Akubi Demonspade: The Queen and Her Overworked Producer
One karaoke stream changed everything.
Kenta, a rookie manager at the downtown streaming studio Million Production, is told by the CEO to become the exclusive handler for a streamer named Akubi. Standing at 140 centimeters with a self-proclaimed age of 2000 years, dressed as the Queen of Spades, she speaks in a husky, hyper voice—and when she sings, the world goes silent.
"[excited] So you're my new manager? You're tiny and cute!"
Her very first words leave Kenta speechless. But her streams a
Akubi Demonspade: The Queen and Her Overworked Producer - New Manager of Streamer City, Becoming the Watchdog of the Strongest Queen
“……So, starting today, you're Akubi's exclusive manager. I'm counting on you.”
A spring evening. The light pouring through the window dyed the worn flooring of the president's office orange. Satou Kenta couldn't quite process the words of the man sitting cross-legged before him in a tracksuit.
(What did he just say?)
Million Production headquarters, third floor. This was a small three-story office building in the Hummingbird district, on the west side of Million Voice City—the streaming culture capital. In this low-rent district, over a hundred and twenty small streaming studios were packed together. Kenta had only been with the company for two weeks. His work had mostly consisted of helping the senior manager—carrying equipment, organizing cables.
And now, suddenly, he was exclusive. And not just for anyone—for Akubi.
“W-wait a second, please. I just joined the company. I can't handle a streamer on my own……”
Kenta said this while pinching the collar of his white shirt, which was noticeably wrinkled. His black hair was a bit messy—no matter how many times he'd fixed it since morning, the bedhead stubbornly remained. His round, gentle brown eyes stared at the president with visible anxiety. As always, a body bag full of tools hung from his shoulder.
“You weren't told? Why you were hired.”
Gouda Mitsuru. Fifty-two years old. A former streamer, his stout frame wrapped in cheap sweats. In his active days, he'd apparently been called “Million's Heavy Tank,” but now there was no trace of that—just a commanding presence around the gut.
“You ran live sound for the school festival all by yourself in your university's audio club, didn't you? You're good under pressure when equipment fails. And more than anything—you don't quit.”
“I see……”
“The last guy quit in three months. The one before that, two weeks. Akubi's manager is the position nobody lasts in. You said it in your interview, didn't you? ‘I want to be useful to someone.' Was that a lie?”
It wasn't a lie. He really did feel that way. He felt it—but it was also the flip side of his lack of confidence, a way of saying “at least let me be useful.” Kenta started to open his mouth, then stopped.
(I'm not in a position to refuse. And if I do, I'll probably get fired.)
In this city, landing a job in the streaming industry was close to a miracle. Fresh out of university with no connections, he'd never thought he could get into a proper company. Million Production was a small office, but with twelve years since founding and twenty-eight affiliated streamers, it was a veteran establishment.
“……Understood. I'll do it.”
Kenta gently traced the old burn scar on the back of his right hand with his left thumb. He'd gotten it during university, while repairing audio equipment. Whenever he felt anxious, touching that scar had become a habit.
“Good, that was quick. Now then. Take a look at Akubi's profile.”
Gouda tossed a single sheet of paper onto the desk. Kenta picked it up and scanned it. Then he froze.
Akubi Demonspade. Height: 140 centimeters. Age: self-proclaimed 2,000 years old. Real name, address, contact information—all blank.
“……Um, President. This isn't really a profile.”
“Nope. Aside from the contract, the office doesn't have any personal information on her either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. She says that when she takes off her streamer form—the ‘Queen of Spades' costume—she reverts to her true self. So she never changes clothes, even off-stream. She eats in that outfit. She sleeps in it.”
Kenta looked at the photo printed on the document. A red and black dress. A spade emblem gleaming at the chest. Large eyes of deep crimson, silver hair flowing to her waist. She was short—like an intricately crafted doll.
(So this is……Akubi.)
“Subscriber count: 1.2 million. She's our flagship. Her simultaneous connections during singing streams exceed two hundred thousand every time.”
“That's amazing……no wait, but why is someone like that with us?”
“Who knows. Three years ago, she wandered in, dropped a contract on the desk saying ‘Let me stream here,' and that was that. She's been with us ever since.”
Gouda picked up the teacup on his desk and took a sip. Outside the window, the spring evening breeze stirred the banners of the shopping arcade.
“One more thing. Recently, Nocturne Entertainment has been making moves to poach our streamers.”
Nocturne Entertainment. The moment he heard that name, something pricked deep in Kenta's chest.
“The biggest one……the hunting-type agency.”
“That's right. Their capital is three times ours. A hundred and twenty affiliated streamers. They dig up scandals and poach streamers from other companies. Their methods are dirty, but they've got money.”
Kenta clenched his right hand tightly over the burn scar. Old memories throbbed in the corner of his mind. The streaming project he'd worked on in university with his best friend, Ryou. He'd pushed back against the policy of cutting streamers who couldn't produce numbers, and he'd been sidelined. He'd heard that Ryou was now a hotshot manager at Nocturne Entertainment.
(That stuff from back then is over and done with.)
Even as he told himself that, something stirred uneasily somewhere in his heart. Kenta let out a light breath, careful not to let it show on his face.
“Protect Akubi. She's our lifeline.”
Gouda's voice suddenly dropped low.
“You're the only one I can ask. She's……picky about people.”
“……Picky about……people.”
“You'll understand when you meet her. She's already gone home for today, but she'll come to Studio 2 tomorrow. Until then, check the state of the room.”
Kenta nodded and left the president's office.
Walking down the hallway, he glanced out the window. The evening scene of Hummingbird Shopping Arcade spread out below. The four-hundred-meter arcade was lined with equipment shops and cafes for streamers, with streamers and staff coming and going on their way home from work.
“So this is……the city where I work.”
Million Voice City. Population: 3.2 million. In this city, live streaming was the center of economy and culture. Top streamers held more influence than celebrities. Thirty-two percent of the city's tax revenue came from the streaming industry.
The river flowing through its heart was the Orpheus River. The east side was the Crescendo district with its high-rise towers; the west side was this Hummingbird area. And the city's symbol—Voice Tower—shone orange in the setting sun. Two hundred and eighty meters tall. At night, it was lit up in sync with streamers' songs—a streaming antenna tower.
“This city's power grid was redesigned as an audio data communication network twelve years ago under the Voice Grid Plan.”
At some point, Gouda had come to stand beside him.
“Districts with dense streaming studios get priority power supply. Even during blackouts, studios are the first to be restored. The reason this Hummingbird district survives as a streamer city is thanks to that.”
“That's why there are so many studios.”
“Exactly. The rent's cheap too, but more than anything, the power is stable. Our building is also in the designated zone of that plan.”
Kenta gazed steadily at the cityscape. Lights were beginning to come on in the evening arcade. From buildings here and there, he could faintly hear the opening jingles of streams.
(This is the kind of world I've jumped into.)
Once again, he felt the sheer scale and heat of the place where he stood. At the same time, there was definitely a nervousness that made his footing feel unsteady.
“One more thing, Kenta. Let me warn you.”
Kenta turned around at Gouda's voice.
“Akubi's room is a mess. A mountain of broken mics, snapped cables, equipment debris. It's one of the reasons the previous manager quit. You seem like the caring type. ……Good luck.”
With a smile that could have been encouragement or a threat, Gouda clapped Kenta on the shoulder.
“……Haah.”
His sigh dissolved into the evening hallway.
He went down to the second floor. Posters of affiliated streamers lined the stairwell walls. Songstresses, gamers, chat masters. Among them, the most striking was the poster of the small silver-haired queen.
‘Akubi Demonspade — Singing Stream — Every Friday 22:00'
In the poster, she smiled defiantly. Her red eyes seemed to gleam as if seeing right through him.
(So I'm going to be managing this person.)
It still didn't feel real.
He stood in front of Studio 2. A handwritten plate hung on the door. ‘Akubi Exclusive.' The letters were slightly crooked.
“Excuse me.”
The moment he opened the door, Kenta was speechless.
“……What is this?”
The inside of the room exceeded his imagination. The first thing that hit him was the mountain of broken microphones piled against the wall. Ten—no, at least twenty. Shattered headsets, stands snapped at the base, crushed pop filters. On the floor, streaming equipment cables sprawled like snakes, and finding a place to step was a struggle.
In the center of the room was a custom low desk. At least twenty centimeters lower than a standard desk. It must have been made to match Akubi's height. On the desk: five empty energy drink cans, a tissue box, some kind of wrapper.
On the shelf against the wall, brand-new spare microphones were lined up in a row. At least fifteen. Apparently she bought them in bulk, on the assumption she'd break them.
“……The previous manager cleaned all of this up alone?”
His head was starting to ache.
He happened to glance at the wall. On part of the soundproofing, there was graffiti written in permanent marker.
‘Year 2000's Soliloquy'
Below it, something was written in small letters. Kenta carefully approached, making sure not to step on any cables.
‘Nobody came again today. But the mic is waiting. When I sing, I feel like someone might be listening. So I'll still sing.'
Kenta traced the words with his finger. The ink was slightly faded. It seemed a considerable amount of time had passed since it was written.
(Akubi, alone in this room……)
Two thousand years old. Self-proclaimed—but somehow, those words suddenly felt heavy.
“……Alright.”
Kenta pulled his tool set from the body bag on his shoulder. Precision screwdrivers, nippers, a tester, a soldering iron. Tools he'd used since university—partners, really.
“First, this one.”
What he picked up was a condenser microphone with relatively light damage. The grille was dented, and the internal wiring was disconnected.
“This much, I can fix.”
Kenta sat down on the floor and began disassembling the microphone. His hands on the screwdriver were without hesitation. His right hand—the one with the burn scar—removed parts with practiced movements.
Back in university, he'd taken on all the equipment repairs for the audio club. Broken amps, noisy mixers, disconnected cables. The jobs nobody wanted to do—Kenta volunteered for them.
(I wanted to be useful to someone. That's all.)
It was the same now. Fix the broken equipment in front of him. That was the first step he could take.
The heat of the soldering iron touched the circuit board. A faint wisp of smoke and the smell of melting solder. That smell brought back the university club room. Those evenings, alone, facing equipment.
“……Alright, checking the connection.”
He touched the tester to it. The needle moved. Fixed.
“Next.”
The second. The third. He lost track of time, absorbed in repairing microphones. He bundled the cables scattered on the floor, hunted for breaks, and soldered them back together. Broken stands were revived by combining parts.
Outside the window, it had grown dark before he knew it. The neon of Hummingbird Shopping Arcade cast blue and red light into the room.
“……Haah, I'm tired.”
Kenta lay back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. Microphones fixed: three. Cables: over ten. The room was slightly—just slightly—better than before.
(Will Akubi come tomorrow?)
She would. Gouda had said so. When they met, what should he say?
‘Nice to meet you, I'l
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