No Eternal Allies, No Eternal Enemies (2)

Even in a 1:4 disadvantage, the match would have been manageable if you used leg sweeps properly. Once it became 2:2, the game suddenly got way easier. After all, I rarely lose in a straight 1:1. Keugaemang would slip and fall into the water while chasing me, so I never even needed to throw a punch. Kamik and Yeonggun at least came at me using their physical stats, but what we were actually good at was FPS, not this kind of chaotic melee. There were constant clips of them trying something while I enthusiastically ran around, only for their plans to tangle up. As a result, the Woof Team that Bajubi and I were on scored three straight wins. One more round and we would take the match.

“No.”

Of course a situation like this couldn’t last forever.

Yeonggun had actually used his head for once. No matter who it was—even me—you couldn’t single out one specific person who said “Honey, I love you” and force them to keep the promise. And if the male streamers refused, saying they wouldn’t listen, there was no way to insist they had to. Making Parallel’s own VTubers do it could cause problems, but a rival agency’s VTuber? It was the perfect material to spark a flame war, the complete opposite of how friendly we had been on the Wicker Town server. No wonder he had emphasized that it was random. So the strategy of temporarily recruiting Serena ended there.

…Then who should I recruit next?

If I had to pick the person with the flimsiest loyalty among the five excluding myself, it would obviously be Yeonggun.

The next round began. Once again I threw Bajubi into the sea and spoke to Yeonggun, who was slowly tightening the encirclement.

“Yeonggun, please wait a moment.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“If I don’t come in last this round, I’ll join one Combative internal match when I’m not busy.”

The viewers kept telling me not to throw around empty checks. I never said exactly when I would participate; I simply said I’d do it once when I had time. It was the same level as saying “Let’s grab a meal together sometime.” Still, even that possibility was apparently enough to recruit Yeonggun. After all, he was the guy who spent the entire team dinner constantly asking when we would do an internal match.

As expected, Yeonggun immediately broke the alliance and this time threw Kamik into the water. Now that I think about it, how on earth did our team win with this level of unity? I genuinely don’t know.

* * *

Similar situations continued afterward. After Yeonggun, the next to flip was Keugaemang.

“If I come in last, from that moment on I’ll address you as Keugaemang with strict, solemn, and serious respect.”

Next was Bajubi.

“Bajubi, would you like to do the Parallel World Cup with me sometime?”

The reason I didn’t try to recruit Kamik was because he was so mentally stable that I couldn’t see any weakness to shake. People like Kamik who are unflappable have always been the hardest opponents for me.

By rotating like that—becoming allies, then enemies, then allies again—I somehow avoided last place even after more than ten rounds.

The viewers seemed to have given up; they had stopped urging the others to play well a while ago. As they said, there wasn’t much collab time left. If I held on just a little longer, I might get through without having to sing. I had thrown out a few empty promises, but they were only at the level of the “let’s do it together sometime” I gave Yeonggun. If I actually got busy there was nothing I could do. In fact, once the Lunar New Year holiday ended and the dog-mo tournament was over, second-generation interviews and debut preparations would begin immediately. From that point on, no one could predict the schedule. Group collabs, tournaments, and large-scale servers would open the Jitong room every time, but that didn’t necessarily mean there would be free time.

…But hadn’t the game been going for a while now? Why wasn’t anyone moving? I was just spinning in place at spawn when Bajubi—who had rotated back to my team—pointed toward where the other two teams stood and said.

When she said it looked like they were planning something, their movements were indeed suspicious. There was no separate chat in Tokcode and the in-game voice wasn’t turned on. Yet the four of them had formed a solid square formation and were slowly advancing toward me step by step. I didn’t have anyone else’s stream open on my second monitor, and the approaching characters were expressionless stuffed dolls, but somehow I could feel their emotions.

They were furious.

“Woah, woah, calm down everyone. Just because you approach like that doesn’t mean you can win.”

“What about Yeonggun? The possibility of that Combative internal match is still open.”

“Hmm. Was it that bad? What about Uncle Keugaemang?”

“I’m sorry. Even if you appeal, I can’t listen.”

I had no idea what to offer Kamik, so I just passed. Sorry, Kamik.

“Just come at me. 2:4 is worth a try.”

At this point the only option was a proper 2:4 fight. I didn’t have to worry about Bajubi, my teammate this round. Ever since she agreed to do the Parallel World Cup with me, she had been completely on my side. Even when she wasn’t on my team she had continued helping me with whatever meager strength she had, so I could safely leave my back to her. I would end up singing if I got the penalty, but I was only stubbornly refusing to sing obediently. The four people charging at me without realizing that were about to start their assault.

With the chat window that had completely become my enemy on my back, I watched until the very end as Serena—the first to charge—came at me. I would dodge right, counter with a headbutt to grab and throw her forward, then if they tangled I would turn sideways, leg sweep, and dump one into the sea. Then—.

“Huh?”

But my body, which had been trying to dodge right, wouldn’t move. Bajubi, who had been standing beside me, was holding me tightly. When streamers teamed up and fought each other, betrayal happened as naturally as breathing unless it was a prize-money event. And the biggest factor driving those betrayals was mission donations.

It was obvious that someone had put a mission worth over a hundred thousand won on Bajubi.

“Ah. I didn’t see this coming.”

Serena’s flying fist struck my head directly. Stunned, I was grabbed by the others who came running and thrown into the sea. After that Bajubi got beaten up and fell in as well, recording our first loss of the round.

…Wasn’t the donor one of our own viewers? There were still three more losses left before complete defeat and having to perform the singing penalty. With even Bajubi turning, the situation didn’t look good. That said, I had no intention of blaming Bajubi. The way I had been recruiting people wasn’t all that different from viewers putting mission donations on the stream. The only difference was whether it was simple sowing of discord or actually spending money.

“Jubi, how much did you get?”

Five hundred thousand won to hold on until my defeat. It was enough money to break Bajubi’s convictions as a small streamer, even if the cost-performance was terrible. Using the fact that I trusted her… It felt a little unpleasant that my psychology had been read, but… well, there was nothing I could do. I had held out for quite a long time. Still, I didn’t want our fandom to curse Bajubi for betraying me, so I had to cut her loose first. I immediately punched her in the face, lifted her up, and hurled her into the sea.

Of course, even after removing Bajubi it was impossible to win the desperate 1:4 fights that continued every round. If it had been a game with shotguns it might have been different, but in a game where you could only use fists, with four people rotating attacks from every direction, even I couldn’t handle it.

In the end we lost four rounds straight and our team quickly racked up four losses. Last place was confirmed. The streamers who had wanted to hear me sing—and the viewers ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠too—were absolutely thrilled.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Bajubi seemed sorry; she mumbled even more quietly than usual.

I gave a small smile and comforted her.

“It’s fine. You must not forget that we agreed to do the Parallel World Cup together, okay?”

“Come on. It was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just one backstab in a game. If we’re counting that, I kept throwing you into the water the whole time.”

“It’s okay. I just have to sing once. It’s not like I’ll die from singing.”

That response seemed to leave the others—who had desperately charged at me for my defeat until now—feeling utterly empty. Keugaemang asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone evaluate me.”

“Wow, that’s the worst. Were you trying to embarrass me by making your tone-deaf niece sing?”

After all, when they formed the Great Anti-Mazia Alliance, each of them had put forward quite a few conditions. Unlike my empty promises, theirs were mostly big ones. To name a few, Yeonggun had agreed to jump into the cold Han River this winter to take responsibility for the auction failure, and Keugaemang had promised to send Korean beef gift sets to everyone in the alliance as New Year’s presents. Compared to those, singing one song was incredibly cheap.

“Oh, right. Serena, I already decided on your penalty for the next round?”

“The person who comes in last has to shout ‘Master’s heart, moe moe kyung.’ Fighting!”

Leaving the flustered Serena behind, I tapped the mic and did an echo check.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

“Ahem. Ahh. Is the echo working?”

So, what song should I sing? Singing one of the members’ songs in public felt wrong. Since I was the one who had to promote the kids, I didn’t want to accidentally cheapen the value of our own songs. Therefore, a song that none of our members would sing was best. The one that immediately came to mind was this.

“Bajubi, do you know this song by any chance?”

When I sent the title through Tokcode, Bajubi nodded. She even jumped up and down; it seemed she really liked it. Huh, maybe Bajubi is older than I thought? This is a hit from our parents’ generation.

Anyway, once we had agreement, I could just sing it. A moment later the MR played and the viewers immediately started spamming question marks.

However, our resident uncle and my self-proclaimed uncle, Keugaemang, shouted the moment he heard the intro.

The chat showed reactions completely opposite to Keugaemang, who was excitedly shaking along. I smiled faintly and pulled out the first soulful notes.