Beep! Beep! Beep!
The alarm on my phone jolted me out of sleep at three in the morning.
I had only slept four hours, from eleven p.m. to three, but adrenaline was still pumping through my veins like I was in the middle of an eleven-star map.
"I did it. I won the Osu! World Cup." The thought made me almost shake as I got ready in the dim light of the hotel room.
I pulled on a black T-shirt and black pants—different from the ones I had worn the last few days, even if they looked pretty much identical.
I took everything out of my backpack that I wouldn't need for the day: clothes, keyboard, trophy, graphics tablet and the Osu! plush.
Finally I checked the bag: phone, charger, power bank, wallet, and a hoodie in case it got cold. "No stress today, just Kyoto."
The breakfast room was still closed—lights off, chairs upside-down on the tables, waiting.
"Guess we'll have to stop on the highway for breakfast," I thought as the elevator doors opened and I stepped into the lobby.
Jessica, the receptionist, saw me and smiled. "Mr. Iori, you did it! Who could have imagined you'd win the World Cup on your very first attempt? Congratulations!"
I blushed, scratching the back of my neck. "Well, all those hours grinding Osu! finally paid off," I said, trying to sound casual even though I barely believed it myself.
Just then, two people came down in the elevator.
It was Ivaxa and BTMC—one looking focused, already planning the day, the other with half-closed eyes like he was still in bed.
"Hey, guys!" I called, raising a hand.
"Hey," BTMC mumbled, voice rough from too little sleep.
"Morning, Christian," Ivaxa said, eyes glued to his phone as he checked traffic on Google Maps. "Four hours and forty-five minutes to Kyoto. Not much traffic at this hour."
"It's four in the morning, after all," I pointed out. "Speaking of, where's Mrekk? Isn't he with you?"
"He went down to get the car," Ivaxa said without looking up. "Said he'd wait for us in the parking lot."
BTMC didn't say a word—just collapsed onto a lobby couch, arms crossed, hoodie pulled up.
"Wake me when they get here," he muttered, closing his eyes and passing out again.
"How the hell does he fall asleep that fast?!" I said, stunned.
Ivaxa shrugged, a rare smile tugging at his mouth. "BTMC turns into a zombie if he doesn't get at least eight hours. He can fall back asleep in seconds."
We waited in silence for a few minutes, the lobby wrapped in an unreal quiet. Then a familiar roar made my ears prick up.
I stepped through the revolving door, waved goodbye to the receptionist, and the cool Tokyo air hit me, carrying the smell of asphalt and gasoline.
In the parking lot, Nijiro's Skyline was growling like a beast, the modified exhaust singing full-throated, while Mrekk's black Toyota Corolla looked almost invisible—silent and anonymous.
Nijiro climbed out of the Skyline. "Looks like you three actually woke up. Is BTMC still in bed or what?" he asked, laughing.
"Oh, shit!" Ivaxa and I said at the same time, eyes meeting.
"We left him in the lobby. Let's go get him," Ivaxa said, already heading back inside.
We went back in and found BTMC still on the couch, mouth half open, a thin line of drool running down his chin.
"He's not waking up," I said, shaking him uselessly. "Grab his legs—we'll carry him to the car."
"Okay," Ivaxa nodded, calm as ever, the same way he looked when studying a map.
We lifted him like a sack of potatoes—me at the arms, Ivaxa at the legs—and dragged him out, ignoring the puzzled looks from the receptionist and the porter.
Mrekk opened the Corolla's back door, and with a move that wasn't exactly graceful we tossed him in.
"All right, now we're all here!" Mrekk announced.
I got into the Skyline with Nijiro, while Ivaxa and a still half-unconscious BTMC settled into the Corolla with Mrekk.
Since the drive to Kyoto was long, we set up a Discord call to stay in touch.
My phone on speaker would carry their voices into the Skyline, and Ivaxa's would do the same in the Corolla.
We pulled out, the lights of Tokyo fading behind us as we hit the Tomei Expressway.
Nijiro's Skyline shot forward like a rocket, the speedometer hitting 220 km/h without breaking a sweat.
"If we keep this up, we'll get to Kyoto two hours early," I said, impressed.
Nijiro shrugged, hands steady on the wheel. "Not quite. I'm pushing it now because the highway's empty, but it'll fill up soon."
"And anyway, we have to wait for the others," he added. "With that Corolla, Mrekk will max out at a hundred km/h."
"Don't underestimate my Corolla!" Mrekk protested over the Discord call, his voice a little distorted by the speaker. "It's a sleeper beast!"
"Then try to keep up!" Nijiro challenged, laughing.
"Aren't you worried about getting a ticket at this speed?" I asked, half serious.
Nijiro grinned, a flash of confidence in his eyes. "In Japan, once you're over 180 km/h, the police won't chase you. It's in their rules: pursuing at those speeds would endanger other people just as much as the car they're chasing. It's an unwritten street-racing rule."
"What about a helicopter?" I pressed, still half serious.
"Possible, but unlikely," he answered. "In forty years of street racing, I've never once heard of them sending a helicopter after someone. Too expensive for a guy just blasting down the highway."
The drive went on, and as I stared out the window I asked, "Hey, Nijiro, how come Tokyo—the biggest, most crowded city on earth—has traffic, but it's never as bad as in other huge cities?"
"Owning a car in Japan isn't really worth it," he said. "Public transport works too well."
"And on top of that, you can't even buy one unless you prove you have a parking spot—and if you don't, you have to rent one," he added.
We kept talking, swapping stories about Japan, and with every one I fell a little more in love with the culture.
At 8 a.m. Nijiro and I pulled into the last service area before Kyoto, a place called Michi-no-Eki Yagi.
The lot opened up wide, ringed by green fields that stretched to the horizon.
At the far end, a row of low buildings with sloping roofs housed shops and restaurants, all connected by a gravel path that crunched underfoot.
The smell of damp grass mixed with sizzling yakitori and instant coffee, while the hum of a vending machine and the low chatter of a group of bikers made for a quiet soundtrack.
Before parking, Nijiro let me out. "Go grab a table. I'll fill up and park, then meet you inside."
"Got it, see you in a minute," I said, heading toward the entrance.
"It's huge," I thought, taking in the place. In Italy, rest stops were way smaller—cramped lots and bars charging insane prices for coffee.
This was a different world: a whole complex of shops selling everything from food stalls to Kyoto-themed souvenirs—Shinto good-luck charms, red torii keychains, tanuki figurines.
I snagged a table by the big window overlooking the parking lot so we would spot the others when they arrived.
While I waited for Nijiro, I opened Twitch to check my channel.
"Whoa!" I blurted, jumping up from my chair the second my profile loaded.
Luckily the only other people around were an elderly couple a few tables away, giving me puzzled looks. "Okay, Christian, chill."
Before the World Cup I had had about 2,500 followers. By the time I left for Japan, once word started spreading, I was up to 5,000. But now… "Thirty thousand followers?!" I thought, stunned. "This is insane."
Winning the World Cup had blown me up overnight.
Nijiro showed up and broke my train of thought. "Hey, you order yet?"
"Nah, I was waiting for you," I said, closing the apps running in the background. "By the way, how many followers do you have on Twitch?"
He sat down and flipped through a laminated menu. "Twitch is actually my smallest platform, only thirty-two thousand. Even though I placed fourth at the Apex Legends World Cup as IGL, people don't go crazy for strategists. The fraggers get all the glory."
"Don't say 'only' thirty-two thousand—that's still a ton!" I exclaimed. "I just saw I hit thirty thousand and I'm still shaking."
"You earned it, champ," Nijiro said with a nod. "So, what're you getting?"
"I think toast with butter and jam, plus a coffee," I said, pointing at the menu.
A waiter came over, and Nijiro ordered in smooth Japanese, translating for me.
The food arrived fast: my toast was perfectly crisp, the strawberry jam just the right kind of sweet, and the coffee hit like a shot of pure energy.
Nijiro's onigiri was wrapped in crunchy nori, with a bit of salmon peeking out.
After eating, I opened Discord to check the community.
The chat was still buzzing, riding the high from the win.
I typed: «Guys, thank you all! Just opened Twitch this morning and saw 30,000 followers! Kyoto today.»
StarClicker7 replied first: «Well-deserved trip. Have fun!»
China had sent a meme made with cracked Photoshop—me hoisting the trophy, with the caption «Pantera Grigia owns Akihabara» plastered across it.
Zenchidori wrote: «It's morning for you!? It's 3 p.m. here!»
Nijiro set down his coffee and nodded toward the lot. "They're finally here. I'll go get them before they spend ten minutes looking for us."
"I'll stay put," I said, still scrolling the chat.
A couple minutes later Mrekk, Ivaxa, and BTMC walked in, the last one looking like he had been dragged out of bed all over again.
"Here we are," Mrekk announced, dropping into a seat. "Gas here is brutal—I spent ten thousand yen filling up, thinking about the drive back too. I was crying."
"Eh, I've seen worse prices," I said, trying to cheer him up. "BTMC, you're finally awake! You didn't say a word on the call earlier."
"Yeah, but I would've slept more if Ivaxa hadn't shaken me," BTMC grumbled.
Nijiro jumped in, setting down the menu. "About what to see—I say we start with Fushimi Inari-taisha. At this hour there won't be many people, but by early afternoon it gets so packed it's unbearable."
"Oh! I think I know it," I said. "The place with thousands of red gates making a path up the hills, right?"
"Pretty much," Nijiro said with a smile.
"Works for me as the first stop," Mrekk said.
"Same here," Ivaxa added.
"Me too," I said, pumped.
BTMC, who had just demolished a bowl of ramen and three coffees, suddenly perked up. "I'm in!"
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Mrekk teased, slapping him on the shoulder. "Needed three coffees to boot up your OS?"
"All right, it's settled then. First stop, the shrine," Nijiro said as we stood up, ready to head out.
The sun was already high, the sky a flawless blue without a single cloud in sight.
We piled back into the cars—the Skyline growling out front, the Corolla lagging behind—and about forty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of Fushimi Inari-taisha.
It was 10:30, and the lot was already scattered with tourists, though not yet as packed as Nijiro had worried it would be.
"If you'd gotten here earlier, we'd have had the place practically to ourselves," Nijiro said as he stepped out of the Skyline.
"If you buy me a car like yours, I'd have been here in no time," Mrekk fired back, pulling the Corolla in beside us.
Kyoto's cool air enveloped us, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
Right in front of us rose the shrine entrance, crowned by a massive vermilion gate that felt like a doorway to another world.
Beyond it, the main hall peeked through, its sloping roof framed by rows of stone lanterns standing like silent guards.
To the left, a path led to the famous Senbon Torii—the tunnel of thousands of red gates winding up Mount Inari.
Everything felt peaceful: birds chirping, leaves whispering in the breeze.
"Wow," I whispered, trailing Nijiro as he guided us toward the main hall like a proper tour guide.
"Fushimi Inari is dedicated to Inari, the god of rice, commerce, and prosperity," he explained. "Each gate is a donation from businesses or families praying for good fortune. There are over ten thousand of them."
"Ten thousand?!" Mrekk said, one eyebrow shooting up. "And we're supposed to walk through every single one?"
"Not quite," Nijiro laughed. "The main loop takes about two hours round trip, but we can turn around halfway. Depends how in shape you guys are."
"I'm a pro gamer, not a marathon runner," BTMC muttered, though his eyes betrayed real curiosity—probably fueled by those three coffees.
"Walking the whole thing's no big deal for me," I said. "I've always loved long hikes—usually fast-paced ones—but I can slow down for you all."
Ivaxa glanced at his watch. "If we start now, we'll be back by twelve-thirty. Perfect timing for lunch."
We approached the main hall, where a handful of worshippers bowed before the altar, clapping twice in ritual.
We followed suit, Nijiro showing us how.
"First you purify yourselves," he said, nodding toward a fountain with a long bamboo ladle. "Wash your hands and rinse your mouth—but don't drink straight from the ladle."
"Okay, but if I mess it up, do they kick me out of the shrine?" Mrekk joked as we carefully poured water over our hands.
"Not exactly," Nijiro said. "But it's better to act respectfully in a sacred place."
After the ritual, we headed toward the Senbon Torii.
The path began as a dense tunnel of bright red gates, so close together they formed a glowing corridor, each one inscribed in bold black kanji with the names of donors.
Sunlight filtered through the gaps, casting shifting patterns of shadow and orange.
Our footsteps crunched on gravel, mingling with rustling leaves and the distant caw of a crow, giving the whole place an otherworldly feel.
"This is unreal," I said, taking it all in.
"Yeah," Mrekk agreed, lifting his phone to snap a few pictures.
We kept climbing, the trail winding through trees where the gates occasionally thinned, revealing small moss-covered stone altars.
Every so often we passed other visitors: a Japanese family with a kid darting between the torii, a cluster of American tourists firing off photos, a Shinto priest in white robes who nodded as we went by.
The higher we got, the cooler the air felt, thick with pine and the faint smoke of incense drifting from a nearby shrine.
After about half an hour we reached a fork with a viewing platform that opened up a breathtaking panorama of Kyoto below—a patchwork of traditional tiled roofs on one side, modern buildings on the other.
We decided to take a break, settling onto the benches.
Nijiro pulled a water bottle from his bag, took a swig, then said, "Guys, let's get a group photo under the torii—something to remember this week together."
"Sounds good to me," Mrekk said.
"I'll go find a tourist to take it for us—you guys get in position," Nijiro said, heading back down the path.
Five minutes later he returned with the Japanese family we had seen earlier.
"I'll use my phone, then send it to everyone," he said, stepping into place among the gates.
The mother smiled as she snapped the picture.
"Arigatou gozaimasu," Nijiro said with a bow.
The father bowed even deeper in return, and I thought, "It's like a contest to see who can go lower."
We started walking again, the trail growing steeper now, stone steps testing everyone's legs.
"If you're struggling here, you'd have no chance in Italy," I said, laughing. "I grew up in a valley surrounded by mountains. That's where I built up my legs."
"I grew up in flat-as-a-board America—couldn't see a hill even with binoculars," BTMC huffed. "Easy for you."
We reached another smaller shrine ringed by stone fox statues—the messengers of Inari.
Nijiro explained that the foxes, or kitsune, were sacred spirits, and many wore red bibs tied around their necks by worshippers.
"You can leave an offering or write a wish on an ema plaque," he said, pointing to a rack of wooden tablets covered in kanji and other languages.
"I'm in," I said, buying one from a nearby kiosk.
I thought about it for a couple of minutes, then wrote in Italian: «Thanks for the victory. May the future bring me more experiences as great as this one.»
I hung it on the rack, next to wishes written in Japanese, English, and even Russian.
"What'd you write?" Mrekk asked, curious.
"A thank-you for the World Cup," I said, feeling a little embarrassed. "And a hope for the future."
"Nice clutch," Ivaxa said approvingly as he wrote on his own plaque. He didn't show us what it said, but the smile on his face made it clear it was something personal.
BTMC grinned as he scribbled on his: «Qualify for the World Cup instead of just commentating it.»
"Realistic goal," he said, hanging it up.
Nijiro shook his head, laughing. "You guys are hopeless. But Inari's gonna appreciate the vibe."
At 11:45 we decided to head back down; the path grew easier as we descended.
The tunnel of torii wrapped around us again, the bright vermilion seeming to throb under the midday sun.
By the time we reached the parking lot, the shrine was filling up with tourists, exactly as Nijiro had predicted.
"See? Packed already," he said, nodding toward the crowd. "Good call coming early."
"We're ten minutes behind. It's already 12:40!" Ivaxa pointed out.
"Eh, relax, we're not in a rush. I booked it for 1:00," Nijiro said with a shrug. "The important thing is enjoying the experience."
"You're right," I chimed in. "It's not about cramming in as many spots as possible—it's about making the most of the time we have."
"Well said, Christian. You've been paying attention," Nijiro said, giving me a pat on the shoulder.
"Sensei, where're you taking us for lunch?" Mrekk asked, teasing.
"We're heading to a nearby spot that does kaiseki—real traditional Kyoto cuisine. Get ready for a five-star experience," he said excitedly.
"Kaiseki? Like fancy sushi?" I asked as I climbed into the Skyline.
"Way more than that," Nijiro replied with a cryptic smile. "You'll see."