I May Be a Virtual Youtuber, but I Still Go to Work

Most game sponsorships follow a general guideline.
Anything beyond that is usually left to the streamer’s discretion.
Think of it like a restaurant. Even if two places serve food at the same price, the number and variety of side dishes can vary.
If they give you a lot, you’re grateful.
If it’s just a little, you don’t really complain.
Same with sponsors—as long as the ad isn’t blatantly lazy, they don’t mind.
But Magia’s ad?

She barely had any time to prepare, yet it was packed.
Her concurrent viewership during the ad stream peaked at nearly 30,000.
The client had rushed the schedule and didn’t expect much—they just said, “Please play the game.”
They never imagined she’d pull in that kind of attention and absolutely crush the promotion.

It wasn’t even a AAA title.
Just a cozy indie game about managing a pizza shop.
And she hit 30k?
That was unprecedented.
The head of the small studio behind Pizza Dream showed up at the Parallel office the next morning with gifts.
CEO Do-hee received them on Magia’s behalf and handed them over.
The gift?
Five mobile coupons for pineapple pizza from a well-known brand.

Looking delighted, Magia saved the image files and asked:
“Why the sudden pineapple pizza coupons?”
“The sponsor from Pizza Dream wanted to thank you.”

Do-hee also passed along a long message from the advertiser.
To summarize:
They were seeing a great response thanks to the stream.
It was incredibly fun to watch.
They finally understood why everyone was always going on about “Magia this, Magia that.”
They also wanted to contribute further by donating to the upcoming NeoCal RP server.
They wished the server success.
And they said they’d be cheering for her future streams.

“The sponsor said they’ve never seen anyone advertise their game like that before.”
“Oh? And they’re even supporting the server too?”
“Well, you had that much impact. Even I was a bit impressed, honestly. You didn’t have much time, but you still managed to pull that whole plot together.”

Magia gave a small smirk and said:
“About half of it was improv. I originally only meant to show the ‘I hate pineapple pizza’ bit… But then I realized that wouldn’t be a very good ad.”
“Right. It’d be hard to present the game in a positive light like that.”
“So I thought: How can I break away from the ‘pizza hater’ RP and shift the tone? And that was the best I could come up with.”

Do-hee snorted.
“So you turned our shared memory into a complete lie, huh?”
To be fair, part of what Magia had said the day before was true.

During the early days of Parallel, when they were pulling all-nighters at Do-hee’s place, they once ordered pizza—and there was a small argument because Magia ordered pineapple.
“Okay, it wasn’t all fake. But it wasn’t pure truth either. You scolded me for ordering pineapple that night, remember?”
Do-hee frowned.

“When did I ever?”
“You said, ‘Can you not even get pizza right?’ or something like that.”
“I said that…?”

Magia muttered in a flat voice.
“I lied.”
“Hey!”

“You’re the best, boss. Always appreciate how you go along with the bit.”
“Don’t thank me for that, ugh.”
Do-hee sighed, leaning back at her desk.
She idly flipped through some papers, then asked:

“So? What’d you think of the ad? I asked you after the Coral Blue one too. How was this one?”
“It was… manageable. Definitely easier than making content from scratch with nothing to go on.”
“Yeah?”

“And it’s paid, right? So the pressure’s real—but it’s a good kind of pressure.”
Truthfully, Magia had other concerns.
“I just wonder if people are putting too much faith in me. What if I mess it up?”

Do-hee chuckled and patted the top of her head.
“All ads carry the risk of failure. Sometimes, they don’t even expect it to succeed.”
“Then isn’t that just burning money?”

“Sort of. Ad budgets get spread around to multiple creators, and they hope one of them pops off. There’s not really an expectation like, ‘This person will absolutely deliver.’”
“I see…”
“You’re a little different. When I talked to the sponsors, I got the sense they were making a small gamble. That you had a better shot than most.”

With Coral Blue, they were still unsure.
Maybe her voice acting skills were just a fluke.
But Pizza Dream was something else entirely.
The build-up.
The payoff.
The timing.
It was clear this was someone who knew how to draw people in and leave a lasting impression.

Sponsors would keep coming back.
And if ad requests kept piling up, Do-hee couldn’t handpick every one.
At some point, it would make more sense to let Magia decide for herself.

“So… What do you want to do for the next one? This time, you pick.”
“You’re not picking for me?”
“I picked the first two to get you warmed up. But you nailed both of them. No need for me to keep doing it. Just choose the ones you’re most interested in—that’s how this should work anyway.”

“Hmm. Yeah, that’s fair.”
This translation is the intellectual property of .
In the end, the higher you rise in the ad world, the more the celebrity holds the power—not the advertiser.

There are plenty of celebrities who’ll flat-out reject ads if they think it doesn’t fit their image, no matter how much money is on the table.
Because they get so many offers.
Magia, too—if ads keep rolling in, she could just start picking the ones she wants or the ones that pay best.
And that’d be totally fine.
But… has Magia ever rejected a task just because she didn’t like it?

If she were the type of VTuber obsessed with image, maybe.
But what really matters to Magia right now?
Money.
Money to keep Parallel sailing smoothly.

“Would it be okay if I just took all the ad offers?” she asked.
“…Are you trying to run ad streams every day for a week? You wouldn’t even last two weeks at that rate.”
“You said there were a ton of pending ads, didn’t you?”

“Well, when I say a ton, I mean maybe ten. Still, if you knock all those out, you’ll definitely rake in a lot.”
“Oh, then I’ll do them all. Ten’s easy.”
Magia’s current ad rate isn’t [N O V E L I G H T] exactly low.
And when requests pile on, the price goes up with them.
If she handles ten ads, she’s looking at a seven-figure payout.

But if all she does is run ads, the optics won’t be great.
Do-hee voiced her concern.
“Look, I know most people are fine with whatever you do. But still… shouldn’t you at least try to engage a little with your personal channel viewers? If you just run ad streams every day, people will start saying you’ve gone money-crazy.”

“My streaming is how I engage with them.”
“…That’s true, but…”
Magia gave a little chuckle and said:

“Then I’ll just say the money-hungry attitude is part of the RP. The Slugs were the ones who started calling me a ‘VTuber who roleplays as a staff member,’ so why not embrace it?”
Do-hee was briefly stunned.
But… it wasn’t wrong.

It’s the Slugs who keep forcing the VTuber image on Magia, despite her not wanting to debut in that role.
Even now, whenever someone posts online,
“Wait, so is this person a staff member or a VTuber?”
the Slugs come flooding in, like an organized surveillance network, responding in unison: “VTuber.”
So these days, most newcomers assume she’s a VTuber.
She has a Live2D model, she can transform, she has a 3D version—just by appearances, she fits the role completely.

“What if we did this instead?” Magia suggested.
“Did what?”
“Well, we’re already gearing up to accept more sponsors for the NeoCal server, right? Even though Pazijik invested a lot, the project keeps expanding, and we keep needing more funds.”

“Yeah, I was planning to make that announcement at the end of tomorrow’s promo stream.”
“Then what if we only accepted ads from sponsors who are willing to support the NeoCal server? Sure, it’s a little money-grubby, but wouldn’t people still treat it like RP?”
“Hmm.”

“Is it because you’re worried about backlash?”
“…Yeah, a little.”
“But we’re giving sponsors the opportunity to support a project I’m helping lead and promote their brand or product. I think that’s appealing enough.”

There was a risk of looking bad if they started cherry-picking sponsors.
But if the presentation was done right, it could work.
Do-hee rubbed her chin thoughtfully.
“Earlier, you said you didn’t know why sponsors believed in you.”

“Well, now they do—because you backed me.”
“God, whatever. Anyway, what you’re saying… it’s not totally unworkable.”
“Really?”

“I mean, yeah, on the surface it looks kind of bad. Like you’re only taking ads from people who give you money. But there’s a workaround.”
Here was Do-hee’s idea:
Parallel doesn’t assign ads on an individual basis.
Instead, they receive the offer as a company, then Do-hee distributes it to the most suitable members and finalizes the rates case by case.

So while advertisers can say who they’d prefer, they’re told upfront that it might not happen.
So, at the moment of the ad request, they’d say:
“Oh, by the way, we’re launching the NeoCal server soon—would you be interested in sponsoring it? There could be opportunities to promote your product in the server.”

If the advertiser agrees to that plan, then the ad gets passed to Magia.
“If people start seeing the brands you promoted also showing up inside the NeoCal server, they’ll put two and two together. ‘Oh, Magia only took ads from people who supported her server.’”
“Ahh.”

“And the advertisers won’t care. They’ll just think, ‘Well, she’s the spokesperson for the NeoCal server, so of course she’s the one doing the ads.’”
Advertisers would figure it out eventually.
Sponsor the server = get Magia to do the ad.
But that wasn’t a bad thing.
The NeoCal server project was designed to expand the whole pie for Pazijik.
The more sponsors jumped on board, the bigger the marketing splash.

“Whoa, even that company got involved?”
That kind of buzz spreads fast.
And if NeoCal becomes a massive hit,
Parallel as a whole would level up again.
“…You’re really okay with people calling you a money-chaser?” Do-hee asked.

Magia shrugged.
“I’ve never not been one.”