First CK

Park Bong-sik was in a good mood. He'd just hosted a Mu-CK for the first time in a long while.

Ever since he'd broken free of the StarCraft scene, his popularity ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠among fans had been riding an absolute high. Viewers who'd grown exhausted by the long StarCraft monopoly had wanted purple content more than anything — but beyond that, they'd become golden retrievers who'd happily devour whatever he fed them.

Every broadcast came back with glowing reactions. As a streamer, he couldn't help but feel proud and overflowing with confidence.

So he'd decided to host a Mu-CK again after all this time.

The "CK" in question was a term borrowed from the LCK — Korea's domestic League of Legends league. It wasn't limited to LoL; whenever streamers ran competitive head-to-head content, they'd slap the host's nickname or moniker in front of it. If Jamst hosted one, it became Jam-CK. Wang-ko's was Ko-CK. And so on.

Park Bong-sik had once downed an entire cup of pickled radish broth in a collab with Baek-gu — a memorable little stunt that had stuck. From that day on, "Mu" (radish) became the epithet that defined him.

Still, "Mu-CK" just doesn't have that premium ring to it. Maybe I should start announcing it as MCK from now on?

Grumbling to himself, Park Bong-sik quietly logged into FM Community and scrolled through the popular posts.

He might have been the reigning top predator on Pangea TV, but he never skipped checking the community boards. The streaming scene was a structure that forced you to stay hypersensitive to the currents of public opinion. Even if you were running at the front of the pack, you couldn't afford to stop tracking the latest trends. Fall behind the zeitgeist, and you became a has-been overnight.

That was why he always had his managers report on the community's latest buzz and issues. But today, for some reason, he felt like seeing it with his own eyes.

So before going live, he carved out a few minutes to skim FM Community.

"Hmm? Virtual?"

The hot topics in the popular posts right now were MCK and virtual streamers.

Park Bong-sik had heard about virtual streamers more than a few times. A virtual idol group formed through an audition on Rabbit TV had become a massive talking point across the streaming scene, and recently even mid-tier veteran Ssa-yo had put together a project of his own. Yu Seona, someone he was fairly close with, was also reportedly moving to build a virtual crew.

Come to think of it, my manager mentioned it a few times. Said the number of virtual streamers has exploded lately.

At first, he'd dismissed it as a breeze not worth worrying about. But the wind kept picking up, and the intensity was starting to feel serious. It was about time he took some kind of action.

And headquarters already asked me for a favor, anyway.

Pangea TV's headquarters was dead serious about carving out a virtual pie on their own platform. They figured it was the best way to siphon off a significant chunk of Rabbit TV's growth engine. That was why they'd reached out to Park Bong-sik — asking him not to shut virtual streamers out of the mainstream entirely, and to show them at least a little consideration.

When he floated the topic around, it turned out he wasn't the only one who'd gotten that pitch. Every big-name corporate streamer had apparently been approached the same way.

No point getting on headquarters' bad side for nothing.

His partner streamer contract already guaranteed him substantial benefits. There was no force involved, so there was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no reason to get offended — a little quiet consideration wouldn't hurt anyone.

And in this climate, community opinion lined up perfectly with headquarters' position. People wanted to see big-name corporate streamers and virtual streamers doing something together. You could see it plain as day not just in FM Community's popular posts, but in the upvote rankings on the MCK application comments.

"Virtual streamer Seo-a? Is this person a big deal on the virtual side?"

Park Bong-sik tilted his head for a moment, then called for his manager. There wasn't much time left before the broadcast, but going in completely cold was worse than knowing at least something.

He locked Seo-a into one of the MCK slots. For him, it was just another ordinary day — nothing worth fretting over.

"Alright, jungle is locked in as me versus Seo-a. Next we need to pick the bot duo — Rim-ani, you there? Hey! Rim-ani, pick up Discord."

I'd been pretty sure of myself after locking in the overwhelming number-one upvote rank, but actually getting picked still hit different. The chat exploded in an instant.

Today's stream was chaotic from the jump. I hadn't baited anyone with notices or a flashy title, but viewers poured in harder than usual. A rookie might have panicked — I just adapted, calm as ever. I'd already seen this coming, more or less.

Ha! So this is the trickle-down from a big-name streamer? The exact trickle-down Lucy never once got to taste…

This was the situation I'd only ever read about in community posts before the regression. Virtual fans flooded in, of course — and so did a massive wave of Park Bong-sik's own viewers, drawn by that number-one upvote rank. I hadn't done a single extra thing, and the viewer count blasted past three thousand in no time. Candy donations were dropping in at a satisfying clip, too.

This is why virtual streamers go feral for trickle-down. Corporate streamers really do taste different.

If I performed well in today's MCK and locked myself in as a regular member, a total life turnaround was just one moment away. For a no-name streamer, this was an event you simply couldn't turn down.

But I already knew better.

Getting tied into a CK like this only lasts for that moment. Sure, it's a good opportunity. You gain recognition, and the trickle-down is solid. But what about when there's no CK? What about when someone more promising replaces you on the roster?

Building a stream that depended on someone else meant you'd inevitably end up subordinate to them. I'd learned that well enough watching the cases from before the regression. The virtual streamers who'd gotten tangled up with Park Bong-sik during Rena World — some had kept growing on pure individual skill even after it ended, but the vast majority had collapsed the second the trickle-down dried up.

In the end, trickle-down was a fleeting pleasure. It could quench your thirst for the moment, but you had to carve your own path. You couldn't keep clinging to it forever.

"Seo-a's Plat 4, so her tier's higher than mine — but you all know how it is, right? Pangea TV tiers are a different beast. Solo queue tiers don't mean much when it's not a team game. I'll educate her real good."

Park Bong-sik finished locking in the teams with absolute swagger.

Aside from the still-unknown jungle matchup, these were members whose balance had been proven through countless CKs. Kkul-tem — a former pro gamer and analyst capable of main shotcalling — held a slight edge, but the opposing team's ADC Dan Woo-ri was rated a bit higher, so it evened out without much issue.

"Rim-ani's setting up the Duel. Keeping it light today, nice and light. Just bring your entry fees, everyone."

"Duel" was the casual name for the Duel Mission feature Pangea TV had rolled out in July — a system where streamers formed teams, ran competitive content, and split the donated Candy according to the results. Set a 7:3 ratio, for instance, and the winning team's streamers would split seventy percent of the total Candy donated while the losing team took thirty.

"Bong-sik~ what's the ratio?"

"Hey! Ten-zero, no question. You wanna split it all stingy? Winner takes all, that's how the world works."

"Okay, okay. Why are you getting so mad. Always with the temper."

"What? Ha! Rim-ani, you're dead today. I'm camping bot lane the entire game."

True to their usual warm relationship, the two of them were already deep in a fierce war of nerves before the game had even started. A moment later, a system message from Rim-ani asking about the Duel Mission popped up, and I cheerfully hit accept.

The Duel Mission. This was the absurdly efficient revenue model Pangea TV had put front and center. Users on other platforms saw it and piled on the criticism — "grotesque," "money-crazed," and so on. But dig into the details and you could see how carefully the system had been engineered.

It tallied the funding amounts from every streamer participating in the CK in real time and packaged it all into one clean, rectangular Duel Mission window. Then it ranked the top donors from first to tenth. How brilliantly designed was a system that stoked people's desire and competitive instincts like that?

Fans who genuinely loved their home streamer had no choice but to open their wallets just to avoid last place, while big spenders bloated with vanity dumped massive Candy donations in front of famous streamers and tens of thousands of viewers, showing off for the crowd.

Personally, I didn't think poorly of the Duel Mission system. As I always said — tools aren't the problem. The problem is always the user.

Anything becomes a problem when you overdo it. Stay within reasonable bounds and there's nothing wrong ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with it. For streamers who don't have a natural talent for collecting money, this system gives them a decent pretext.

At the end of the day, a stream only continues if the streamer can make a living. As long as you didn't cross the line, there was no reason to shy away from a new revenue model like this. Before Duel Mission even existed, people had already been running similar funding schemes with notepads and the like — there just hadn't been a systematic framework for it.

"Hey! Who's slandering me in the sacred halls of the Duel Mission."

The time for proof had arrived.