Aah!
I bolted out of bed at six, wondering why I even bothered setting an alarm when I always woke up before it rang.
Dawn light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling window of my thirty-fifth-floor room at the Cerulean Tower Tokyu Hotel, and far in the distance, Mount Fuji greeted me good morning.
The exhaustion still weighed on me, a mental lag that wrapped around me like a debuff.
"Last night… what happened after the Skytree?" I tried to remember, rubbing my eyes.
Dinner with Nijiro, Mrekk, Ivaxa, and BTMC was a hazy blur: laughter, the taste of Wagyu beef, the live stream, the breathtaking view of Tokyo from up high.
Then, blackout. "Hope I didn't embarrass myself in front of them."
I dragged myself out of bed with a groan and shuffled to the bathroom, yawning.
"Today's the big day: the Worlds," I thought, splashing ice-cold water on my face.
I noticed I was still wearing yesterday's clothes. Didn't matter—I wasn't going to change them anyway. I hadn't brought many outfits, and switching every two or three days was plenty.
On the nightstand sat my Wacom CTL-472 and Wooting keyboard. I picked them up carefully so I wouldn't forget them like yesterday.
I hunted for my phone all over the room, no idea where I had left it, until I found it in the right pocket of my pants, exactly where it had been the day before.
I opened Instagram and saw two messages from Nijiro. «Hey, Christian. You were so wiped last night you looked like an NPC. I don't think you caught the bracket, so here it is. Brace yourself—if winning was hard before, now it's straight-up hell.»
The next message loaded the bracket image for the Worlds. I scanned the names in the boxes, and my blood ran cold.
In the round of sixteen, my first opponent was Freezes—twenty-first in the world, a Thai player famous for flawless combos on high-speed maps.
The later matchups were still blank, but you could predict them almost perfectly just from past performances.
Round of eight: most likely Milosz, sixth globally, a Polish player who ruled stream maps with surgical precision.
Quarterfinals: Ninerik, third in the world, a Norwegian who read patterns like he had a legal aimbot.
Semifinals: Ivaxa, ranked second, his methodical style already having blown me away.
And the final… Mrekk. Number one. The unbeatable king of Osu!, winner of four out of the five tournament editions.
"They stuck me in a bracket full of monsters," I thought, zooming in on the image to make sure. "Mrekk's side looks like the tutorial mode."
I sank onto the little sofa by the window, Shibuya sprawling out below me.
Every name was an impossible checkpoint, a wall of circles and sliders I would have to smash to prove who I was.
"If I lose, it's game over. No more streaming, no more tournaments, no PC. Dad takes everything," I thought, gripping my phone tighter.
I headed down to the restaurant on the second floor, greeted by the smell of miso and green tea.
I was too wired for a big meal—stomach tied in knots from nerves—so I just went with a simple bowl of steaming white rice.
At eight, I went to the lobby. My two personal "bodyguards" in black suits were waiting by the sliding doors.
The older one gave me a nod. "Mr. Iori, ready?" he asked in English, voice low and professional.
"Ready," I said, clutching the Wacom case and Wooting as I climbed into the car.
We set off for Akihabara, Tokyo's streets sliding past the window in a blur of skyscrapers and neon signs.
"I forgot to update the community about yesterday," I realized.
I pulled out my phone, opened Discord, and started typing in the main server chat:
«Guys, sorry I'm only updating about yesterday now, but I was dead tired. Met this incredible guy, Nijiro, who took me for a ride in his Nissan Skyline R34! Then he treated us to Wagyu, and…»
I wrote a novel, trying to pack in everything: the madness of Akihabara, running into Mrekk and Ivaxa, the insane view of Tokyo from the top.
China replied right away: «Wow, you got to ride in a Skyline and eat free meat?!»
Then he added: «It's 1:30 a.m. here in Italy, so I don't think anyone else is gonna reply. Everyone crashed early to be fresh for seven in the morning—the time difference means the tournament starts then for us.»
"What? They all went to bed early just to watch me?" My chest tightened, pride and pressure all mixed together.
«That's why the server's dead. Still getting used to the time zone,» I wrote back. «Thanks, China. I won't let you down.»
«Hey, @Pego_pro, I'm awake too!» Cycon jumped in, ribbing China for thinking he was the only one up.
«Sorry, just saying… I know out of thousands of people someone's bound to be awake. Was just generalizing,» China shot back.
We had reached Akihabara, so I let the two of them keep going.
The moment I stepped out of the car, the district was already a burst of controlled chaos.
The crowd outside Taito Station was massive—a sea of over two thousand people packed together, waiting for the event.
Giant screens on the buildings played clips from past editions: perfect combos, replays of Mrekk destroying ten-star maps, hype interviews with casters firing up the crowd.
I followed my bodyguards as they carved a path through the fans.
People were shouting names—"Mrekk! Ivaxa! Ninerik!"—but then someone yelled in Italian: "Pantera Grigia! Crush it!"
I whipped around, heart skipping a beat.
A small group of Italian guys—anime tees, backpacks stuffed with merch—were waving signs with my logo and "Pantera Grigia" in big letters across the top.
"My community… they came all this way?" Heat rushed to my face, a rush of emotion and responsibility all at once.
I couldn't go over to greet them; the crowd was too thick, and my two bodyguards were already motioning for me to keep moving.
Up on the tenth floor, the atmosphere was completely different—a sharp contrast to the madness downstairs.
The Taito Station hall was quiet, heavy with tension you could feel in the air.
The thirty-two gaming stations were lined up like spaceships, 360Hz monitors glowing with the pink Osu! logo.
Every player was hunched over their setup, fingers gliding across tablets and keyboards in silent warm-up.
The hum of fans blended with the rapid click of mechanical keys, a rhythm that took me straight back to my late-night practice sessions in Trento.
The smell of fresh cables and cold AC stung my nose, while neon pink lights bathed the room like some cyberpunk shrine.
I walked to my station, marked by the nameplate: Pantera Grigia – Italy, tricolor flag right beside it.
I set down the Wacom and Wooting, plugged them into the PC with USB cables.
"It's go time. No lag, no misses. Just me and the circles," I thought, settling into the chair.
I fired up Osu! and picked an eight-star map to warm up: Hitorigoto, a song I knew inside out, jump patterns that always felt like home.
My fingers flowed over the tablet, stylus cutting clean lines like a laser.
The tournament kicked off at two, but the morning was for warming up and—for anyone who had signed up—fan meets downstairs on the first floor.
At eleven, after two solid hours on eight-star maps, I headed down to the Taito Station entrance, where a booth with my logo was set up.
The crowd wasn't massive, but a decent group of fans had gathered—mostly Italians, plus a few foreigners who wanted a photo to round out their "player collection".
"Hey, Pantera! Know who I am? StarClicker7!" said one guy in a Naruto shirt, grinning like crazy.
"StarClicker? For real?" I answered, eyes lighting up. "You've been subbed for over a year—you're basically family at this point! What's your actual name?"
"Lorenzo," he said, shaking my hand like we had known each other forever.
"Unbelievable. People I only know from a few Twitch messages, and it feels like we grew up together," I thought as I let go.
I spent a full hour talking with them—not just photos and signatures. I told them about the Skyline ride with Nijiro, Mrekk's jokes, the weight of the bet with my dad.
They pumped me up: "Christian, you're our pride! Win it for Italy!"
At noon I said goodbye. "Guys, I'm running late—I've gotta meet some friends. Thanks for the support!" I told them, shaking every hand before heading off.
"Thank you, Christian! Win it for us!" they called as I waved and walked away.
I went looking for Mrekk's booth—it wasn't hard to spot, since most of the fans were lined up for him.
He was swarmed, people asking for selfies and autographs.
"Hey, Mrekk, Nijiro's waiting. Ready?" I said, trying not to laugh while some girl drew the Osu! logo on his arm with a marker.
"Yeah, one sec," he replied, totally unfazed, like he had it all handled.
We went to grab Ivaxa, who was deep in replay analysis on his tablet, eyes sharp as a hawk's.
Like me, he didn't have many fans waiting, but unlike me he skipped the meet-up—not because he didn't care, but because he wanted every minute to study the opponents he would face that day.
BTMC was tied up commentating, mic in hand next to the host doing the live Twitch broadcast, so I left him to it.
Down in the mall garage, Nijiro was leaning against his Skyline, hands in pockets, engine idling.
"Eating anywhere in Akihabara today is impossible—way too crowded," he said as we walked up. "Minato's quieter. Sound good?"
"Keep dragging us to new districts and we'll have seen all of Tokyo," Mrekk joked, acting like the biggest tournament of the year wasn't just hours away.
"How's he so relaxed? My stomach's doing flips," I thought as I climbed in.
Fifteen minutes later we pulled up in Minato outside an all-you-can-eat sushi spot.
"Sorry for bringing you to Japan's specialty in a place like this," Nijiro said. "A fancy spot would've cost each of us 50,000 yen and taken forever."
"You did the right thing," I laughed. "I didn't fly to Japan to empty my bank account!"
The restaurant was sleek, conveyor belts rolling past with nigiri, maki, and tempura like some endless mini-game.
In half an hour we demolished fifty plates—salmon that melted in your mouth, spicy uramaki that brought tears to my eyes, perfectly crunchy tempura.
Mrekk told stories from his early tournaments, Ivaxa broke down strategies for the day's matches, and Nijiro just listened, amused.
For a little while the Worlds pressure disappeared, replaced by the easy warmth of a friendship that felt years old.
At 1:20 p.m. we were back at Taito Station, stomachs full.
I ran a quick session on nine-star maps—fingers flying, but the tension that had eased over lunch came creeping back.
A staff member—a Japanese guy wearing the official tournament tee with the Osu! logo and "2025"—announced in English: "Five minutes until the first match! First two players, set up your peripherals and join the competition lobby!"
His voice rang out over the constant clatter of keys and whir of fans.
I looked up from my screen and glanced around.
Mrekk, a few stations over, looked almost bored—like the Worlds was just another day, only this time in Japan instead of Australia.
Ivaxa was locked in, eyes glued to a screen streaming the matches so he could study his opponents.
BTMC was keeping the crowd entertained from the couch, tossing out predictions on who would make it past the round of sixteen.
Nijiro was somewhere out in Akihabara, catching the event on the giant screens.
My match—third on the list—was coming up in about forty-five minutes.
The matches ran longer than usual since the tournament was best-of-five, unlike the qualifiers, which were best-of-three.
I settled back at my station and ran some nine-star maps, pushing to beat my personal record of 9.65 on Anima.
Freezes, my first opponent, didn't intimidate me too much.
"He's only twenty-first. Not Mrekk or Ivaxa—but I can't underestimate him… like BTMC did with me," I thought, clicking circles at blistering speed.
When my turn came, the competition lobby popped up on screen.
Freezes was already there, his avatar—an icy wolf—staring me down.
A chat message appeared: «Good luck, Pantera Grigia.»
I typed back: «Thanks, Freezes. Good luck to you too.»
Freezes picked first: Unstoppable, 8.55 stars—one of his favorites, a nightmare of streams and fast patterns at 290 BPM.
"He's choosing his battlefield," I thought. "Wants to crush me early and shake off all that built-up pressure."
Before we started, I leaned back from the screen to trigger Panther's Sight, confusing everyone in the room—people usually lean in, not away.
The opening notes hit my headphones like an explosion, electronic beat thrumming through my bones. Circles poured down like bullets, sliders twisting into spirals.
Freezes was a machine: perfect combos, score climbing without a single miss.
Me—I had never played that map before—I struggled, botching a slider halfway through.
I finished with 97.63%. He closed with a full combo and 99.41%.
1-0 to him.
I caught his expression from across the room, confidence spreading. "Okay, he's feeling it now—but he has no idea what's coming."
I picked Padoru, 9.32 stars—a map that wrecks you without surgical accuracy and stamina training. My home turf.
My fingers flew, every flick landing clean.
Freezes faltered, his cursor shaking on the longer sliders.
I closed with an x600 combo and 98.72%. He stalled at x200 with 93.47%.
1-1.
Exactly as planned—we were tied, but unlike me, his fingers were already tiring.
To recover, Freezes picked Take a Hint—a slower seven-star map, but full of traps.
It came down to the last click.
I nailed every circle with perfect precision, finishing with an SS—100%.
He came agonizingly close at 99.93%, but it wasn't enough.
2-1 to me.
"Now I end it," I thought, already knowing the map that would seal the win.
I chose Monochrome Butterfly, 9.01 stars—something I played every day.
Freezes collapsed halfway, missing a brutal jump section that killed him.
He could've kept playing dead—the score would still climb—but he already knew how this ended, so he let me finish the map alone.
Dying in the Osu! World Cup wasn't game over: you could keep going, even revive if your combo got high enough.
Of course, the win always went to whoever stayed alive, even if the dead player had higher score or accuracy.
I finished with an x700 combo and 99.21% accuracy.
Winner – Pantera Grigia. 3-1.
The hall erupted in applause, and outside on the street they were going wild.
Mrekk, a few stations over, gave me a nod—his look saying, "See you down the line."
No time to celebrate. My fingers were throbbing; I had to rest them before the next match.
I decided to watch Milosz versus Gnahus—one of them would be my round-of-eight opponent.
I moved to a secondary monitor at the back of the room, where their match was streaming live.
Milosz, with his surgical style, was dominating stream maps like they were tutorials.
Gnahus fired back with shocking aggression, smashing jump patterns so fast the chat was losing it.
As they battled, BTMC dropped an interesting fact: "Both Gnahus and Milosz are Polish. Hard to believe, but Poland has the most players here—five out of the thirty-two are from there."
I was surprised by that info—remembering Ivaxa was Polish too—but then I got serious again.
"Whoever wins is gonna be tough," I thought, breaking down every move they made.
Milosz was methodical, every click a perfect calculation. Gnahus played on instinct—like me.
"I've gotta find a weakness. I have to."
The match was tied 2-2, tension squeezing my chest.
"Who's my next opponent gonna be?"