Manager (2)

Mirua.

It would not be an exaggeration to call her the most famous female streamer on Twitch. You didn't even need a write-up—the numbers alone were enough.

Five hundred and fifty thousand Twitch followers. Nine hundred and forty thousand YouTube subscribers.

In short, an irrefutable mega-corp success story, whether you looked at her lives or her channel. Even if you weren't one of her viewers, if you had even a passing interest in internet broadcasting, there was simply no way you wouldn't know her name.

Only then did I understand why Lucia could talk with that kind of confidence. And I had no choice but to concede the point. If you'd been the editor for a mega-corp streamer, you were obviously a tighter industry professional than most people wandering around out here.

If she'd been the editor for someone on Mirua's level, she must have been making serious money. Still—the fact that someone that impressive was taking an interest in my stream sent hope rising ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠through me all over again.

A heavy, point-blank shot straight to the solar plexus.

Ugh. She was attacking me again! She definitely hated me!

Except Lucia's authority was far too immense for that thought to stick. So I decided to believe there was a reason she was doing this, and just let it go.

It hurt. The facts hurt so much.

Ninety-nine percent and one percent.

The top one percent of streamers satisfied ninety-nine percent of the viewers. Meanwhile, the remaining ninety-nine percent of streamers down at the bottom clawed and scrambled to scrape together that last one percent of the audience.

My stream had a single viewer. The ranked streamers had thousands—tens of thousands—of people watching them. Of course I couldn't complain that the structure was unfair. In the end, they had all pushed through the same moment I was living now and become that top one percent.

The greatest feature of internet broadcasting was real-time, two-way conversation. But as the viewer count climbed and a stream scaled up, that feature faded—because a streamer simply could not pour their attention into any single person. No matter how much you leaned on donations or subscriptions, the spotlight never came back to you alone.

A small stream was different. With few viewers—or even just one—genuine conversation was still possible.

Compared to the first type, the second was a minority. There simply weren't that many people who actually had the ability to grow a stream. But the ones who carried that kind of hunger cherished the broadcast and the streamer more than anyone.

Most of them helped as managers. Others drew art, or edited videos, and in that way pushed the stream forward. Lucia herself, I realized, belonged in that category.

Darkening. Turrets. The "she's mine" crowd.

In small-stream culture, they all meant roughly the same thing. In a word: existing viewers who resented the broadcast getting bigger.

Why? The reason was simple. The streamer they alone had watched, talked to, and loved became everyone's—and that feeling spread into a paranoid sense that something of theirs was being stolen. Whatever was going on in their hearts, for a streamer who wanted the broadcast to grow, they were an extremely troublesome presence.

The best method was to nip it in the bud so those viewers never flowed in to begin with.

Listening to this lecture, I lost all track of time, staring blankly at my phone. I didn't even notice it had become lunch.

"…I should eat lunch."

Growl.

Thankfully, my stomach alarm made the hunger register, and I closed the chat window for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a moment. What should today's menu be? I drifted into the delivery app on instinct and sank into the eternal question of what to eat.

Should I just go with the classic and order fried chicken?

But explosive growth?

I thought about it while side-eyeing the message that had popped up above. What did it mean that the goal was explosive growth? Was that even possible just because you decided to aim for it?

I ordered the chicken and went back to the chat window.

I understood what she was saying. But was that really possible? To grow that much in a single burst, you'd need talent for streaming, just like Lucia said. And luck would have to be on your side, too.

She was just picking me up and dropping me, over and over. At this point she was clearly doing it on purpose and enjoying every second!

But I decided to quietly endure it and let it pass. The harsh things I'd said earlier… that had only been a mistake I'd made because I got too worked up. And when you actually translated it into Korean, it wasn't even that bad of a swear. Yeah.

That much was true. But the Status Window had put a time limit on me. I had to start streaming within an hour.

Of course, I'd also gone live today—the day after I started—without preparing a single thing, so that was just an excuse.

I see…

It was true I'd gotten complacent. I never used a microphone in daily life, so I'd just figured a headset mic would be fine. That had been a mistake.

I didn't feel any particular resistance to that. I'd been a genuine weeb who loved watching anime to begin with.

The more I listened, the more I realized internet broadcasting wasn't easy either.

It was true that if you didn't know my real name, the nickname Snowflake might feel a little random. Japanese, huh.

It felt like I'd been sent back to elementary school, dutifully copying the supply list into my homework planner.

Wouldn't "teacher" suit Lucia better than "manager"?