Let's Make Some Money

The Wooga-dol Audition.

Until Rena-ttang unveiled her massive content project, it was the single greatest opportunity the Pangea TV virtual scene had ever seen.

Which was exactly why, after regressing, it was the first thing I set out to prepare for.

But the facts still had to be assessed clearly. Getting swept up in the fever of the audition, losing sight of the original plan and making the wrong call — that would be a disaster.

The Wooga-dol Audition matters, sure. But at the end of the day, everything is for my stream. If something better comes along? I drop out of the audition on the spot and walk.

That said, the risks in a situation like that had to be calculated with precision before any decision was made. A withdrawal without a solid justification would brand me a traitor in the eyes of the Wooga-dol fandom and generate a mountain of haters overnight.

If you wanted a long career in internet broadcasting, you couldn't afford to make too many enemies. Live streams were full of minor slip-ups by nature, and if people started nitpicking every single one, it became an endless headache.

In the end, dodging that kind of risk came down to one thing: justification.

Alright. Let's take stock of the situation.

Group B's audition had wrapped up in spectacular fashion. Just as I'd predicted, Lucy put on a strong performance — only to be completely overshadowed by Baiyo, who went on right after her. She'd been on the verge of racking up some popular posts on the FM Community, but Baiyo's stage immediately afterward swept everything away.

Baiyo was the only contestant across the entire field to receive a Super Pass.

A Super Pass was a system that let a single judge push a contestant through even when the other two had chosen Fail — a one-time authority granted to each judge. Jerry and Great Moon never used theirs. Ssa-yo alone chose Baiyo, and it became a massive talking point.

The truth was, Baiyo's performance hadn't been that good. Maybe the nerves got to her. Her first song was rough enough that she was given a second chance, and even then Jerry tore into her.

"Your tone is nice, but that's about it. I'm giving you a Fail."

"Going for a first-love concept is a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠good idea, but let's be honest — it's a concept you manufactured. That kind of feeling shouldn't be something you squeeze out of your words. It should just hit the audience when they look at you. And Baiyo, you're just… too ordinary for that."

Great Moon's Fail followed right after. It looked like Baiyo was done.

Then Ssa-yo flipped the entire board. After delivering a somewhat cryptic critique, he handed Baiyo a Super Pass.

Viewers already deep in the story connecting Baiyo to Park Na-na flooded the chat with "PARADISE."

What the "truth" behind Ssa-yo's choice actually was, nobody knew. This was still a broadcast, after all — so maybe it was about ratings, the TV equivalent of courting public favor. Or maybe it went a step further: a calculated move to leverage the name recognition of longtime streamers like Park Na-na and Baiyo. Later on, once the interview content and final selections rolled out, plenty of people would claim Ssa-yo never intended to pick them at all — that he'd just used well-known virtuals for the hype.

Either way, Group B's audition stream wrapped up, and Ssa-yo left the passers with a brief word of caution: remember that the Wooga-dol Audition was for selecting virtual idols.

A few specific bans came with that reminder.

Measures to protect a clean "idol" image. The passers accepted them to stay in the running. A handful of viewers argued that Bang-sel sales should at least be fine, but public opinion was firmly on Ssa-yo's side, and the complaints got buried without a fight.

All of that had happened yesterday.

I'd gotten up early, worked my way through the communities, and surveyed the landscape. I was satisfied.

Today was Monday, October 17th.

And "stocks" were nowhere on Ssa-yo's list of bans.

I was broke.

Not in the figurative, complaining-for-effect sense. This was a genuine crisis.

The reason I'd been able to ride a winning streak ever since I started streaming was, honestly, about fifty percent money. Even for simple content, I commissioned polished PowerPoint decks. I kept adding avatar outfits that fit every occasion. For the audition, I'd paid for vocal training lessons and locked in a two-month contract with a VRChat staffer. On top of that, I'd put in several commissions on the production side.

Some people would look at me and call it overinvestment — no financial sense. But all of it was an investment in the future. The image of someone who did things properly, even the small ones. The perception that "Seo-a" was somehow different from other virtual streamers. Building those impressions, one brick at a time.

Just like any business — the startup costs come first.

Everything I've built so far is going to pay off big down the line.

With memories stretching all the way to 2025, I was certain of that. Being financially destitute in the short term, though — that was unavoidable.

Which brought me to the content I'd prepared for today.

And that content was…

My stream — the one that had dominated Group A of the Wooga-dol Audition, skyrocketing both my name recognition and public goodwill. Browse the FM Community and you'd already find a solid number of people locking me in as their number-one pick. So when I slapped a title about cutting ties with the platform on first thing in the morning, the bait was irresistible. Even at that early hour, viewers poured in.

The count blasted past three thousand in no time. Before the Wooga-dol Audition, a clickbait title alone never would have pulled this many people. It really was the perfect content for building recognition.

I stalled for about ten minutes, then flipped to the stream screen at 8:40.

The stock trading program I'd shown during my debut stream filled the display.

"Everyone, I truly want to protect my friendship with Pangea TV. But cold, hard reality just won't allow it."

"I understand that disappointment. I really do. But everyone — look at this."

What I showed them was a balance that made even me wince. On top of that, I revealed the leftover Candy count after cashing out.

When you bare it all, you bare it completely — that way nobody had anything left to say afterward. The rare sight of a streamer opening their books pulled every eye in the room.

What I was doing right now was securing my justification.

When your livelihood was on the line, how exactly was Ssa-yo supposed to stop me? Tell me not to pull clickbait streams like an idol? Add a stock-trading ban to the list?

Public opinion was already on my side. Small Candy donations started ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pouring in, telling me not to invest everything into streaming and to make sure I ate properly.

To put the finishing touch on that sentiment, I played a video.

The UNICEF campaign video that had become so thoroughly memed across the streaming world it was practically a classic. I quickly toggled my avatar's expression settings into full bawling mode.

Securing a justification ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was good, but if the seriousness dragged on too long, the audience lost interest. At the end of the day, what mattered was fun and dopamine.

I pulled up my stock holdings — already sitting at +12.73% — and pleaded with the viewers.

"My lords! May cold, hungry Seo-a please liquidate her stocks?"

I glanced up, caught that last chat message, and sneered freely to myself.

Yeah, no. Starting tomorrow, Pangea TV tanks.

I'd cashed out at the perfect moment.