Concert (3)
Effective today, I leave the supporter relationship behind. Seo-a and I become one body, one being.
Any attack on Seo-a shall be considered an attack on me.
After the first stage wrapped, I took a brief breather and checked the community reactions on my phone.
Ha. This community addiction of mine was impossible to kick.
The response was hotter than anything I'd expected. Every so often a post or comment from someone who hated virtuals would surface, only to get crushed under the overwhelming firepower of the Virtuki and vanish almost immediately.
Was this the true might of the Virtuki Gallery, circa October 2022?
I'd barely caught my breath when the producer started hustling me to get back out there. I glanced up from backstage and spotted Lucy and Miho fighting for their lives, buying time until I reappeared.
Ah — looking again, Miho was carrying the whole thing solo. Lucy still hadn't shaken her stage-fright shakes on a big platform. Keep feeding her experience points and she'd improve little by little.
I scrambled back onto the stage.
"Ah! And there she is — the star of the show."
Miho still hadn't fully shed her small-time streamer energy, and you could feel how overwhelmed she was facing an audience in the tens of thousands. The way she tossed the mic the second I showed up said everything.
I slid into the main position without missing a beat. The two of them took a step back, centering me. Their avatars weren't quite on my level, but they'd clearly put in more work than usual.
Lucy and I had already coordinated, so she'd prepared a hanbok in richer, more vivid colors than her everyday look. Elegant and refined, yet the colors still caught the eye — it suited her perfectly.
Miho had only had a week to produce something, so she'd gone simple by necessity. Even so, the audience reaction seemed better for her than for Lucy. A China-dress style with a subtle side slit — every step made the gap open just a little, showing off those long, slender legs.
Ha! Men really were something else.
For my own concert look, I'd gone with the classic route: the idol school uniform. A skirt hem that fluttered right at the knee line, stealing every gaze. A white shirt with just the faintest hint of translucence, a necktie draped over it adding a touch of adorable charm. Pure, sparkling, fresh energy radiating off every pixel.
Looking exactly like that, I grabbed the mic and called out with full confidence.
"Hello, everyone! I'm your idol, Seo-a. Are you all having fun?"
Waaaaaah—!
It wasn't real cheering from the viewers, of course. A staff member had simply hit the recorded crowd track on cue. But those little details were exactly what pulled the audience deeper into the immersion.
Just look at the chat flooding the big screens mounted high on either side of the concert hall.
Cheer-filled chat messages sprouted up like weeds after rain. And honestly, the viewers weren't the only ones buzzing with excitement and joy.
Two months. I'd endured that long stretch with nothing but patience and hard work, all for today. The path to that first stage had been packed with nerves. The pure elation of overcoming that crushing pressure and fastening the first button without a hitch — that wasn't the kind of feeling you could put into words.
A swelling, chest-tightening rush of exaltation. I knew it wasn't true, but the chat pouring out of the audience felt like roaring cheers meant just for me.
Is this what they call the need for recognition? Or, to dress it up more nobly — honor?
Living as ordinary citizen Seo Min-jun, I'd never known anything like it. The idea of someone directing one-sided goodwill and cheers toward me had been unimaginable. But experiencing it firsthand sent shivers down my spine and raised goosebumps across my skin.
This emotion was like an addictive drug. One taste, and I kept craving more.
I want more people… more fans to like me.
I flinched — and only then felt the controller clenched tight in my fist, snapping me back to reality.
Ah. This wasn't the time to be zoning out.
I checked the chat and used some light back-and-forth banter to cool down an atmosphere that felt ready to explode. There was still plenty of stage left, after all.
Then I read from the script I'd prepared in advance — a carefully softened, non-blatant explanation of why I'd put this concert together and why I'd brought the eliminated contestants on board.
Viewership's already past thirteen thousand. When am I going to get another chance like this? Time to properly farm some goodwill.
From today on, the fans of the eliminated contestants would practically treat me as an ally. And to the rest of the Virtuki, I'd be recognized as the streamer who hosted Pangea TV's first-ever virtual concert.
Some people just didn't think about it. Others held back out of pride and let the moment pass. But this was an era where self-PR mattered more than anything. Your own value was decided by your own actions. I hadn't prepared that script for nothing.
I wasn't some genius who could flash brilliant inspiration or move people with raw talent. All I could do was chew over the future I already knew, calculate endlessly, and keep working.
"So, who are the stars of the next stage? Here's a hint — three truly adorable little fairies."
"Adorable fairies? Ah, got it. That's me!"
"…Miho, that one's a bit of a stretch. The correct answer is SaeDalkom, Kaang, and Seol Pyo-woo. Alright, everyone — let's head over to their prepared stage!"
The concert was only just getting started.
The stage SaeDalkom, Kaang, and Seol Pyo-woo had prepared was Orange Caramel's "Catallena," a 2014 release that had earned a cult following. To guarantee stage quality and avoid any potential disasters, the performance had been thoroughly prepared as a pre-recorded video.
For the simple dance portions, I'd copied their VRChat avatars and filmed the footage myself. For the vocals, the three of them had each recorded their parts in a single take. One-takes were the way to go if you wanted to keep any sense of vitality and a live-adjacent feel.
It had been an unavoidable choice. In less than a week, when exactly were they supposed to practice enough to deliver a stage worth showing the audience? On top of that, VRChat live streams were a nest of every possible glitch and a sky-high probability of getting screwed over by the tech — and for someone like me who chased thorough planning and perfection, I wanted to cut the failure rate however I could.
Every now and then you run into people who only rate live concerts as the real deal, but they don't get that it only works if the environment fully supports it.
Even in 2025, before the regression, technology had kept advancing — but no individual streamer's budget could ever implement live tech on that scale. In the end, this was the best possible option under the current circumstances.
Besides, sure, live performances had their own unique atmosphere — but on average, recorded video quality was inevitably superior. You could film multiple takes and present only the best performance. Minor mistakes could even be edited out.
Not that this was an easy option either. Multiple video shoots and editing work don't come free.
Effort the viewers would never see — work done deep underwater, far below the surface — was bearing fruit right here, right now.
Once the video ended, I invited the three of them up onto the stage. Deliberately, I left the truth unsaid — that I'd been their dance stand-in, and that the singing just now hadn't been live. I left it in the realm of audience speculation. That way, each of them could fire up their own streams later and spill the stories themselves.
"Alright, shall we start with introductions from the three of you?"
Beginning with SaeDalkom, I had Kaang and Seol Pyo-woo greet the viewers and gave each of them interview time. At the core, it all came down to one thing: a heartbreaking message of "elimination," delivered to their own fans. Midway through, Kaang broke into a short sob that made the audience's hearts ache even more.
This is what narrative is. Keep stacking these little pieces, bit by bit, and eventually…
A signal came from the producer that the next stage was ready. I had the three of them say their goodbyes at a natural stopping point and sent them backstage.
This next stage was Miho's turn. After that, Seo Chae-i, Aiku, and Dantzjo were waiting in the wings.
The heat of the concert only kept climbing higher.