phone in a company studio with decent settings, not in a karaoke booth, yet the difference from the original was almost imperceptible. Would you believe that? Usually it's easier to confuse the copy with the original when the recording environment is poor, but this was on another level. The quality was shockingly high for a mere prank.
Just like last time, it seemed impossible for most people to tell whether the voice belonged to Momo or to me.
"I showed you a little during the D-Rain stream before, remember?"
"That was rap. Rapping and melodic singing with pitch are completely different."
"Are they? I was just copying someone who sings well. After five years of copying, this much should be expected."
"...Suddenly the finals feel terrifying."
When she had heard me sing the slow train song, Do-hee had thought my distinctive voice would give me away the moment I sang once on stream. She had been completely wrong. At this level, no one would find me.
I had said I would participate in the content. I had never said she wouldn't. On top of that, after working with a troublemaker like me for five years, Cheon Do-hee had unknowingly absorbed some of my mischievous nature. So she welcomed this amusing situation with open arms.
Soon the preliminary video ended. Do-hee raised her mic volume again.
"Ah. I really can't tell who it is. Right? My little star~."
Not content with that, she even hummed a short phrase from the video as if it were her own. Naturally, the troublemaker who only thought about fooling the viewers chimed in right on cue.
"True. You never said you wouldn't participate, Boss."
A few viewers stubbornly insisted that F was Mazia, but those messages gradually faded. After the comedy segment, most of the later introductions featured contestants who sang so well it was hard to believe they were regular viewers.
Among them, one person stood out the most—contestant L.
Everyone guessed it was the 2.5-million-subscriber Utaite Lee Yu-ra. She was even better at that raspy, scraping tone than Maru, and the song she had chosen was a powerful, soaring track that made it instantly obvious. Yet no one could be completely certain.
The reason was contestant F.
Since even F could be either Mazia or Cheon Do-hee, it had become impossible to confirm whether L was truly Lee Yu-ra.
And that confusion reached its peak with the final participant, Z.
"All right, this is the last one. Introducing contestant Z… The judge commented that while the voice should be used for warm, healing songs, it instead delivers an intense tone without feeling awkward—in fact, it creates a mysteriously fitting atmosphere. Let's listen!"
The moment the viewers heard it, hooks flew across the chat.
Even I, who had been enjoying the viewers' confusion, stiffened slightly this time.
"What's wrong?"
"Doesn't this voice sound familiar to you?"
Do-hee had listened to too many audition songs while selecting recent interviewees, so she couldn't place it immediately.
"Hm? I'm not sure?"
But I was different. The singing style was throwing me off, yet I was certain I had heard this voice recently. The background of Z's preliminary video was a coin karaoke room. The quality was low because it had been recorded on a phone in a poor acoustic environment, yet a unique, gentle lingering quality still came through. Just as the judge had noted—the delivery was powerful and soaring, but the edges were rounded and soft rather than sharp.
'Who is it...?'
I felt suspicious but couldn't pinpoint exactly who it was. With that single question lodged in my chest, the introduction of all participants finally ended.
While Do-hee and I discussed the contestants who had passed, a Pazizik staff member who had joined our talk channel randomly shuffled the performance order. It was to ensure the viewers could evaluate them in complete blind conditions.
Thus, neither the viewers, the hosts, nor anyone else knew who would perform first as one contestant stepped onto the stage. From now on, we could only judge based on the song itself.
"Here is our first participant. Everyone, try guessing who it might be. Jia, could you introduce the song?"
"The chosen track is Maru's first single, Finally. This song..."
Finally was Maru's debut original, famous for its railroad crossing alarm in the intro. Among all the members' originals, it was known for its extreme difficulty. Not only did it feature sudden high notes after low passages, but the entire chorus was packed with high notes, so even decent singers suffered during the final chorus where the key climbed another half step. In short, the mood shifted dramatically between sections, demanding considerable skill. It was only natural for many mistakes to appear in a live performance, yet...
The voice that flowed out was impeccably clean and smooth from the very first note. It felt like drinking warm milk—effortless and gentle. The chorus hadn't even begun, yet it was already clear this person was a professional.
As it happened, I possessed an exceptional ability to distinguish and analyze the qualities of voices. It was a skill I had often used for vocal mimicry and impressions, and one I had actively employed to uncover the past lives of reincarnated VTubers.
Confirming that the mic volume had been lowered, I muttered,
"This is contestant Z."
"Oh, you're right, it is Z. But we know this person, don't we? I'm not entirely sure, but hearing it twice is starting to feel familiar."
"It does, but..."
The problem wasn't merely that it was Z. I had already identified exactly who was hiding behind that anonymous letter. The fact that they had chosen a song by my friend Maru. The preliminary evaluation that described the voice as one that should sing healing songs. Putting it all together, the answer was...
"Z. This is Serena."