Not an Easy Broadcast

The Yoon-seo Law.

Among the countless unwritten rules that governed Pangea TV, it was by far the most infamous.

There had once been a famous female streamer named Yoon-seo who broadcast while lying about her age, until a scandal forced her real age into the open. Her fame had come with an equally sprawling network of connections, and the resulting tangle of streamer relationships left such a mess that the Yoon-seo Law was born in its aftermath.

The core of it was simple: female streamers were required to verify their identity with a national ID card.

In practice, it was a checkmate move. Refusing to show it was the same as confessing, I'm lying about my age.

Having lived through all of this as a Pangea TV viewer in my previous life, I knew the game cold. I reached for the card I'd prepared in advance, completely at ease.

"Ahh! So that's what the Yoon-seo Law is. Learning something new every day. Behold the ever-growing streamer Seo-a! Alright, I've got nothing to hide — I'll verify it proudly."

The viewers were already convinced I was about to flip on my camera, and the chat had whipped itself into a full-blown festival.

"Nope. Not cam. A photo."

Crushing expectations like that was half the fun.

The chat seethed with trembling rage, but most of them ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seemed to decide that a photo was better than nothing and forced themselves to wait it out.

"Drumroll, please! Everyone, I'm revealing it now. My national ID is… riiiight…!"

Riding the wave of explosive anticipation, the screen switched.

"Revealing in thirty seconds. Go watch some ads and come back."

"Whoa whoa! Calm down. I'll show you right now."

Any more teasing and I was genuinely going to get murdered.

I hurriedly switched the screen, putting a photo of my national ID right next to my avatar.

"There. See the numbers? Born in 2000, back digit starts with 4. Yoon-seo Law, cleanly cleared!"

Just in case anyone tried to claim the photo was stolen, I'd placed a notepad on the right side with Pangea TV Virtual Streamer Seo-a ♡ written on it.

Not that many viewers cared about that part.

Nearly ninety percent of every pair of eyes locked onto the photo section of the ID card.

"Huh? That is my real photo though? What are you talking about. This is reality, and this is me. You guys are the same, right? Sitting around all day scratching your bellies watching streams — this is the real world. You seriously think that place where you don't do a single productive thing is reality?"

I beat the viewers senseless with pure fact violence.

But constant offense was a sure way to sour public opinion. I reeled in the whip and casually dangled a carrot.

"Ugh! You idiots. Not the whole thing… just this much for today."

I put a new photo up on screen.

The chat speed gradually slowed.

Would their reaction be positive or negative?

I already knew the answer. Any man would think the same thing.

A half-cam photo, shot from as far away as possible with the quality deliberately blurred. My secret weapon, prepared for exactly this kind of unavoidable situation.

I didn't have a solid fanbase yet — I was just a day-two rookie nobody. Casual viewers' goodwill was a reed that swayed with every light breeze. A person had to know when to bow their head. Practicality over pride.

Besides, it's not like this is a huge problem, right?

Virtual streaming culture fundamentally treated a streamer's real identity — the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so-called Red Pill — as something to protect. The funny part was that while full face reveals were taboo, half-cam was treated with surprising generosity.

Human desire, in the end, always showed its true face in the numbers.

The moment the half-cam photo went up — whether it went viral on FM Community or casual viewers just flooded in from the thumbnail — the viewer count smashed past 6,500. And the curse-filled Candy donations that had been pouring in moments earlier transformed into praise messages of even larger denominations.

A streaming scene terrifyingly faithful to its own desires.

I was going to survive in this wilderness, no matter what.

"Haa… I'm wiped."

Day two of streaming had wrapped up without disaster.

Or could I really call it without disaster?

Swept up in the viewers' frenzy over the Yoon-seo Law verification, I hadn't managed to run through the content I'd originally planned. The idea had been to cleanly finish the prepared segments and then spend about twenty minutes on a short post-stream talk to start building regulars — but from the midpoint onward I'd lost the pace and gotten dragged around by the audience.

Still a long way to go.

I'd never thought streaming was easy. But I'd prepared this thoroughly, put in this much effort — I'd had a certain confidence. The difficulty of live broadcasting, though, was higher than expected.

You had to react to the endless flood of chat messages, and before you knew it the content would stall or you'd end ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up rambling about some random topic. A pre-recorded TV broadcast might have been more forgiving.

If I could handle even unexpected variables with real skill, I wouldn't need to worry about any of this.

I thought about it with a bitter smile, but that was clearly asking too much. Reaching that level took years of experience, no matter how much natural talent you had.

Speaking of which — is Lucy doing okay with her streams?

Yesterday had been my debut, so I'd been exhausted, and there'd been an Ataba-related meeting on top of that — no room to check. Today my schedule was free, so I casually logged into my Rabbit TV account and pulled up Lucy's recent broadcasts.

A glance at the VOD view counts told me everything without needing to ask. Business as usual.

Current time: 5:17 p.m.

At this hour, Lucy was probably at her part-time job.

…Don't look at me like that. I'm not a stalker. She talked about it on stream herself.

Before transferring to Pangea TV, her average monthly streaming income had been around three to four hundred thousand won, right? There was a reason Lucy worked two part-time shifts a day. Streaming alone couldn't cover living expenses. Of course she had no choice.

The sooner she transfers, the better.

For the time being, Pangea TV was going to be virgin territory — a land of opportunity for small-time virtual streamers. Just matching the same viewer numbers she got on Rabbit TV would at least double or triple her monthly income.

How was that possible? Pangea TV got roasted as a platform for old fogeys because of its higher average viewer age — but that same demographic had real purchasing power, and that made all the difference.

Plus Rabbit TV is a red ocean. Way too many competitors. Pangea TV is different.

I was the only virtual streamer on the platform. An entire wide-open market, monopolized by one person. If you were going to place a bet, sooner was better.

Time to start dangling some bait.

I began tossing Lucy delicious little crumbs over Discord. Starting with how the debut stream had felt, how I'd run the broadcast — and I made a special point of screenshotting the peak viewer count and the Candy donation total and sending those over.

"Busy, maybe?"

I'd hoped for an instant reply, but Lucy must have been swamped at her job — nothing came back.

Nothing I could do about it. Might as well start prepping dinner.

I was just about to get up from my chair when—

"Hm?"

The message inbox at the top of the Pangea TV homepage was blinking.

Ah. Right. I hadn't paid any attention to it at all. As a viewer, messages almost never came in, so I hadn't known — but becoming a streamer was a different story entirely.

What kinds of messages were waiting in there?

Heart pounding with curiosity, I reached out and clicked the inbox.

"……."

Reality was a dumpster fire, as always.

I knew exactly what the streaming scene was like. Why had I let myself get my hopes up?

Messages had piled up in droves, and most of them were pure insults and abuse. A few examples: demands that I stop polluting Pangea TV and get the hell back to Rabbit TV; that my weeb broadcast was disgusting and I should go die — and those were the mild ones. Some tore into my appearance because they hated no-cam streams. Plenty more just dumped mindless curses with no particular reason at all.

"Haa… no wonder streamers get their mental health shredded."

I hadn't done anything wrong, and yet here I was, exposed to the malice of an anonymous mob. Staring at it long enough made my head spin. Rationally, I knew I hadn't done a single thing to deserve this — but the endless parade of hostile sentences felt like something was being scraped raw inside me.

Damn it. So that's why people say to just keep the inbox closed.

I'd pulled a lot of aggro over two days of streaming, so of course the toxic types had latched on. Nothing to be done about it. Growing pains on the way to scaling up the broadcast. That was the only way to look at it.

With a bitter smile, I started deleting the messages. Though of course I screenshotted them first. You never knew when you might need them as evidence for a lawsuit.

"Huh? This nickname…"

Then, by chance, I spotted a familiar handle in the inbox. At first I thought it might be an impersonator, but checking the account info confirmed it — a real streamer.

"What does Oh Yeong-jun want with a message to me?"

Two days into streaming. Contact I never saw coming. I sat there, thoroughly thrown.