The Kizuna Between Nakama

Märchen's manager, Ryu Chae-in, was in an excellent mood. She could hardly be otherwise. Not even two days after the music video went public, a million views were already shimmering within reach, and on chart after chart across site after site, Märchen-tic You had begun to show its face. In less than a day since the MV dropped, Märchen's NewTube subscribers had climbed by more than a hundred thousand. The launch was good. Unbelievably so. And with everything breaking this cleanly in her favor, what workaholic on earth could possibly be in a bad mood?

"...Now if the merch just sells."

If the merch sold — if demand proved stronger than anyone had expected — then more experimental risks could be taken without a second thought. Yes. For instance...

"Well?! It's different, right? Seeing it in a photo and seeing it actually on a person?"

A challenge like selling, under the sacred name of merch, a grotesque T-shirt with her own face crammed edge to edge across ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠every inch of it. For the record, even that shirt existed only because a manager had begged, with her whole heart, that the first run really ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ought to play it safe. ...Right. That was her showing restraint.

"Is that T-shirt actually going to sell...?"

The Chae-in of that moment had no idea. No idea that the shirt would one day sell out second-fastest of every piece of merch they made, or that people don't say a thing slips out the door when you aren't looking for nothing.

The merch-promo broadcast hiding behind the mask of an off-the-record segment was over, and so was my session of the cosmic god-tier game Raider. Which meant only one thing remained—

"That was Give Me Wings. Thank you!"

The long-awaited karaoke segment, prepared so that my honor, and my teacher's, would not go undefended.

And judging by the viewers, my teacher's honor and mine had been defended beyond any doubt.

"Word is, sexy pretty-girl Gemjalseu Teacher Märchen will be making another appearance at the Raider World Champion title defense in eleven days. So until then, how about getting attached to Märchen, the cuteness tyrant, the eternally seventeen-year-old pretty-girl streamer?"

The moment the words left my mouth, I cut the screen. Straight to the merch page.

"...And nothing builds attachment quite like stuff, right? Märchen merch, optimized for getting attached! On sale exactly next Friday! You'll buy a lot, won't you? The kizuna between nakama.... I'm counting on you, you know?"

A chat saying it had only been ten days caught my eye.

"...Right? Time is moving so slow. In my heart I'm already taking the next boss's head."

Reality, however, was pitiless. Today was September 1. The day a major update would return to Raider — the day a new boss was expected to show its face — was Tuesday, September 12. Count forward, count backward, call down a dragon if you like: eleven days left is still eleven days left.

And if a new boss really did appear eleven days from now, that would be the day it was decided whether I became a two-time Raider World ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Champion, or remained nothing more than the inaugural one. I had confidence. This time I didn't mean to chase a late Furcle as a straggler. The moment the servers opened, I intended to be in the vanguard, there to take the boss's head first. Last time only three characters had been battle-ready. This time every one of them was fully raised. The conditions were far better than my last attempt, and that was why the confidence was there.

Confidence, though, is not certainty. In the end, money, effort, and skill all matter when you go for a First Clear, but luck weighs every bit as much. If luck refused to follow me — if heaven abandoned me — I knew perfectly well I could miss the glory of a Furcle by a hair. And that only made the fighting spirit surge hotter.

"...Just picturing a kill-or-be-killed fight with the boss already has my blood boiling."

"All right! Next song is one that speaks for my iron resolve and this boiling will to fight! Listen well——"

The stream was over. On an ordinary night I would have washed up, dropped onto the bed, killed time on my phone, and let my eyes close. Tonight was a little different. Tomorrow was the second Medongbu company dinner, and I meant to get everything ready in advance so I wouldn't be scrambling in the minutes before we had to leave.

"Mmm..."

Not even five minutes in, and I was already in trouble.

"And I used the biggest shopping bag in the house..."

The first Medongbu dinner had happened back when I still had fifty thousand subscribers. This second one was a proper big event, held after we'd cleared four hundred thousand. So if I was going to give thank-you gifts, I wanted them generous, the way a four-hundred-thousand-subscriber NewTuber ought to give them, and I had packed this and that accordingly.

"...It won't all fit."

One thing had led to another until there were simply too many gifts — too many to force into a single shopping bag. The solution, of course, was simple. If one bag wasn't enough, use several. The problem was that seeing, with my own eyes, a situation one bag couldn't solve had sent a thought skimming through my head: Did I go overboard? If they get all this, won't it just feel like a burden? Red ginseng is heavy and it takes up so much space — should I leave it out?

"...No. This one stays."

I wanted my beloved editors to eat it, look after their health for a long, long time, and keep editing NewTube videos for a long, long time. I could not accept casting that warm little wish aside just because the gift was heavy and bulky. And I couldn't pull anything else, either. The Medongbu group zip-up hoodies were the symbol of Medongbu's kizuna, so they had to be gifts, no question. The Märchen merch had to be handed over to prevent the irony of Märchen's own editors owning not a single piece of the boss's goods. And Loe's autograph — framed so it would never crease, swollen to a truly terrifying bulk — had to be given, if only for the sake of all the effort I'd poured in, enlightenment included, for the welfare of Medongbu.

Couldn't I just ship them? This was a thank-you party that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only happened to be called a company dinner, and I was supposed to skip the romance of a boss placing the gifts in her people's hands herself?! Throw that sentiment away because carrying one bag was a nuisance?! I was taking all of it. Every last piece. No matter what.

Saturday, September 2. The day of the second Medongbu dinner. The first to reach the meeting place was Jo Yeryeong — Medongbu Editor No. 2, and the woman the Medongbu Commander-in-Chief had named Captain of the 2nd Division. Her boss and her senior editor would probably arrive together. They lived close enough, she'd heard, to trip and bump noses.

Jo Yeryeong. Four months now as a Medongbu editor. Four months is long enough that you learn things about each other whether you mean to or not. Not that Yeryeong envied Eunha. Not in the slightest. Who in their right mind would want to live in the same neighborhood as their boss? Yeryeong, for one, did not. Her boss was a good boss, the sort who handed out bonuses often, but living nearby and actually knowing each other was a different story — all the more so when the person that boss became on stream was a manic eccentric.

She had just finished thinking it when she spotted Hari and Eunha coming up the way.

"I told you I could just come by later for my share of the gifts..."

"But... the form matters with this kind of thing, doesn't it? You really think you won't feel left out, watching only Yeryeong get something during the gift handoff?"

They were passing the words back and forth while they came, each of them cradling the body of a shopping bag in both arms and straining under it. Even from a distance, they looked miserable. The handles, it seemed, had given out — not one of them. All of them. Living in the same neighborhood really was a different problem.

Yeryeong thought so as she started toward them, meaning to lighten, if only a little, what one might read as a burden laid on the pair — and what one ought to write as a chore Lee Hari had manufactured herself.