Five days after qualifying for the Osu! World Cup, the last days of school before summer break had finally arrived. It was early June, and the summer air was already carrying me straight to Tokyo.
Outside my window, the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the heat rising off the asphalt, calling up visions of neon lights, ancient temples, and eight-star maps spinning through my head.
Only three people at school knew about my win: Mathew, John, and China.
China wasn't in my class—he was in his final year and had his exams coming up in just a few days.
He was four years older than me and always one step ahead, especially when it came to the pirated software he pulled from some shady forum nobody else knew about.
An eighty-thousand-euro prize pool, with twenty thousand for the winner, was serious money, but I had decided to keep it quiet.
I didn't want the news spreading through the hallways and turning me into "that kid who games instead of studying".
The day after the stream that put me in the top thirty-two, Mathew and John were ready to shout it from the rooftops.
"Are you insane, Iori?" Mathew burst out, eyes gleaming like his 24-inch monitor. "You destroyed Lifeline and BTMC! You're a legend now!"
John, all puppy-dog excitement, was nodding so hard I thought his head might fly off.
I cut them off with a sharp gesture. "Keep it quiet," I said, voice low and firm. "Got it? This stays between us. I don't want any drama."
I didn't want to be the hot gossip. Teachers would side-eye me, classmates would crack dumb jokes.
Not that I was bad at school. I was top in English and math, even beating the kids who lived with their noses in textbooks.
Most subjects I could pick up with one quick read, like my brain was built to download school stuff fast.
Gaming was my world, my sanctuary, and I would protect it no matter what.
The tournament was set for July 5, flight booked for July 2 at five-thirty in the morning.
I had a month to get ready—a month to turn Panther's Sight, the vision that had let me beat Lifeline, into something deadly.
This wasn't about grinding circles like everyone else or farming maps for hours.
I wanted to sharpen the technique: see the whole screen, read every pattern, and keep cranking up the difficulty.
Every night I locked myself in my room and gripped the stylus of my Wacom CTL-472 like a katana.
Every click was a step closer to Tokyo; every combo was a push to make my style unmistakable.
The Twitch chat and Discord server had become family. Every stream was pure energy, a chorus of digital voices driving me forward, daring me to break my own limits.
"Iori, keep going like this and you'll crush Mrekk!" China told me during a server call.
«That combo was insane!» John typed—he had to write because his headset was busted and he couldn't talk on Discord.
«Pantera, you're a beast! That pattern was ridiculous!» RhythmSlayer99 wrote, the regular who never missed a stream.
I would smile at the screen, but inside a knot tightened in my stomach.
There was a huge problem. I still hadn't told my family I was going to Japan.
It wasn't just about the ticket or packing a bag. It was dread—pure dread—of how they would take it.
My dad would probably snort, eyebrow raised: "Christian, you? Japan? To do what—play games?"
My mom, with those worried eyes and the tone she used whenever she caught me glued to the monitor too long, would say, "But it's dangerous! You're just a kid!"
The more I thought about it, the faster my heart raced. But I had a plan—or at least I kept telling myself it was solid.
If I told them the flight and hotel were covered by the tournament, and that I would come home with at least a thousand euros—or, if luck was on my side, the full twenty thousand for first place—maybe I would have a shot.
June 14 I finally did it. It was a sticky Saturday afternoon; the humidity glued my shirt to my back like a second skin.
After a brutal three-hour session—eight-star maps until my fingers throbbed with their own pulse—I headed to the living room table where dinner was waiting.
The smell of freshly delivered pizza filled the air, stringy cheese blending with oregano and tomato.
Dad sat at the head of the table, shirt unbuttoned at the collar; Mom was handing out the pies.
I finished the third slice of my tuna-and-onion pizza, feeling the warm mozzarella settle in my stomach, and took a deep breath. Now or never.
"Dad, Mom," I started, voice shaking just a little. "There's something important I need to tell you."
Mom stopped slicing her pizza. Her eyes pinned me under a spotlight.
"Go on, Christian," she said, soft but curious—the tone she used when she smelled something big.
Dad looked up from his plate, eyebrow already arched, ready to fire an objection.
I breathed in again, heart pounding. "I qualified for an Osu! tournament," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I'm one of the top thirty-two in the world. They've invited me to Tokyo for the World Cup on July 5. Hotel and flight are already booked, but the final go-ahead depends on you."
I went straight to the point: "The prize pool is eighty thousand euros. First place gets twenty thousand, but even last place walks away with a thousand."
Silence. Thirty seconds of dead silence, broken only by the fridge's hum.
Mom's eyes went wide, her hand still clutching the knife.
My dad wiped the sauce from his lip with a napkin, moving slow, like he was thinking it through. Then he let out a sigh that carried years of the same old arguments.
"So you really can make something of yourself playing video games…" he said, voice thick with frustration and disbelief, like he was conceding a point he never wanted to give. "Who'd have ever thought."
He paused, eyes scanning me like he was hunting for a glitch in my code.
"I'll give you one chance, Christian," he went on, setting the napkin down.
"If you come home with the top prize—twenty thousand euros, right?—I won't ever say video games are a waste of time again. But if you come back with just the thousand, that money's mine, and you're done with that PC. No more streams, no more tournaments, no more games. Deal?"
My heart stopped for a second. This was a bet bigger than any clutch in Valorant or combo in Osu!.
Win, and I would have his approval—proof my dream wasn't insane. Lose, and I would lose everything: the PC, the streams, my life as Pantera Grigia.
I glanced at Mom; she looked ready to object, but Dad raised a hand to quiet her.
I weighed it, brain running every outcome like I was reviewing a replay.
Then, throat tight but something burning in my chest, I nodded. "Okay, I'm in," I said, keeping my voice steady.
Mom turned to Dad, eyebrows drawn together. "Are you sure about sending our son halfway around the world?" she asked, worry cracking her voice enough to almost shake me.
Dad shrugged, a bitter half-smile on his face. "We've got a bet now—I can't back out."
"Besides, relax," he added, reaching for another slice. "Mid-July, when Christian gets back from Japan, we'll have an extra thousand euros and he'll finally stop wasting time on those pointless games."
The words cut deep, but I stayed quiet. This wasn't the moment to fight. It was the moment to prove him wrong.
The next month blurred past in a whirlwind of practice, streams, and pure adrenaline.
Every night after dinner I shut myself in my room, headphones blasting Osu! tracks, monitor bathing my face in cold light.
The Wacom had become an extension of me; the stylus moved with a precision that almost scared me.
Nine-star maps that had felt impossible a month earlier—I was now clearing them at 98% accuracy.
That vision, the one that let me take in the whole screen, sharpened day by day.
I had climbed the rankings: first in Italy, seventh worldwide. Only Mrekk, the undisputed number one, stayed ahead, farming ten-star maps with inhuman ease.
Ivaxa and I owned the nine-stars, but the guy at the top was something else entirely. A monster.
The night before I left, July 1, I packed my bag. I had spent the whole afternoon on Osu! and totally forgotten about it.
My room was controlled chaos: cables snaking across the floor, empty energy-drink cans stacked like trophies, monitor still glowing with the last map I had played.
I threw in a couple of short-sleeve tees and shorts—my usual uniform. For the plane's AC, I added a black hoodie.
Everything black, the color I always wore.
I wrapped the Wacom CTL-472 in a soft cloth, then slid it into its hard case.
Next to it went my mechanical keyboard—a Wooting 60HE with 0.1-millisecond response time—and three protein bars to fight the jet lag.
I tucked in a small good-luck charm: a 100-yen coin China had given me, picked up at some Japanese import shop. "It'll bring luck," he had said.
I zipped the bag shut. Zrrrr—the thin sound cut through the heavy quiet.
At two in the morning, while the house slept, Dad got up to drive me to Milan Malpensa, two hours away.
I watched him pull on his jacket, face tired but touched with curiosity, like part of him actually wanted to see how this craziness would play out.
His words still echoed: "You'll stop wasting time on those pointless games."
I clenched my fists, anger and resolve mixing together. I wasn't flying to Tokyo just to win a tournament.
I was going to prove my dream wasn't a waste. That I wasn't a waste.
Before heading out, I stopped at the entryway mirror. My reflection stared back: deep shadows under my eyes like battle scars, short wavy black hair a total mess.
I ran a hand through it, trying to make it look halfway decent.
Then I met my own gaze—dark green eyes that gleamed under the dim light with something I couldn't hold back.
"Next time I look in this mirror," I whispered to myself, "I'd better have twenty thousand euros in my pocket, or it's over."
We loaded the bag into our Volkswagen Tiguan; the engine purred softly in the night stillness.
Streetlights blurred past the window as I pictured the Tokyo stage: blinding lights, thousands of spectators, my cursor flying across the screen.
Dad drove without speaking, his face flickering in the glow of passing headlights.
"I'll drop you here," he said when we reached the airport parking, voice calm but edged with that same challenge, like he already knew he had won the bet.
He turned back toward the car, lifting a hand in a quick wave that said: "Go show me what you've got."
He was short on time—he had work and couldn't risk the unpredictable traffic.
So, without another word, he started the engine and pulled away, gone in moments.
I stood alone, bag on my shoulder, cool dawn air brushing my face.
I stepped through the airport doors into the early bustle: drowsy travelers dragging suitcases, announcements echoing in Italian and English, bright screens flashing gates and times.
Everything was in my hands now. I pulled up my ticket on my phone and headed for check-in.
Time to show the world—and my dad—how strong I really was. Tokyo was waiting, and I was ready to take it, one click at a time.