“Aaand there they go…” I whispered in the dark dungeon, my eyes fixed on my phone screen.
The livestream of the dungeon, captured through my phone’s camera, was playing on the popular video site.
“Never fails to get me down…”
The number 0 was displayed above the live chat.
It was the number of viewers watching my stream…
It might be obvious, but it meant not a single person was watching my ‘dungeon stream’.
“That guy just up and left…”
One person had been watching my stream until just a little while ago.
They had even kindly commented despite never watching my stream before.
I had tried my best to keep them engaged, holding my phone in one hand while wielding my sword in the other, taking down monsters. But the moment I took my eyes off the chat for a brief moment because I was engrossed in the fight, they just disappeared.
“Wonder what I was doing wrong…”
I stared at the chat, where only comments from that person were displayed.
I thought I was doing pretty well. Why did that person leave the stream?
Was it simply just because my responses to their comments were boring?
…If that was the case, it was okay. I could work on it.
But if they had left because the stream blurred so much, there was nothing I could do about it.
I mean, I was a solo dungeon streamer without a cameraman.
In other words, I had to fight and stream at the same time, so of course the stream would blur.
“Wish I had a cameraman…”
The thought occurred to me so many times, but as a regular high schooler, I didn’t have the money to hire one.
The pay of dungeon streamer cameramen, responsible for following dungeon streamers into dangerous dungeons and filming their battles, typically ranged between 500,000 yen to 1,000,000 yen a month.
…Naturally, as a regular high school student, I couldn’t afford that kind of money.
Unable to hire a cameraman like popular dungeon streamers did, I had no choice but to do my best to stream while fighting by myself.
“Am I just not cut out for it…?”
Dungeon streamers showcased real-time video of them defeating monsters, avoiding traps, and risking their lives to conquer dungeons.
Without minding the dangers, every day they dived into dungeons, delivering thrilling entertainment to viewers. I really admired them, which was why I started my career as a dungeon streamer about two years ago.
I then came to notice that I had a talent, not as a dungeon streamer, but as a dungeon explorer.
I had plenty of confidence when it came to fighting monsters.
In all of Japan, it was unlikely you’d find a second-year high school student like me who could solo dive into the Lower Floors of dungeons where dangerous high-rank monsters were rampant.
Even adult veteran explorers generally formed parties for such endeavors.
Considering these facts, my combat skills should have made me stand out among explorers my age.
But on the other hand, I seemed to have no talent as a dungeon streamer.
I wasn’t really sure what I lacked.
But the fact that I had been a dungeon streamer for two years and only had an average viewership of less than 1 viewer was the best proof that I had no talent as a dungeon streamer.
Until today, most of my streams had just been me talking into the void, addressing the chat filled with no one.
I kept telling myself that if I persisted, I would eventually grow.
But with two years having passed without any progress, I felt like I was approaching my limit.
Speaking to yourself in front of a camera with no viewers and no comments was an unbearable pain.
My heart was already cracking, on the verge of breaking into pieces.
“Maybe it’s time to accept it…”
I was talentless.
My dream of becoming a dungeon streamer, going viral, growing into a big streamer with tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of viewers, and making a living solely from streaming; maybe it was time I give up on it and focus focused on studying or club activities like other high schoolers.
As I contemplated this, something happened.
“Oh…!”
The viewer count went from 0 to 1.
Could it be the person from before?
Or was it a new viewer?
Excitement bubbled within me as I eagerly waited for movement in the chat.
[Yo, Takuya. I came by to see how you’re doing.]
“Tch… so it’s just you.”
I clicked my tongue the moment I read the comment.
Even though it was on the internet, he just casually dropped my real name like it was the most natural thing to do.
There was only one guy who’d do something like this.
“Yusuke, quit calling me by my real name on the internet.”
Kazama Yusuke.
My classmate and childhood friend.
Taking advantage of my lack of viewers, he’d often show up on my stream and chat with me like we were hanging out.
[Isn’t it okay? No one’s watching your stream, anyway.]
“Gh… S-someone was watching just now…”
[Ah, the guy who commented before me… bet he left in no time.]
“T-they were watching for, like, 30 minutes.”
[Did they subscribe to you?]
“…No, I don’t think so. My subscriber count hasn’t gone up.”
[Figured as much.]
“Gh…”
I shot an annoyed glance at my stagnant single-digit subscriber count, which hadn’t changed for a month.
[Well, be glad. I’m free until dinner, so I’ll be watching you. Go beat those monsters’ ass. You on the Lower Floors now?]
“Shut up, just leave.”
I snapped back at him, irritated by his patronizing tone, and then ended the stream.
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…Has this poor bastard not done ANY kind of advertisement for his stream?
Did he just start streaming from his phone and figured things would go well!?!?
Man no wonder he has no followers, even before we go into trying to follow a shaky phone cam view of literal fights. His streams probably are in fact absolute garbage simply because you can’t see anything worth mentioning!!
But even with that, if he had posted on a social media site about his adventures, like a synopsis of his stream, alongside complaining about not having a proper cameraman or even a buddy to follow him to make things better, SOMEONE would have followed through JUST TO PROVE HIM WRONG and it would have given him a big break.
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