Virtual YouTubers (VTubers).
They were a virtual internet idol culture envisioned in the distant future—a concept revolving around a worldview built upon the fictional settings of idols born (?) in a mysterious virtual world.
Even though fans were fully aware that these idols didn’t exist in reality, they shared intense emotional interactions with them through real-time streaming.
I wanted to take that concept and use it in my work.
Of course, I couldn’t adopt the idea directly.
“Besides, that video streaming platform that’s the root of the term ‘Tuber’ only launched last year. It’s still a novel concept…”
And there were two huge obstacles.
First obstacle: lack of technology.
Second obstacle: it was too advanced a concept.
To begin with, the technology was severely underdeveloped.
This was the twilight of a romantic era 2006. Teachers in regular schools still carried disciplinary rods, and smartphones were in their earliest versions. I
nternet broadcasting required connecting with ancient, grainy cameras that were essentially fossils.
In short, the hardware environment was incredibly inadequate.
On top of that, software technology was insufficient. Motion-tracking technology, which could animate 2D character illustrations in sync with a user’s movements, didn’t exist. Real-time animation reflection? It was a sophisticated, distant dream.
“Maybe some IT startups are researching that sort of thing, but… there’s no way I can get my hands on it to use.”
Then there was the lack of societal understanding.
The mainstream otaku culture itself hadn’t fully emerged yet. Moreover, internet broadcasting was widely perceived as a low-class culture, borderline associated with crime. In such a setting, introducing the concept of VTubers—merging those two ideas—would only confuse people.
“It’s not the right time to use virtual characters in internet broadcasts. A more primitive approach is necessary for now.”
That’s why I decided to borrow a concept one step below VTubers: role-playing.
This was the stage where the speaker performs as a fictional persona. It could be seen as a precursor to the full-fledged VTuber concept.
“After all, this concept has already been explored through virtual characters and attempted by modern artists. With the right examples, people can understand it more easily.”
What I wanted to do was perform as a fictional character in person and interact with the audience through situational theater. Essentially, it was becoming a virtual girl and communicating through the digital veil.
Even this idea had many technological limitations.
But at least it wasn’t entirely impossible.
I explained these concepts as “a role-playing game invented by someone on the internet.” I didn’t claim it as 100% my original idea, as it would’ve felt dishonest.
“This is the general idea. I want to frame this attempt as ‘virtual persona role-playing.’”
“…”
“…”
“…”
By the time I finished explaining, Juri, Mija, and Mari, who had returned at some point, were deep in thought.
Juri, who had extensive knowledge of role-playing, was the first to speak.
“I get what you mean. What you’re trying to do is like an improvisational play where you immerse yourself in a role and interact with the audience. It feels closer to acting rather than visual art.”
At Juri’s comment, Mija exclaimed in surprise.
“Y-You mean… performing a fictional persona… outside of a filming set?”
“Exactly. Some method actors stay in character to maintain their emotional lines.
They deliberately practice self-suggestion to keep the persona alive—binging, overdrinking, or maintaining distorted thoughts, for instance.
It’s their own routine to keep a fictional character alive inside them. They practically live as that character during a film’s production.”
“Th-that’s kind of scary. It’s like being possessed by something. And acting differently from your true self…”
“It’s not always better to reveal your true personality.
There’s a sort of unspoken agreement in stand-up comedy shows too. People know, ‘The rude things said on stage are just part of the act, not genuine.’
That understanding lets them enjoy it. Even when extreme insults are thrown around, people laugh it off because they don’t take it seriously.
And there’s a certain thrill that comes from such exaggerated fictional performances.”
“W-wow… That’s… tough.”
Juri’s eyes sparkled as she looked at me.
“So what you’re trying to do isn’t directly revealing yourself in a role. It’s more like improvised dubbing or a stand-up comedy show, right? You’d use a cartoon character to represent the fictional persona and interact with the audience through that.”
“…”
Wow.
I had explained it in detail, but I didn’t expect her to grasp it this quickly.
‘Is it because she has an exceptional understanding of virtual interactions? Former child actors are no joke. She’s grasping a concept that won’t become mainstream for another 20 years…’
I was beginning to understand why the pioneers of modern digital art often associated with actors and film directors. These people had a naturally low resistance to new ideas.
I nodded to Juri.
“Y-yeah… exactly.”
“Then you’ll need to start with basic voice training and figuring out the character concept, right? Oh, by the way, what kind of stage setup are you thinking about? Like, a street performance?”
“Well, since it’s an installation piece, I’m planning for indirect interaction through a monitor screen. The voice would probably be exchanged through a mic and speakers.”
“Wow! That’s so innovative! It sounds super fun! You’re even going to draw the audience into the improvisation, huh?”
Juri clapped her hands and laughed loudly.
For someone like Juri, who was steeped in contemporary media culture, my idea seemed fresh and exciting. She got even more enthusiastic and started giving me various suggestions, helping me fill in some gaps in my plan.
What surprised me, though, was Mija’s reaction. I expected her, of all people, to be more open to otaku culture. Instead, she seemed rather indifferent.
“Hmm, when you said digital work, I thought you were preparing a webtoon or illustrations. But suddenly, virtual interaction? Is it like internet broadcasting…?”
“Well, it’s kind of similar, but the broadcaster is a virtual character. Only the emotions being exchanged are real.”
“Hmm…”
Mija frowned and shook her head.
“That’s going to be tough…? I mean, even reading comics gets criticized by adults. Would they understand acting through a cartoon character? Professors and teachers will probably just go, ‘What is this?’”
“Maybe.”
“And as an otaku, I hate to admit it, but I still don’t fully get what you mean by ‘virtual persona.’ Even if someone acts like a voice actor would, will people really connect to it…?”
“Probably not.”
“Hana-chan, can’t you just stick to something safe? Or… how about working with me to draw a webtoon for submission? This feels way too avant-garde… I’d feel so bad if people criticized you for it.”
“…”
Let’s hear it.
Her words made my chest tighten with a pang of doubt.
“I know it’s a reckless attempt… but I thought a student exhibition would be a comfortable way to present my work.”
Even now, my solo exhibition continues at a gallery somewhere in Jongno. People visit to see the paintings of the “genius girl with exceptional talent,” and collectors buy my works at high prices.
The stardom the world expects of me also had an easy path: continuing the legacy of Go Hun while wearing the mask of Go Hana. That path was undoubtedly the safest.
“…..”
But.
But…
“I want to create works that I can make as the immature girl Go Hana, not the desperate artist Go Hun. I want to prove that I am someone who achieves something, not just a doll recreated to be loved.”
That was my truth.
That’s why I didn’t spend a single cent of the money I earned through art.
That’s why I took on this completely new challenge.
“…..”
I glanced at Mari one last time. She was fiddling with her eye patch, but when she noticed me, she smiled warmly. Then, in a voice full of understanding, she said,
“A second persona… like Salvador Dalí or Marcel Duchamp?”
“Yeah.”
Both artists had “performed” themselves, presenting their eccentric artist personas to the public. The idea of a fictional persona had already been explored in the history of art long ago.
Mari spoke calmly.
“So, are you doing this because it’s fun? Or because you want to escape something?”
“….”
“When you paint, you always seem happy. But this project… hmm, it feels like you’re a little scared.”
“….”
I knew the source of that anxiety.
“Both.”
“Fun and scary?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s something I’ve never done before.”
“Huh…”
In my past life, Go Hun had never tried digital art.
He had knowledge of it, but that was all. He never thought to attempt it or give it a try. This challenge was entirely Go Hana’s decision—a choice made possible by this new life.
That’s why it was both a little terrifying and thrilling, like pioneering an unknown world.
“To be honest, the concepts of ‘role-playing’ and ‘VTuber’ themselves are ideas rooted in Go Hun’s future knowledge… but still.”
When embarking on a journey, does one head straight out of the village? No, the first step is always through the front yard. Whether it’s to visit the bathroom or to leave the house, the front yard serves a different purpose.
This new challenge made my heart race.
I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of showing this “virtual persona girl” to the public. Would they criticize it? Or enjoy it? It was a truly uncharted world.
Mari, as if she understood everything, said,
“Expressing something that doesn’t exist in this world as beautiful… it’s fun, right? And you want to approach it in a way no one’s ever imagined before right?”
“…Yeah.”
“Then isn’t that enough?”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
As soon as Mari heard my answer, she beamed and came closer. I was naturally pulled into her embrace. Now that we were past our growing years, the difference in our physiques made hugs like this feel different.
“Cheer up.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s have fun preparing for the exhibition together.”
“Yeah.”
Pat, pat.
“By the way, I didn’t know you were scared of anything, Hana.”
“I’m just an ordinary person.”
“That’s surprising. You always seemed like you effortlessly made friends and created art. I’m still terrified of crowded places.”
“That’s…”
‘That’s because your psychological trauma overlaps with past wounds,’ I thought.
But I didn’t bring that up now.
“…Anyway, I’ll do my best too.”
“Okay!”
“So, Mija chan and Juri, help me out too.”
“?!”
“?!”
At that moment, the two who had been trying to sneak out of the clubroom flinched. They had almost made it out, backpacks already on their shoulders.
Flinch.
“Uh, huh?”
“W-We too…?”
“Yeah. There are a lot of things I don’t know about this time. I need Mija chan and Juri’s help. …And why were you suddenly trying to leave?”
Mija scratched her head awkwardly and replied,
“Well, you know… when Hana-chan and Mari-chan are like that, it’s like there’s this wall we can’t cross for at least an hour. Plus, you guys have these super deep conversations that are just impossible to follow…”
“Ahahaha… Yeah, I guess watching from the sidelines would be a little embarrassing…”
“…..”
It seemed both of them were starting to feel burdened by mine and Mari’s intense artistic exchanges. A fleeting thought passed by that I should probably tone it down a bit.
‘Maybe I’ve gotten too desensitized to public perception from clinging to Mari so often…’
“…Anyway, both of you, come back here.”
“Okay.”
“Y-Yeah.”
I tapped on the clubroom desk, and both of them reluctantly put their bags down and sat back at the table. Thus began the explanation and the launch of our “Virtual Persona Performance Art Girl Installation” project.
Mija, leveraging knowledge from her family’s computer business, chimed in with an idea.
“U-Um… I-I think this could be solved with a motion-detecting camera.
M-My brother has some he bought for gaming. If we connect it to the mouse pointer, we could probably make it so you could click and switch between pre-set images.
That way, we could adjust the illustrations in real-time, like in a dating simulation game, just changing the expressions.”
“Motion camera, check.”
“Ah, and also, just delivering the voice alone might… they might not understand what we’re saying. So, I think it’d be good to leave a conversation log with a simple internal chat program. We could also set it up to automatically output pre-written lines.”
“Log the conversation.”
Juri mostly talked about real-time interaction using a microphone.
“I was thinking about the voice. Since my tone tends to be quite sharp, it might help to loosen it up a bit for a softer image. And we already have some materials on emotional voice acting by professional voice actors, so referencing that could be useful.”
“Log the materials. Log the voice.”
I jotted down these ideas on the board, listing them in order of feasibility. Thanks to everyone’s expertise in their respective fields, the meeting quickly advanced into detailed plans.
Mari watched us with a big grin and then quietly slipped back into her workspace. And so, the <Manga Research Club> continued its discussion on how to bring suspiciously advanced technologies to life.
That evening.
Back at the dorms, the grind continued as I borrowed Mija’s laptop. I had to repeatedly draw slightly different expressions for a cute anime-style girl illustration.
“Originally, the plan was to make an animation, so shifting to visual novel-style standing CGs is actually a stroke of luck, but…”
“This is some seriously intense labor.”
“Ahaha! There’s still [Sadness], [Anger], [Slight Embarrassment], [Looking Down], and…”
“…Eleven more patterns to go.”
“Hang in there, Hana-chan! I’ll go visit my brother this weekend to borrow a motion-sensing camera and figure out how to set it up!”
“Thanks, Mi-chan! Sorry for making you go through so much trouble…”
“What are you talking about? You’re the one doing all the prep work for the next month, Hana-chan. Ehehe…”
“…”
Somehow.
I felt like I was slowly being crushed by the weight of the disaster I’d brought upon myself.
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