Crews on the Rise

"So we've decided to form a crew."

"We're going to give it everything we've got, so please support us!"

"The crew's name is Decrescendo. We've already made a fan café, so please join right away."

"Anyone who doesn't join gets a Muyo Punch!"

That afternoon, after the private stream crew meeting ended.

Was history simply repeating itself?

The Decrescendo crew had revealed itself — the group that would go on to dominate Pangea TV's virtual scene with sheer shock and awe.

A five-member crew led by Park Na-na, joined by Baiyo, Elsa, Seol Pyo-woo, and Muyo.

From the very start, Decrescendo was overwhelming.

Freeca was a heavier weight class, but they had chosen isolation by focusing entirely on overseas audiences, so they were out of the picture. As for the Rena Universe, internal problems left them completely unable to flex any power. Exposés and infighting erupted almost daily, and the community's worst trolls flocked over like spectators to a fire, gleefully tossing on more wood.

V-topia was still just watching and waiting. They had laid out a grand plan, but their recruitment period hadn't even closed yet.

In the end, the only crew that could even be called competition was Pocotin, which had been growing at a blistering pace lately — though as a three-person group, they lagged slightly in sheer scale.

It was as if the heavens themselves had paved a royal road for Decrescendo from day one.

And they weren't just big. Park Na-na and Baiyo ranked fourth and sixth respectively in the Candy Calculator site's October virtual streamer rankings. Elsa was projected to climb into the upper ranks starting next month — proof enough of Decrescendo's raw strength.

Hm? Park Na-na was fourth — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so who was above her?

Ah. First place was Yumeda, the Table Legend. She had pulled in 790,000 candies in under twenty days and become a genuine legend. But conflict with her company followed, and after causing a scene by leaking meeting minutes, she had gone into self-imposed hiatus.

Second was Ori-koong of the Pocotin crew. She had transferred relatively early, showing solid banter and a natural gift for variety gaming streams, steadily carving out her position.

Third was a little embarrassing — that would be me.

Checking the Candy Calculator site, I had received 340,000 candies over October. After platform fees and conversion, that was about twenty million won. And where exactly had all that money gone?

Concert costs, new equipment, avatar outfits, video editing, illustration commissions, monthly rent, vocal training fees… once I started listing them, there was no end.

Hah. At this rate, when was my luck ever going to turn around?

Fourth was Park Na-na at 320,000. Fifth was Hiyori at 290,000, and Baiyo sat at sixth with 280,000.

The rumors around this time were insane. People were calling Pangea TV's virtual scene a honey pot.

Plenty of virtual streamers on Rabbit TV had struggled just to make three million won a month. And simply switching platforms produced this kind of revenue jump?

The transfers still had their Rabbit TV connections, and through those friendships the information spread naturally. When your paycheck ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠doubles overnight, how are you supposed to sit still?

In fact, once those rumors hit the communities, the number of transfers only kept climbing.

This is really not going to be easy.

A crew this powerful appearing just one day after I founded V-Live…

The silver lining was that Decrescendo's dominance wouldn't last long. Before my regression, the crew had completely disintegrated the moment the new year hit.

No. Don't get complacent. Freeca's roster changed too. Always prepare for the worst-case scenario.

Beyond the wary glance I cast at my competitors, Decrescendo's debut was dazzling. Passionate fans were raining candy donations. The fan café membership count, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠displayed live on stream, was climbing at a terrifying speed. Word was they had even secured café moderators in advance.

They're on a different level. So this is what real experience looks like?

I still didn't even have an official manager.

To whip up a crew this formidable in just three days after the Wooga-dol audition ended…

But I had no intention of just sitting there intimidated.

Hey — I may not have money, but I've got pride for days.

First things first: hire an official manager. I already had enough on my plate without trying to moderate chat mid-stream.

I was thinking of hiring up to two managers, so for now I'd leave this notice pinned to the top of my channel page.

I just hoped capable, trustworthy people would apply.

"Ah, it's over."

The broadcast announcing Decrescendo's founding had ended, and each of them was transitioning into their individual streams. This was no time to sit around watching.

I hurried to get my own stream ready. I had a rare day off scheduled for this Friday, so if I wanted to keep the viewers happy, I needed to look sharp and on top of things.

"Seo-ha, Seo-ha! I started a little late today because of the crew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meeting. This is Seo-a, leader of the V-Live crew, formally saying hello!"

"Yep! First, let me drop the fan café link in chat. Everyone join and leave a membership greeting, okay? That's how you get ranked up."

We weren't about to lose this race.

I snuck a glance at my crewmates' streams — all of them were live and hard at work promoting the crew. Starting tomorrow, we'd stream on the schedule decided in the meeting, so there would be plenty to explain to the fans.

"We held the crew meeting on a private stream. So unless there's a collab or something special going on, I'm planning to lock in 5 PM to 11 PM as my fixed broadcast hours for a while."

I had moved past five-hour streams; six hours no longer felt like a real strain. Proof that my voice was getting tougher. Even so, the viewers still grumbled that my stream times were too short.

The chat had a point that almost sounded reasonable.

As someone who had watched streams for years, I knew exactly how today's big-corp streamers had grown. They had ground their bodies into dust, stretching their broadcast hours to the absolute limit until they made it.

The most famous example was Kim Hak-do, the streamer whose main content was League of Legends. His so-called Dopoleon Sleep Method involved catching micro-naps while waiting in queue, or resting with one eye closed — bizarre sleep techniques that let him rack up absurd stream hours. It had earned him big-corp-level popularity, but the side effects were very real.

"Excuse me, everyone. I've only been streaming for two months. I'm a complete beginner. What? You want me to overdo it this early and get vocal cord nodules — are you going to take responsibility for that? A virtual streamer's voice is their life. If it gets rough and gravelly here…"

Kim Hak-do's distinctly hoarse voice. And beyond him, before my regression I had seen countless virtual streamers ruin their voices by pushing too hard.

Absolutely no overdoing it.

A virtual streamer's greatest strength was, first, the voice; second, the voice; and third, the voice.

Don't get swept up in short-term gains and competition. Think coldly.

Once I talked myself down, the anxiety that had spiked at Decrescendo's formation settled.

Right. Rena World was only a month away, and plenty of opportunities would come after that. And through this altered future, I could forge my own path.

Yeah. For us, this is only the beginning.

The mischievous chat messages no longer registered. A bright smile, paired with a middle finger held stiffly upright.

A bright future was waiting for us.