I got back to the Taito Station at 9:00 p.m. The tenth-floor hall in Akihabara had come back to life after the blackout.
The pink neon of the Osu! logo throbbed on the giant central screen, while the whine of the competition PCs' fans blended with the murmur of the crowd.
The air was thick with tension—a mix of sweat, hot plastic, and adrenaline.
BTMC grabbed the mic, his voice booming. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the Osu! World Cup!" he shouted, his American accent laced with excitement and exhaustion. "We apologize for the blackout—an unexpected glitch that cut short this epic showdown."
"We're on the third round: Pantera Grigia versus Ninerik, who's leading 2-0," he went on, staring straight into the camera. "Can our Italian player pull off a comeback from what looks like a hopeless situation?"
Nobody expected a reversal. At best a 3-1 or 3-2 for Ninerik, if I got lucky.
But unlike him, I had a plan.
An hour earlier, while walking with Nijiro through the crowded streets of Shinjuku, he had been explaining the strategy that, in his view, would hand me the win.
"In short, the plan is to provoke him," Nijiro had said, his voice calm but sharp. "I watched his matches before yours. Every time he breaks a combo or loses a round, he gets mad, starts getting nervous, and then he starts missing. So every time you're in the lobby, type something in chat to needle him. Make him angry. If he loses focus, you can beat him easily."
Then he added, "But the real blow has to land right after he loses the first round. That's when a single line from you can make him snap. And an opponent who's not thinking straight is already beaten."
"That's insane. It might actually work," I said, almost euphoric, as if I had already won the match—forgetting I was still down 2-0.
"But do you think that's enough to win?" I asked right after, my tone more uncertain, hesitant.
Nijiro smiled confidently. "It'll work, but you have to play your cards right. If you manage to take Lost, all you need is a few targeted jabs in chat and then clean runs on the next maps. From what I can tell, after that he'll be the easiest opponent you face in the whole tournament."
He ended the conversation with a half-smile. "I've given you the advice. Now it's up to you. Win the World Cup, but do it for yourself, not for your dad. I know the pressure's huge, but stay clear-headed."
He started walking again. "Give it everything you've got, so you don't end up regretting those useless thoughts that distracted you."
His words had hit home.
"I'll give it everything," I promised, clenching my fists until my nails bit into my palms. "I won't let you down, Nijiro."
Now, sitting at my station, the crowd noise muffled by my headphones, the plan looped endlessly in my head.
I had picked Lost before the blackout: 8.23 stars, 255 BPM, a deadly mix of frantic flicks and slow sliders that demanded surgical precision.
I opened the in-game chat, my fingers trembling slightly.
The Osu! chat—no staff moderation—was a free-fire zone for mind games. Nijiro was right: I had to hit Ninerik where it hurt.
I typed, heart pounding: «I was taking it easy before. Now I'm actually gonna play. Easy comeback—you're just a clown who thinks he's hot shit.»
I hit send and immediately regretted it. That wasn't me. Throwing out aggression like that made me feel dirty.
But the bet, the World Cup, my community… everything was on the line. "I have to win, no matter what."
I looked up toward Ninerik, about ten meters away, past a row of monitors and cables.
It had worked.
His face, lit by the cold glow of the screen, was a mask of barely contained rage.
His pale blue eyes were glued to the monitor behind his glasses; his shoulders stiff as he gripped the mouse like he wanted to crush it.
He was a meter ninety, lean and defined, the outline just visible under his white linen shirt.
"He really gets mad over a chat line? Nijiro was spot-on," I thought, a rush of disbelief and adrenaline warming my chest.
There wasn't time to dwell on it. The screen went dark for three seconds, then the match began.
Lost exploded in my Logitech headphones, the relentless beat dragging me in like a wave. Circles appeared like bullets, flicks alternating with slow, treacherous patterns.
My fingers moved on instinct, the cursor flying with a precision I hadn't felt in hours.
"Don't think about the bet. Don't think about Dad. Just play," I kept repeating to myself, echoing Nijiro's words.
Halfway through the track, a fifteen-second break gave me a moment to breathe.
I glanced at the score: Ninerik had broken the combo three times.
"What's happening to him?" I wondered, my heart leaping. "He's playing like a top 300, not world number three!"
The crowd, following every move on the giant screens, held its breath—then erupted.
BTMC shouted: "Unbelievable! Ninerik is falling behind! Pantera Grigia is unstoppable—full combo so far!"
The track resumed. I focused on the final slow sliders, the section that could seal the round for me.
They required control and patience—qualities Ninerik, under pressure, was at risk of losing.
The cursor glided through the last patterns, every click a burst of adrenaline.
The crowd chanted each hit, a chorus pushing me forward.
The final slider ended, and the screen flashed the results: Full combo, 99.96% accuracy. Ninerik: 92.24%, 7 misses.
I had done it. 2-1.
No time to let up. Nijiro's plan was clear: keep needling Ninerik.
I typed into chat with a little smirk: «Told you I was taking it easy. I knew I'd catch up.»
I glanced at Ninerik. His face was taut, a full-on storm—he was clenching his fists so hard, fighting not to slam them on the desk.
"If he keeps going like this, he's gonna lunge at me," I thought, but the two staff bodyguards standing a few meters behind me put my mind at ease.
It was his pick.
I watched him mess with the mouse, his expression twisted.
Then the central screen flashed his choice: Through the Fire and Flames. 10.86 stars, 340 BPM.
A monster that even Mrekk, the world number one, had never cleared—his record topped out at 10.65 stars on Manemane Psychotropic.
The hall went dead silent.
BTMC stammered, "Ladies and gentlemen… Ninerik has selected Through the Fire and Flames! This is insanity! Nobody has ever cleared this map!"
"Has he lost his mind, or did he just click the wrong one?" I wondered, my heart hammering, starting to think he might actually be capable of clearing not just nine-star maps, but ten.
"He probably picked wrong," I thought, while the panther inside me flared to life. "Neither of us is clearing it. Whoever racks up more points wins. But what if… I pulled it off?"
Clearing a 10.86-star map would be legendary, but I had never even cleared a 10-star one. It was a colossal undertaking.
The track started. A tornado of notes erupted on screen, circles chasing each other like bullets in a bullet hell.
My fingers flew, the cursor chasing patterns with precision.
My technique, honed over hundreds of hours, kept me afloat, but my muscles were screaming, sweat stinging my eyes. "I can't keep this up."
The health bar was down to a single flickering pixel.
I was playing on pure instinct, mashing blindly, but I was still alive. "Hang in there, Christian."
Even the Panther's Eye couldn't keep pace with the speed—I had to keep re-dilating my pupils to trigger it.
The crowd was a distant roar, BTMC yelling something I couldn't make out. Then the screen went black.
Silence.
I had cleared the map.
The results popped up.
Pantera Grigia: 91.01%, 12 misses. One more and I would have died.
Ninerik: 83.29%, 23 misses—dead.
I had just set a world record.
The hall exploded, a roar that shook the walls.
BTMC screamed, "Pantera Grigia has done the impossible! He's cleared Through the Fire and Flames! This is history, ladies and gentlemen!"
I stared at the results over and over, almost unable to believe it, before it sank in that I had broken the record Mrekk had set the year before—one that had stood untouched until now.
Beyond the higher difficulty, the difference was that I had done it in a tournament, with LAN input lag. He had set his from home.
I stood up, legs wobbling. The second I pulled my right hand off the armrest, I lost balance and the room spun like a graphical glitch.
My bodyguards caught me just in time. "Mr. Iori! Are you okay?" they shouted, their voices mixing with the chaos of the hall and the crowd outside cheering the victory.
I caught a glimpse of Mrekk—mouth hanging open, eyes wide. "Even he can't believe I cleared it."
Then everything went dark, an icy chill wrapping around me head to toe.
I had passed out, overwhelmed by exhaustion.
When I opened my eyes again, fluorescent light stabbed through my eyelids. I was in a side room, a staff doctor checking my pulse.
"You're fine, Mr. Iori," he said in English with a heavy Japanese accent. "Just an energy crash. You needed rest."
I glanced at the clock: an hour and a half had passed since I collapsed.
The match had been paused due to my condition, but by the rules, if the player wasn't hospitalized, it was simply postponed.
Mrekk was beside me, grinning huge. "Nice one, champ!" he said, offering a fist bump. "I still can't believe you cleared Through the Fire and Flames. Unreal!"
I sat up, still groggy, and bumped his fist.
"Maybe you're the first real opponent I've had in years," Mrekk said, tone full of respect and challenge. "I didn't see that coming."
Right after I came to, once the last quarterfinal match wrapped up, Mrekk stood from his chair and announced, "Pantera Grigia is awake!"
About ten staff members rushed over to check on me, but I raised a hand.
"I'm good," I said, voice rough but firm. "I can keep going."
The score was tied 2-2. Time for the final round.
My pick.
I went with Redo, 8.61 stars—not too extreme, since I wasn't sure I could handle anything harder yet.
The track started slow and built into a whirlwind of super-fast flicks—my strong suit.
It only lasted 2:12 minutes, cutting down Ninerik's stamina advantage.
"This time I want to play clean. No tricks. Just me and my skill," I decided, leaving the chat blank.
I looked at Ninerik. He wasn't raging like in the earlier rounds. He had regained the clarity that had made him world number three.
I was about to face the real Ninerik—the one who had crushed me in the first two rounds—and this time with no help.
The track kicked off with a slow, rhythmic opening section—almost like a warm-up—where both Ninerik and I held a perfect 100% accuracy.
Then came the brutal part, an explosion of flicks that demanded inhuman reflexes.
My fingers flew, every click landing clean, every flick a burst of precision.
But on the very last flick, the stylus slipped too far right. "No!"
I missed a note—the final one.
The screen went dark.
"Please. Please," I kept repeating, hoping I hadn't thrown it all away at the end.
The results flashed up:
Winner - Pantera Grigia. 3-2.
Pantera Grigia: 98.97%, 1 miss.
Ninerik: 98.55%, 2 misses.
I exploded with joy. I had pulled it off. An impossible comeback.
The hall and the street outside erupted in applause, a wave of sound crashing over me.
BTMC shouted, "Pantera Grigia has pulled off an impossible comeback! First he breaks the star record, then he passes out, comes back, and earns his spot in the semifinal against Ivaxa! What a player!"
BAM!
Ninerik, furious, slammed his fist on the desk, leaving a visible dent.
He quickly packed up his gear, yanking out cables, and headed for the exit.
Before leaving, he grabbed his gray hoodie from the coat rack, slipped it on, and pulled the hood up, completely hiding his blond fringe.
Two bodyguards followed, trying to calm him down, but no one mentioned what happened next.
"When you win, you steal someone else's dream," I realized, the thought tightening my chest for a moment.
Mrekk clapped me on the shoulder. "Nice work, Christian. Now get through the semis. I can't wait to face you in the final!"
"Count on it," I replied, flashing a tired but determined smile.
Ivaxa pushed through the crowd with the rest of the hall, phone already in hand, dissecting the replay of Through the Fire and Flames.
"Christian, you have to tell me how you cleared a 10.86-star map!" he said, excited like he had done it himself.
"No way I'm telling you!" I shot back, laughing. "You're my next opponent!"
BTMC muscled his way over, mic in hand. "Christian, an interview right now would drive the community wild, but get some rest. Tomorrow we'll do the interview of the century!"
"Deal," I said, voice hoarse. "I'm heading to bed now. It's been one… insane day."
Then I added, craning my neck to see past the wall of people around me, trying to spot the window overlooking the street: "Has anyone seen Nijiro?"
Mrekk shrugged. "He might be down there at the entrance, watching the match. Or else he's wandering somewhere around Akihabara."
I said goodbye to Mrekk, Ivaxa, and BTMC, then left the building with the bodyguards in tow.
"Mr. Iori, are you sure about walking through the crowd?" one of them asked, concerned.
"Yeah," I said. "I need to find someone."
There, to the right—I spotted him. Nijiro was leaning against a streetlamp, away from the swarm of fans, like he knew I had come looking.
"Hey, Nijiro!" I called, walking over. "Thanks, seriously. Your plan worked." I held out my hand.
"Nah, we're in Japan. Bow," he replied with a smirk.
"You're right," I said, laughing as I gave an exaggerated bow. "You're a genius, you know that?"
"I told you back at the izakaya you'd win," he said, raising a hand in farewell. "Now go get some rest, Christian. Tomorrow's a big day."
"See you," I said, watching him head toward the parking lot where his Skyline R34 was waiting.
The bodyguards escorted me to my Uber, which took me back to the hotel.
In the lobby, Jessica, the receptionist, greeted me.
"Mr. Iori! Congratulations!" she said with a warm smile. "It's past midnight—it's July 6. We didn't cross paths yesterday; I was worried I might miss you."
"Thanks," I said, only then realizing it was my birthday. "With everything that happened, I completely forgot."
"I passed through Akihabara on my way to work," she went on, "and saw you on the giant screen. It was 2-2, but you were playing amazingly!"
"Yeah," I said, chuckling. "Broke a world record and passed out… intense night."
"Then get some rest," she said with a gentle nod. "Tomorrow is the big day."
"You're right," I said, feeling the weight of exhaustion but also a fire burning inside. "Tomorrow's the day I've always dreamed of. I have to shine."
In my room, I turned on my phone and got buried in notifications. Messages on Instagram, WhatsApp, Discord—my community was losing it.
Nijiro: «Happy birthday Christian! Didn't say it earlier because it wasn't midnight yet and that's bad luck.»
China: «Happy birthday champ! You okay? I saw you passed out.»
Mathew: «Happy birthday Christian! You crushed it—now finish the job and bring home the trophy!»
«Happy birthday Bomber!» John wrote last, with cake and confetti emojis.
Beyond the messages from my friends, tons more poured in on the Osu! community server, but I couldn't read them all—I needed rest for tomorrow.
I just sent a voice note: "Guys, thank you all! Today was insane: came back from behind, set a world record, passed out… but I'm still standing. Tomorrow semifinal against Ivaxa. Pantera Grigia doesn't stop—hold on tight!"
I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Tomorrow's the big day. I have to shine—for myself, for my community, and to prove to my dad it wasn't a waste of time."