The next morning I woke up at six, well before the seven o'clock alarm I had set.
It was a habit of mine—the days I actually slept until the scheduled time were outnumbered by the ones when I woke up early.
Sunlight, already high in the sky, streamed through the floor-to-ceiling window of my thirty-fifth-floor room at the Cerulean Tower Tokyu Hotel, revealing something that had been hidden in the dark and left me stunned.
Mount Fuji was perfectly visible, distant and postcard-perfect, and I realized how lucky I was. I knew it was rare to see the whole mountain, especially in summer with all the humidity.
I had two hours to get ready. The Uber would be waiting downstairs from seven, but I had decided to leave at eight, as the staff had recommended.
I got up from the sofa I had slept on the night before and stretched.
I went into the bathroom and stepped under an ice-cold shower—the way I liked it. A full system reset that woke me up completely.
As I dried my face, I looked in the mirror, still hardly believing I was actually in Japan.
The forecast was for a hot, clear day, so I picked my outfit: a black T-shirt and matching black Nike shorts with white details.
It wasn't ideal—I knew black absorbed heat—but there was nothing I could do about it. I only ever wore that color.
After forty-five minutes wasted on the sofa playing online chess, I decided to go down for breakfast.
I headed to the restaurant on the second floor, an oasis of elegance with dark wooden tables and huge windows framing the chaos of Shibuya.
I recognized a few familiar faces: Sytho with his two-tone dreadlocks, and Cloppit nursing his coffee with a focused look.
There were other people I didn't know, but it was easy to spot the qualified players—their peripherals were sitting right there on their tables.
I went for asa-gohan, the traditional Japanese breakfast, to fully immerse myself.
The tray was a work of art: a bowl of steaming white rice; miso soup with cubes of tofu floating in it; a piece of grilled salmon; nori seaweed; a soft-boiled egg with a runny yolk that melted in your mouth; and pickled vegetables that tingled on the tongue with their sweet-sour bite.
"If lunch gets skipped because of the schedule, at least I'll be fueled up," I thought, finishing the soup with a loud slurp.
A petite waitress with a kind expression watched me, clearly amused, and I blushed, realizing I had gotten a bit too enthusiastic.
At eight I went down to the lobby. Two men in black suits were waiting near the sliding doors, their impeccable figures standing out against the polished marble of the reception area.
"Drivers or bodyguards?" I wondered as I approached.
A man in his forties with a serious air nodded at me. "Mr. Iori?" he asked in English, his voice low but polite.
They had probably been hired by the osu! staff, since they spoke English—unlike the driver who had picked me up at the airport, booked through an app, who only knew Japanese.
I gave a tense nod. I had no idea why there were two of them, but I didn't ask.
Outside the hotel, the sun was already beating down on the crowded sidewalk, and I saw a line of identical black Uber Toyota Alphards waiting for the other players.
I climbed into mine—the interior a haven of black leather and freezing air-conditioning.
"Maybe I should've brought a hoodie," I thought, shivering as I settled into the back seat between the two silent, statue-like men in suits.
I glanced at the driver's phone navigator. "Akihabara!?"
They hadn't told me where the competition was being held, so it was a complete surprise.
In the end, I was heading to the very district Mathew had recommended to me just the night before, over messages.
A thrill of excitement ran down my spine—I couldn't wait to explore the place.
Twenty minutes later we reached Akihabara, and the world exploded into color, leaving me speechless.
Multicolored neon signs advertised anime, retro consoles, and cutting-edge gadgets.
Girls in frilly maid uniforms—with pleated skirts and ribboned headbands—handed out flyers in front of themed cafés, their faces glowing like idols.
"I'll have to go into one of those soon—I promised the chat," I remembered, thinking back to the stream where I had said it as a joke.
Arcades buzzed like overloaded servers, while the air was a mix of new plastic, fried takoyaki, and overheated cables. J-pop songs drifted from shops like distant voices.
My eyes darted from a giant Gundam billboard to a figure shop with a life-size Hatsune Miku statue. Every corner felt like it had stepped straight out of an anime.
The car stopped in front of the Taito Station, a towering entertainment complex right in the heart of Akihabara.
The crowd was thick and pulsing—a solid wall of osu! fans in branded T-shirts and tourists with souvenir-stuffed backpacks.
The two men in suits got out and, without a word, began carving a path through the people, creating a corridor for me.
"Okay, definitely bodyguards," I concluded, hurrying to keep up.
Inside, the Taito Station was a gamer's paradise.
The lower floors were packed with claw machines glittering with Pikachu plushies and Demon Slayer figures.
Street Fighter and Tekken cabinets hummed under the fingers of hardcore players, the clatter of buttons mixing with the smell of popcorn and fried mochi. Colored neon lit every corner, giving the whole place a cyberpunk vibe.
I rode the elevator up with my "bodyguards", my heart beating faster as the tension in the air grew thicker and thicker.
From the eighth floor up, the vibe completely shifted: game cafés packed with rows of gaming PCs sporting RGB monitors, players hunched over mechanical keyboards, lost in rounds of Dota and Destiny.
On the tenth floor, the elevator doors opened onto a massive hall—an arena built for this—that took my breath away.
Thirty-two gaming stations dominated the center like modern thrones, each equipped with a 360Hz monitor.
Every station came with a keyboard and mouse, though they were only for navigating the PC; players brought their own peripherals for the actual games.
Two leather sofas faced the windows, reserved for the commentators who would sit there during the tournament to keep the crowd entertained.
Professional cameras on tripods were positioned around the room, ready to stream everything live on Twitch.
The smell of fresh cables and cold air-conditioning mixed with the constant hum of fans, building an atmosphere thick with tension and adrenaline.
All across the district, the event would be shown on ten giant screens that, for now, were running ads for the World Cup; later in the day they would also play the player interviews.
At the far end of the hall, a small group—separate from the technicians setting up the stations—was chatting away, their voices overlapping like a busy Discord server.
I didn't want to interrupt, so I just wandered around the room, checking out the setups and looking for mine.
One of them suddenly spun toward me—a guy of average height with short brown hair and a friendly smile.
"Hey!" he called, raising an arm to wave me over.
I turned. It was Mrekk, the world number one, wearing that easygoing expression that made him seem so human despite his insane records.
"You're Pantera Grigia, right? Congrats on qualifying. Fresh talent like you doesn't show up often at this event," he said, walking over and offering a firm handshake, his English carrying a clear Australian accent.
"Yeah, that's me. Hi," I replied in English, sounding calmer than I felt.
The other three watched me approach, clearly curious.
BTMC—my old rival, now a commentator—looked tense, a flicker of unease in his eyes that gave away how he still felt about our match.
I caught the grim set of his face. "He hasn't gotten over the loss yet."
Ivaxa, ranked second in the world, studied me with sharp, analytical focus, like he was already scouting my weaknesses.
The last one stood out with his style: tall—around 170 centimeters—with slightly wavy black hair that fell to his shoulders in a naturally messy way.
He had dark brown eyes and a casual look: black shirt with white lettering on the collar, sunglasses pushed up on his head.
Ivaxa stepped forward, his voice steady but respectful. "Nice to meet you. I'm Ivaxa. You've probably heard of me. Those combos of yours on Blue Zenith are insane. How do you pull them off?"
"Of course I know you!" I blurted, excitement slipping out. "You're a legend! The combos… I dunno, it's just instinct. When I'm in the zone, the cursor feels like part of me."
Mrekk laughed and nodded toward the last guy. "This is Nijiro Murakami. We met two years ago at Worlds, but he's not an osu! pro. He comes every year to watch, so we ended up becoming friends."
Nijiro smiled, completely relaxed. "Hey, nice to meet you. I'm an Apex Legends pro—mostly acting and streaming when I feel like it. I'm here to enjoy the show and see how the new guy holds up."
I looked him over while my brain dug through memories like a loading database. Then it hit me.
"I saw you at the Apex Legends Global Series," I said. "Finishing in fourth place with your team was an impressive achievement."
Nijiro gave a rueful shrug. "Yes, we lost focus in the last two games. We likely would have secured the win had we maintained our focus."
He paused, then grinned. "Listen, can we drop the formal stuff? All that 'sir' and 'ma'am' crashes my brain… and I don't wanna lag the day before the tournament."
I laughed, feeling the tension ease. "Deal. Formal talk always feels like I'm getting grilled in an exam."
Mrekk nodded, a knowing grin on his face. "Perfect, we're all on the same wavelength."
BTMC stepped closer, rubbing the back of his neck, a shadow of regret on his face.
"Hey, Christian, sorry about our match," he said. "I shouldn't have taken it so personally. You played an incredible game. Congrats."
"No worries," I replied with a genuine nod. "In a showdown like that, emotions just take over. It was an honor to beat you."
"And now I know you're not a bad guy," I thought, catching the relief in his eyes.
"Thanks. I can't wait to commentate your games, so go out there and crush it," he finished, like a weight had been lifted.
Mrekk, switching gears with a curious look, asked: "By the way, how old are you? I'm pretty sure you're the youngest here. I'm 20, Nijiro's 24, BTMC's 22, and Ivaxa's 17."
"I turn fifteen the day after tomorrow, July 6," I said, trying to play it cool even though the thought of the tournament was twisting my stomach.
Their faces froze, like someone had hit pause mid-game. Ivaxa's eyes went wide, Nijiro dropped the coin he had been flipping between his fingers, clearly stunned.
"Fourteen years old and you're in the top 32 in the world?" Nijiro said. "How'd you convince your parents to let you fly all the way to Japan? They've got jobs—they can't just drop everything to chase their kid's dream across the planet!"
"Truth is, I'm here alone," I admitted. "I made a bet with my dad. If I win, he lets me keep streaming and playing games. If I lose, he takes the prize money and I quit everything. Streams, tournaments, PC. Game over."
The silence that followed was thick, like lag on an overloaded server, the air in the room suddenly heavier.
Mrekk stared at me, respect and disbelief mixing in his eyes. "You've got guts," he said at last, giving an approving nod.
"You're insane!" Nijiro shot back. "How do you even plan to beat Mrekk? He's won four out of five editions!"
BTMC shook his head, a bitter edge to his expression. "Don't underestimate him, Nijiro. I did, and he destroyed me."
Ivaxa nodded, his voice sharp as a laser. "I watched your VOD against Lifeline. That technique… how do you read patterns like that?"
I stayed quiet to avoid giving away Panther's Sight, and luckily Mrekk had already moved on.
We talked for another ten minutes or so—a mix of jokes, stories from past events, and tips on handling the pressure of live streams.
I felt completely at ease, like I was in a Discord lobby with China and Mathew, the laughter bouncing around and loosening the knot in my gut.
Then, curiosity getting the better of me, I asked: "So, what's on the schedule today? It's my first Worlds—I don't really know how it works."
Mrekk pointed at the technicians wrestling with cables all over the stations. "They're still setting everything up."
"Soon they'll call us for the pre-event interviews. They're to build hype—clips will run on the big screens around Akihabara and on Twitch," he explained.
"Tonight around eleven they'll draw the bracket match-ups for the games on July 5 and 6," he went on.
"I think they do it late on purpose—if someone in the top 30 draws me, at least they get to enjoy their day instead of stressing about facing the world number one," he added with a laugh.
"After that, we're free—practice, explore the city, rest, whatever," he finished, turning serious. "In past years we've played until dinner, then gone out around Tokyo. You in?"
"Works for me, but what's Nijiro gonna do while we practice? These stations are for participants only," I said.
"I'm pretty respected around here—like I'm running the event. I ask if he can join, and they say yes, no questions," Mrekk replied.
"Plus," he added, "the room's never full except on competition day. There's always at least one station free—people come to Tokyo to see the city, not just play."
"Got it," I said, nodding. "So today's basically a warm-up."
Ivaxa smiled, a glint of challenge in his eyes. "Yeah, but don't sleep on the interviews. Talking on camera can hit harder than a nine-star map."
Nijiro jumped in. "Hey, Christian—since the 6th is your birthday, how about we celebrate properly? I'm Japanese; I know some killer spots. Tell me, where do you wanna go?"
My eyes lit up. "That'd be epic," I said, "but I don't have anything specific in mind. What do you recommend?"
Nijiro thought for a second, spinning his coin between his fingers, sunglasses catching the neon glow.
"Tokyo's wild, but if you want a change of pace there's Osaka and Kyoto in Kansai—a bit farther—or Yokohama, right nearby in Kanto," he said, weighing the options.
"Kyoto's super traditional: ancient temples, zen gardens. Osaka's nonstop street food and nightlife. Yokohama's more laid-back, great Chinatown," he explained.
Mrekk cut in. "The 6th is impossible with Worlds. But the 7th could work. What do you think, Christian?"
I pictured temples glowing under red lanterns. "Kyoto sounds perfect," I said finally. "What's it really like?"
Nijiro's eyes lit up, like he was already there. "It's beautiful, Christian—hands down my favorite. Totally different from Tokyo: temples, old neighborhoods, this sense of calm… even with all the tourists."
"Done," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "July 7, Kyoto for my fifteenth. But first I've gotta survive the tournament."
Mrekk laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "If I weren't here, you might actually pull it off and shut your dad up with those twenty thousand euros."
A technician shouted something in Japanese from across the room, flashing a thumbs-up toward the stations.
"Gotta run—see you guys later for interviews," BTMC said, giving a quick wave before heading to the sofas.
The cameras beeped to life as he and another commentator settled in, adjusting mics and earpieces.
The central big screen started rolling clips from past events: insane combos on legendary beatmaps, accuracies brushing 100%.
I turned back toward the room, heart pounding.
The interviews were about to begin, and I—Pantera Grigia—was stepping into the spotlight of Akihabara and Twitch.
The bet with my dad sat heavy as a rock, but I was here, ready to face it.
"I can't back down now," I thought, fists clenched until my knuckles went white. "Time to show them who I am."