The Nuclear Bomb

Pangea TV's first-ever virtual 3D concert.

That title went to Park Na-na of Akatsuki and Baiyo of Lethal Company.

After Decrescendo disbanded, the two had been streaming as independents without an official crew. But even without being formally bound as a crew, the bond they'd shared since middle school remained rock-solid. They still gamed together from time to time, celebrated each other's birthdays, and continued walking the same path.

Then one day, Park Na-na received a proposal from a company that developed and supported virtual-related technology.

It was for a 3D virtual concert using motion-capture equipment.

Park Na-na, who'd always been deeply interested in virtual concerts, readily agreed to take it on — even knowing it would require offline activity to use the motion-capture gear.

She then proposed that Baiyo join her for the 3D virtual concert.

Baiyo jumped in enthusiastically, and in the end, the two of them became the stars of Pangea TV's first-ever 3D concert.

Looking at it one way, those two really lucked out. They essentially got to put on a concert using that insanely expensive equipment for free.

That company had mainly been active only on Rabbit TV, but at the time, they'd secured ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠investment from a major corporation and were aggressively expanding their territory.

So they planned to break into Pangea TV, and they wanted to make a splashy promotional splash right from the start — which is how the 3D virtual concert got chosen as the vehicle.

The problem was that their affiliated virtual streamers only operated on Rabbit TV, so they had zero name recognition on Pangea TV.

What good ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was throwing a concert if nobody would show up?

So they reached out to some of the more recognizable virtual streamers on Pangea TV at the time, and the one who got the call was Park Na-na.

It was an incredibly successful concert. Up until then, every virtual concert held on Pangea TV had been staged in VRChat.

A concert that put the technical prowess ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of a virtual specialist company on full, unapologetic display!

Before my regression, I'd watched that concert together on Lucy's stream and prayed.

That someday Lucy would get to stand on a stage like that too.

But amazingly, the proposal that had gone to Park Na-na before my regression had come to me this time.

The reason the virtual concert had been included in the 2023 blueprint I'd announced during the year-end crew stream was precisely because of this contact.

The call had come around mid-December, roughly?

Anyway, I'd accepted gladly, and since it was a two-person concert just like before the regression, I'd asked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Lucy if she was interested and gotten the OK.

The two of us had already met offline once before, so there wasn't much awkwardness between us.

The concert date isn't locked in yet, but roughly April… Rena World ends in June, so putting it out there as a campaign promise shouldn't be a problem.

I'd already done the date math, so I could declare it with confidence in front of nearly ten thousand viewers.

"……."

A flicker of tension.

I discreetly gauged the atmosphere.

Would the Rena World floaters even understand the value of a 3D virtual concert?

These were people who'd spent years watching almost nothing but LoL, PUBG, and StarCraft.

A moment later, I realized I'd been fretting over nothing.

The ones who broke the ice were my hardcore fans, who'd been hanging back and reading the room until now.

Then the virtual-enthusiast floaters went wild at the words "3D virtual concert" like they'd been set off, and finally the Rena World floaters — moved by V-Live Company's story — picked up the baton and carried it forward.

An endless procession of donations.

Before I knew it, the colleagues gathered at my side were all offering their thanks together, bowing their heads as one.

Was this the floaters' choice?

Realizing that everything we'd poured into this had never been in vain, I was able to smile — truly, brightly — for the first time in a long while.

In this moment alone, without a single calculation or plan in my head.

Just brightly.

Three hours after the funding began.

It was already 11 p.m.

And at last, we had hit our goal.

A staggering 630,000 Candies in construction funding!

No major corporation. No mid-sized company. No partner streamers. Not a single one.

A bunch of small-time streamers banding together and pulling off a result like this — even a regressor could proudly call that an achievement.

Of course, I hadn't just sat there talking about the 3D virtual concert and done nothing.

I'd strapped on the full-body tracker for the first time in a while and hyped the hell out of the atmosphere.

Up until just a moment ago, it had basically felt like a club.

"I appreciate the donations, but if you keep spreading weird rumors, you're getting blacklisted."

Anyway, a hyped atmosphere was great — but then you always got viewers who couldn't read the room and crossed the line.

Regardless, given the hour, it was about time to start wrapping up.

Even the hardworking adults of this new nation needed sleep if they were going to clock in tomorrow.

Pangea TV basically supported a daily top-up of one million won — that is, 10,000 Candies.

Anything beyond that hit the limit, and unless you went through a third-party service for a workaround top-up, you couldn't charge any more Candies.

So a few viewers were pointing out that midnight was almost here and the daily limit would reset once the date flipped.

Ugh! The ones typing chats like that never donated a single Candy and weren't even fan-subscribed.

I sighed, but the truth was I'd considered it myself at least once.

Before the regression, Akatsuki had actually pushed past midnight, used the limit reset, and hit 1.12 million in funding.

It was a pretty thrifty way of wringing every last drop out of the floaters, if you wanted to look at it that way.

But I didn't want to get that greedy about it.

Everyone needed to know how to be satisfied.

I was human too, so falling short of 700,000 was a little disappointing — but this still felt like we'd cleared the cutoff, so I decided to be content.

Yeah. You take the donations you're given with gratitude. The moment a streamer starts acting like the fans are just holding their Candies for them, that's when the relationship starts to crack.

I turned that feeling over carefully and explained it in kinder words.

That it wasn't the 700,000 we hadn't reached that I was disappointed about — it was the 630,000 we'd already received that I was so deeply, genuinely thankful for.

"With that feeling in mind, I'm going to give you a full formal bow!"

The full-body tracker setup was still running.

The viewers couldn't see it, but I first sorted out the clothes that had gotten sticky with sweat from dancing so hard, then poured my whole heart into a deep formal bow.

After nearly three years of grinding on the sales floor at a shitty small company before finally scraping my way to assistant manager, I knew the value of money better than anyone.

It might look like a small donation, but every bit of it was the viewers' sweat and tears.

So I always expressed my gratitude to the fans who donated with everything I had.

No matter how many viewers I gained or how much funding I received, that feeling would never change.

I was renewing that resolve all over again as I started to straighten up — when it hit.

"Uh, uhh? Wait, that… this is…"

At the very end of the funding, a nuclear bomb I never saw coming had dropped.