I May Be a Virtual Youtuber, but I Still Go to Work-Chapter 188

What makes a fighting game truly fun?

There are a lot of possible answers—but maybe it’s the satisfaction of landing a clean hit, pulling off a flashy air combo, and absolutely demolishing your opponent in a dominant win.

Or the thrill of blocking and parrying just right in a desperate situation, launching a perfect counterattack, and flipping the entire match on its head.

Or the rush of picking an unpopular character and mindgaming your opponent with totally unfamiliar moves they’ve never seen before.

Yeah—there are a lot of things that make it fun.

But no matter how much you talk about all that, the truth is: if you can’t win, you don’t get to feel any of it.

So what happens to the losers?

Except for the rare few who survive on pure grit and stubbornness, most people just quit.

Fighting games are already tough as hell—there’s so much to memorize just to play a single character.

Combos, inputs, frame data... it's a mountain of mechanics.

And just when you think you’ve got a handle on things, some guy hits you with “Don’t know this move? Then just eat it,” using tech you’ve never even heard of.

Now, Soul Clash’s latest entry did add “Simple Controls” so newcomers could do full combos with just one button.

No special inputs required.

But still, new players come in after watching the flashy graphics and story trailers... and leave just as fast.

Even with easy controls, there’s way too much you still need to know to actually win.

And then there’s the real killer: high-ranked players on alternate accounts who slaughter low-level lobbies.

No matter how much the devs talk about cracking down on alt accounts, it’s basically impossible to catch all of them.

From what it feels like, at least half of new players end up getting stomped by veterans smurfing from a much higher skill tier—and that’s enough to make most people quit.

And sure, you’d think if a top player goes easy on a newbie, they won’t notice, right?

Wrong. Even new players can tell: “This guy doesn’t belong here.”

That’s why Wanggu—a Soul Clash streamer and pro player, and runner-up at last year’s world championship—was looking pretty sour as he sat down with Mugeon again for the first time in a while.

“You seeing this, man? The concurrent player graph. No newbies coming in.”

“Only three months after launch? That’s brutal.”

“It’s because they half-assed the alt account crackdown.”

“Every game’s got smurfing issues, but fighting games definitely make it hurt more.” ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Naturally, the conversation turned toward the game’s director—complete with a few well-deserved curses.

It’s not just a one-time thing. Soul Arena, Soul Beast, and now Soul Clash—every entry’s been plagued by smurf abuse. It’s no wonder the community’s fed up.

“They needed to come down way harder. But nooo, Kuraya just talks like he’s gonna do something. All that crap about a ‘structured ELO system’—I’ve been coaching players and seeing ranked firsthand, and I swear, two-thirds of the lobby are alts. Ugh.”

“Yikes.”

Still, there was a massive influx of new players at launch—thanks in no small part to the ending song by Kiri and the polished story.

Even Mugeon had to admit it.

“Honestly, the only reason anyone’s still playing is because of how much it blew up at first. You should be thanking Kiri, man.”

“Yeah, fair. But Kuraya blew all that hype with crap management.”

For a streamer focused on a single title, a game’s success is their livelihood.

So Wanggu was taking it seriously.

“Why not just go back to Battle Call, then?”

“I mean... I envy you, but some bugs only eat the leaves they’re born for...”

“True. You’ve got good hands, but you can’t shoot worth a damn.”

“Ugh... I need to figure out how to draw in more players. Gotta survive, after all...”

His sigh got heavier.

Wanggu was clearly stressed—but Mugeon tried to offer a little hope.

“You’ve got the November tournament coming up, right? You’re pretty popular as a coach.”

“Yeah, I’ve been prepping for it.”

Big-name games usually hold events during vacation or holiday seasons.

But smaller games? They pick off-peak times.

Soul Clash hosts tournaments in May and November. And with November a month away, announcements for bracket size and participants would start dropping soon.

This is the season when pro players, unless they’re competing themselves, get recruited as coaches by streamers entering the tournament.

Depending on who you get paired with—and how far that player goes—your name as a coach can rise or fall fast.

So just like students want great coaches...

Coaches want promising students.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Maybe someone who’s never been taken seriously before suddenly breaks out under your guidance.

Or maybe you spot a diamond in the rough and take them all the way to a win.

That’s how you grow your reputation—and your view count.

And Wanggu was already ahead of the curve.

Six months ago, he coached Dora from Parallel, who didn’t even know the basics of Soul Clash.

Under his guidance, she made it to the semifinals. That single coaching session still had people requesting lessons to this day.

“Don’t know who I’ll be teaching this time, but I’m going for the win. Gotta toughen up. Can’t keep hearing I don’t live up to my size.”

“Yeah, right. You say that, but once training starts, you’ll go all soft again. Be like me—throw some harsh words around and get things moving.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got the frame to pull it off. God, screw you. Stop flexing and leave already.”

“Hey now. You bragging about your arm length again?”

Just as Wanggu swung his long arm to shove Mugeon away from the opposite side of the table—

Bzzt.

His phone buzzed on the table.

[Incoming Call: Assistant Manager Magia]

Mugeon read the name on the screen and instantly snatched the phone, eyes wide.

“What the hell? How do you have her number?”

“What do you mean how? She reached out to me during the last tournament prep with Parallel.”

“Magia reached out to you first?”

“She’s a manager—of course she contacts coaches. What’s with you, man?”

What Wanggu didn’t know was that Mugeon was a Slug.

He didn’t realize that Mugeon, a longtime acquaintance, had quietly become a diehard Magia fan.

Anyway, Wanggu slapped his long arm over and snatched the phone back, successfully answering the call.

“Yes, Assistant Manager! Long time no speak. How’ve you been?”

[Hello, Coach Wanggu. Have you been well?]

“Doing great—can’t complain with a body like this. I really appreciate you inviting me as a coach last time. Parallel’s success really helped me out.”

[No need to thank me. We’re the ones who were grateful you accepted.]

“So! What brings you to me today?”

[You really are quick to get to the point—one of your best traits.]

“Ha ha, sorry. I can be a little impatient.”

[I was wondering if I could ask you to coach Soul Clash again. Do you happen to have time this week or next?]

The moment she said it, Wanggu lit up.

“Coaching? Absolutely, anytime. Who would I be training this time?”

[Me.]

“Huh? You?”

[It’s not for any tournament or anything. I just want to improve personally. If your schedule doesn’t allow it, feel free to decline.]

Not a desperate plea.

She made it clear: if he said no, she’d just go with someone else.

Meaning—every top-level coach in the community would welcome this gig.

If Wanggu said he was too busy, that golden opportunity would go to another player or streamer.

He’d be kicking away a free gift from the gods.

Why?

Unlike other VTubers, Magia holds exceptional value as a floating pick.

The wandering specters of the internet—Pazijik’s transient viewers—usually don’t stick to one base. They drift from stream to stream, chasing whatever catches their interest.

But ever since Magia’s insane performance in the MCN showdown hosted by Mugeon back in June, things changed.

When Magia starts a stream, they at least check in before deciding to leave. If nothing else seems interesting that day, they’ll default to her stream. That’s become the pattern.

Roughly 5,000 of those roamers now stop by consistently.

If even a fraction of them settle down in Wanggu’s stream, his entire viewer base could shoot up dramatically.

“No way I’m turning this down. I don’t have any lessons scheduled right now anyway. I’m totally available—just tell me when.”

[Would the day after tomorrow work for you?]

He’d been planning a casual offline match with some fellow fighting game players that day, but that could be canceled.

Is a casual set more important than Magia?

“Of course it works!”

[Then how about 2 PM this Wednesday? If we can’t finish in one session, we could go from 2 to 6 and stretch the lessons out over a few days.]

“A few days? Sounds amazing to me! I’ll just clear my entire schedule this week.”

[Thank you for being so generous. I’ll message you via TalkCord about ten minutes before we start.]

“Yes, absolutely! I’ll be waiting! Thank you so much!”

As soon as the call ended, Wanggu let out a satisfied chuckle.

He’d already been laying the groundwork for the upcoming November tournament, uploading character guides, lessons, and tips on YouTube.

He wasn’t sure how much more he needed to upload, but then—this.

It was like a cultivation novel—a legendary elixir dropping from the sky and landing straight into Wanggu’s hands.

Of course, Mugeon, sitting beside him, didn’t look so thrilled.

“You happy?”

“Obviously. I just got a job.”

“A job? Magia asked you to coach her?”

“Yeah. Said she wants to improve her personal skills.”

Mugeon’s eyes widened.

“What? Why? Is she planning to enter the November tournament or something?”

“She said it’s for personal reasons. I don’t really know the details. She called, I answered.”

“Tch...”

Mugeon stared hard at Wanggu, then said, “Be careful. If you act all buddy-buddy with Magia, it could blow up in your face.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“There’s a fan group called Slug Squad that follows her around. They’re rabid, man. The second they think some male streamer is hitting on her, it’s chaos.”

“Really? It wasn’t that bad when I was coaching the first-gen girls.”

“Yeah, because back then it was a group. This time it’s just you and her. One-on-one. Do you have any idea what I went through when I was coaching Momo on Battle Call?”

For reference, back then, Magia would send Mugeon emails every single time he streamed with Momo. The messages always said the same thing:

“Stop acting chummy with Momo, you bald freak.”

She filled the email to its storage limit with that line. Reading that at night? Kinda terrifying. Especially because Mugeon’s grandfather had been bald. The damage was personal.

“Just be careful. Don’t take Magia lightly.”

“Really? She always struck me as super polite when we talked. Maybe it’s just you. If you hadn’t acted like a fool on stream—”

“Did you seriously just say that to your bro?”

Wanggu had no idea why Mugeon was so mad, but—

He got an answer in the form of a very pointed jab to his collarbone.

“Agh—ow! Ow!”

***

When she coached Dora in the past, Wanggu had been an incredibly solid teacher.

So Magia had been mentally prepared for the possibility that her sudden request might not work out.

But the fact that he accepted made her genuinely happy.

If she could learn properly this time, she might actually get the edge she needed at Kiri’s gathering—and turn it into a real opportunity.

Of course, since it was an external event, reporting it to her boss was a must.

But when she told Dohee about the plan for the day after tomorrow, the CEO gave her a look.

“So... you’re doing a one-on-one lesson? As a guest?”

“Yeah. Coach Wanggu said he’d teach me.”

“You know that VTubers doing one-on-one collabs with male streamers doesn’t sit well with viewers, right? You hated that yourself.”

“I know. ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) But he’s just a coach.”

“What did you say again when Mugeon was coaching me on Battle Call?”

“I didn’t type anything in chat, but... I did wish he’d drop dead.”

“Exactly. That’s how it starts. You just end up with more crazed fans going dark. And this isn’t even your stream—you’re the guest.”

“Well, I’m not a VTuber to begin with.”

“Even if you say that, there are still tons of people who treat you like one just because you whine about being a normal office worker.”

Magia was well aware.

Unless it’s a major server event or an important tournament, if a collab has more than 50% male streamers, it triggers a wave of unhinged unicorns.

She’d lived under Momo’s turret long enough—and spent years managing from behind the scenes—not to know that.

But Magia didn’t care.

Whether people wanted to see her as a VTuber or not, she was just an office worker with a side hustle as an utaite.

“It’ll be fine. Maybe this is a good time for Slugs to get a wake-up call.”

“A wake-up call for what?”

This upcoming stream was an opportunity for Magia.

To shake the illusion that had formed around her because of how much she’d appeared in Parallel content.

To give fans a little nudge, help them redirect their attention toward more stable investments.

“To realize that the oshi they chose... isn’t a VTuber at all, just a regular person.”