As the Stage Curtain Falls

Miho's stage was a showcase of everything she did best.

First, the dancing.

She'd shown it off once before during a collab stream with Ssa-yo, but it was still intensely sensual. She couldn't match professional dancers, but she had that magnetic pull that snagged every male gaze in the room — the sinuous roll of her hips, the kaleidoscope of expressions that clenched around your heart.

And her singing held up, too. You couldn't call her a pure vocal pick, but she sat at about the same average level as me, and more than anything, her tone was gorgeous. Something about it called Bolbbalgan4 to mind. Vocalists with that kind of color had a real edge in recording work — dial back the live ratio and their utility shot through the roof.

"We really enjoyed all three of your performances. First, Seo Chae-i."

"Yes."

"Is there anything you'd like to say to Ssa-yo right now?"

"Huh? S-Ssa-yo? Why am I the only one getting that question… You asked everyone else what they wanted to say to their fans."

"Okay. So you don't even want to speak to the Ssa-yo who eliminated you? Got it — we've confirmed Seo Chae-i's true feelings."

Sometimes serious, sometimes hunting for the laugh — I steered the interviews with practiced ease. I could see the viewers sinking deeper into the concert with every exchange. Before I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠knew it, the viewer count had broken past fourteen thousand.

Genuinely encouraging.

Even before my regression, the only virtual streamers who'd hit numbers like this on their own steam — outside the big-corp virtuals on Rabbit TV — simply didn't exist. Plenty of virtuals had posted similar figures in Rena World, but aside from one exception, those numbers were just runoff from major streamers. The difference between them and me right now was night and day.

So this is the sweetness of a monopoly? It's so sweet my teeth might rot.

Rena World — the event that would announce the virtual boom on Pangea TV — would grow the pie far larger than it was now, but the competition would swell right along with it. Virtual streamers sprouting up like weeds. Right now the pie was smaller, sure, but I was the one soaking up every last drop of attention.

The recognition I'd stacked up by debuting first. A fanbase as rich and deep as a Michelin three-star broth, built on pure skill. The buzz from the Wooga-dol audition. And now, the finishing flourish of hosting a concert — I more than deserved the title of Virtual Emperor.

But I couldn't get complacent. Pangea TV's blue ocean was about to dry up, and the age of infinite competition was coming. The point was to prepare for the new era from the top of the mountain.

"Next up is Lucy. Shim Kyu-seon's Yaraehyang… You can look forward to this one."

On today's concert stage, Lucy and I were the only two performing live. Honestly, there was a little worry there — but if I wanted to forge Lucy into something strong, there was no other way. I fully intended to raise her as the crew's definitive vocal pick. She'd fall short of the monster vocalists who'd debut later, but if I fed her experience points starting now, she'd reach a level where she could at least scrap with them. Experience was a weapon you couldn't afford to ignore. Even Ddarling — the one who'd go on to sweep countless virtual singing contests — had gotten wrecked, shattered, and rolled across the floor more times than anyone could count when she was starting out.

Thankfully, Lucy finished her stage without incident. She'd flubbed the pitch maybe twice in the middle, but the viewers actually loved it — said that was the charm of a live performance. That faint tremor in her voice had hit them emotionally, apparently. If the audience was happy, that was an Ok from me.

We moved on to the next act.

The concert was drawing toward its close. Choi Man-soon, Rinko, Gold Kiwi, and Binming took the stage together. Their pick was TWICE's What is Love — a stage packed with bright, buoyant energy — and when it ended, interview time rolled around again.

From that point on, I started deliberately weaving in praise for Ssa-yo, careful not to make it awkward. Things like how the only reason I could host a concert with this many people was because Ssa-yo had opened the Wooga-dol audition in the first place. There was no shortage of other things to compliment him on, either. Even a dry towel will give up water if you wring it hard enough.

And sure enough, the chat started reacting.

I widened my field of vision. The fandoms of the eliminated contestants weren't the only ones I needed to look after. The larger groups by far were Ssa-yo's fans and the floating virtual streamer crowd that had gathered around the Wooga-dol audition. Right now, the person holding their goodwill was Ssa-yo himself — the audition's host. And I was planning a deal with him. To maximize the effect of that transaction, I needed to earn favor with Ssa-yo's fans more than anyone.

He makes the wrong call in Wooga-dol, but even in 2025 Ssa-yo is still a solid mid-tier name. No need to sour the relationship. Even if we're both wearing masks, keeping things friendly pays off.

A streamer had to know how to play the game of mutual back-scratching. No point manufacturing enemies for no reason. Before the regression, Lucy had been the type who couldn't do that at all — and it had been endlessly frustrating to watch.

So I set the example for Lucy as I prepared the concert's finale.

"This is really the last one now. Everyone, please come up."

All twelve guests crowded onto the stage. The chat scrolling across the screen was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠flooded with pleas not to leave. An hour had already passed and the viewers still felt the ache of it ending — which only meant today's concert had been that good. I smiled as I brought the final number to my lips.

"Alright! This is the last stage. We're going to pour our hearts into this one, so please listen well. We love all of you."

A gentle intro unfurled. For the final group song, I'd chosen 015B's Now Goodbye. An old track from 1991, but such a classic that it had been remade countless times.

From the lyrics to the atmosphere of the song itself, it was steeped in wistfulness — the perfect pick to close out a concert. Groups of three, then three, then four, then four took their parts, and every time the camera shifted to lock in the perfect framing. How full must the fans' hearts have been, watching their favorite virtual fill the entire broadcast screen?

I felt a little guilty that every bit of this emotion had been meticulously calculated — but I hoped they'd at least understand one thing. That I had given it everything I had.

As the first verse ended, we all joined hands and stepped forward as one. On the next cue, we bowed our heads in unison — a closing greeting to the viewers. At the same moment, the screen went black.

Viewers reeling from the unexpected cutoff, throwing tantrums of pure loss. What had I said? The greatest skill for drawing out emotion was a twist.

Fwoosh—!

Light swallowed the darkness. Back on the stage — and every one of us was gone. The camera tilted slowly upward until it found the screen. A video was playing there. The second installment of the guest highlight reel we'd run before the concert began.

Thirty seconds per person had never been enough to hold their full stories…

And as the video's background track, the unfinished second verse of Now Goodbye began to flow again. Starting with Sae-dalkom, then Miho, Dantz, Seo Chae-i, Binming, Seol Pyo-woo, Aiko… today's protagonists, one after another. At the end, the words Everyone Is an Idol filled the screen.

Was that it?

But the song still hadn't ended. And then, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from the video, a familiar voice rang out.

"You call that finishing a song? Huh? Again!"

A voice I knew well — but one no one else had ever heard. Bewildered reactions cascaded through the chat.

"A beautiful page of our youth! Let's write it together."

"Again! You messed up the ending."

An edited clip of me getting drilled by a tiger of a vocal trainer. Shot on a phone from a corner, only a slanted shadow visible — but sometimes that kind of staging hit the feelings even harder. The process of never stopping, even while getting chewed out over and over.

The practice footage was only the beginning. Everything I'd done for today's concert flickered past in sequence. Dozens of meeting notes filled with conversations with the staff, scattered like falling leaves. Me in VRChat, painstakingly lining up every avatar's pathing. The grueling process of booking each guest. The video ran just under four minutes, but inside it was a complete story — a story that proved I'd given everything I had for the past two months.

I forced down the emotion surging up unbidden, gripped the mic with trembling hands, and spoke.

"Everyone… I love you all. Goodbye."

And with that, I left the final aftertaste hanging in the air.