The Taito Station was a blazing arena, a burst of pink neon lighting up the Osu! logo on the massive central screen.
The hum of the competition PCs' fans blended with the roar of the crowd crammed behind the glass walls—a sea of fans in official Osu! t-shirts, waving banners that read "Pantera Grigia" and "Mrekk."
Outside, the streets of Akihabara were chaos: thousands of people watching the giant screens, their cheers making the pavement shake.
The air was thick with sweat, adrenaline, and the smell of overheating cables.
My heart was pounding. I was one step from victory, one breath from proving to my dad that video games weren't a waste of time and, above all, from not having to give up my PC and my community.
I was at my station, the Wacom CTL-472 pen gripped tight between sweaty fingers, the 360Hz monitor flickering under the cold lights.
Across from me sat Mrekk, the world number one, a living legend unbeaten for four years.
His dark brown eyes gleamed with confidence, a faint smirk that said: "You're good, but not good enough to beat me."
I was Christian Iori, a fifteen-year-old Italian who, just three years earlier, had been playing on a beat-up Switch—the outsider who had turned the scene upside down, taking down Freezes, Gnahus, Ninerik, and Ivaxa with strategies no one had seen in Osu!'s eighteen-year history. Now I was one step from the top.
BTMC grabbed the mic, his voice slicing through the air. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final of the 2025 Osu! World Cup!" he boomed, his Hawaiian shirt covered in musical notes glowing under the spotlights. "Pantera Grigia, the Italian who's shattered impossible records, versus Mrekk, the undisputed king! Get ready for a battle that'll rewrite history!"
The chat on the official Osu! Twitch and YouTube streams was pure madness: panther emojis, flames, messages flying by too fast to read.
«W Pantera,» my fans typed.
«W Mrekk,» spammed most of the viewers.
My community—China, Mathew, John, and thousands of others—was going wild. I could feel their support through the screen, a wave pushing me past my limits.
The matches against Freezes, Gnahus, Ninerik, and Ivaxa had forged me. I had cleared 10-star maps and used unconventional strategies that stunned even the veterans.
The draw gave Mrekk first pick. He leaned toward his monitor, cursor darting through the song list like a predator.
The big screen revealed his choice: The Pretender, 10.41 stars, 350 BPM.
A brutal map, a whirlwind of lightning-fast flicks and treacherous sliders designed to break anyone—except him and me.
I took a deep breath, the pen trembling slightly in my hand. "Don't think about the bet with Dad. Don't think about the PC, the community. Just do it."
I scooted farther back from the monitor, activating Panther Eye, dilating my pupils and locking my gaze on all four edges of the screen without ever losing the center.
I was ready.
The Pretender blasted in my headphones, a tornado of notes swallowing me whole.
Circles fell like bullets, sliders twisting like snakes, my fingers flying.
Mrekk was a machine: every flick perfect, every slider smooth, his score climbing without a single waver.
I was right there with him, combo rising—300, 400, 500—flawless.
The hum of the fans was drowned out by the crowd's roar, growing louder with every crucial hit.
BTMC shouted: "Unbelievable! Pantera Grigia and Mrekk are neck and neck—no one's pulling away!"
Halfway through, a 350 BPM flick pattern tested me.
The pen slipped, sweat stinging my eyes. "Don't miss."
I smashed every circle with fury, combo at 800.
Mrekk was right there, his score just points behind mine.
The final minute was hell: tiny circles alternating with blistering sliders.
My muscles screamed, my wrist burned, but I kept going.
The screen went dark, silence heavy as stone, then the results appeared:
Mrekk: 99.92%, 0 miss.
Pantera Grigia: 99.90%, 0 miss.
Mrekk had won by a hair.
1-0.
The street erupted, half the crowd for Mrekk, half for me, while the players in the hall burst into thunderous applause.
Chat was chaos:
«Mrekk too strong,» wrote Rejson.
«Pantera don't give up,» Gher540 encouraged me.
I wiped the sweat from my face, heart hammering. "He's number one for a reason. But it's not over."
My turn. I had to hit hard, play to my fast flicks.
I picked No Title, 10.47 stars, 330 BPM—a map I had cleared that morning with 93.70%.
We had both passed it before. It was just about who performed better.
The map started, an explosion of notes wrapping around me like a storm.
Circles rained down at inhuman speed, my cursor was lightning, every flick a perfect strike.
Mrekk wouldn't let up, his cursor fluid, but halfway through he mistimed the first circle of a stream, dragging the next four with him before recovering—only 50% accuracy on those circles, a half-miss.
"I can do this!" I thought, pushing even harder than before.
Combo climbing—500, 600, 700—no mistakes.
The crowd chanted: "Pan-te-ra! Pan-te-ra!"
BTMC shouted: "Pantera Grigia takes the lead, Mrekk trailing!"
At the end of the map, the screen went dark, then the results appeared:
Pantera Grigia: 100%, 0 miss.
Mrekk: 99.91%, 0 miss.
I had just landed my first SS on a 10-star map.
1-1.
The hall erupted, a wall of sound that rattled the glass walls.
BTMC cried: "Pantera Grigia ties it up! An SS on No Title—first ever on the global leaderboard!"
Mrekk shot me a look, a mix of respect and fire in his eyes.
His turn. He picked Big Blue, 10.28 stars, 335 BPM—a map packed with treacherous sliders that I had practiced that morning.
"Lucky he's choosing maps I've already played," I thought. "He should've studied me harder, like Ivaxa did."
The map started, a pounding rhythm vibrating through my bones.
Circles appeared at breakneck speed, sliders demanding absolute control.
Mrekk and I were flawless, our combos climbing in perfect sync—200, 300, 400.
Chat was losing it:
«No one's missing!» Buckaroo wrote.
«Epic!» Burbour typed.
Three minutes in, a double-speed slider pattern threw me off. The pen slipped, but I corrected at the last second, holding the combo.
Mrekk was a shadow, his cursor dancing without a single hesitation.
The crowd held its breath. BTMC shouted: "Neck and neck! No room for error!"
The final pattern was a nightmare: tiny circles alternating with lightning-fast sliders.
My fingers flew, the cursor chasing every note with surgical precision.
My wrist was on fire, but I pushed on. "I can't keep this up!"
It was the third straight 10-star map, but at least I had rested earlier—otherwise I would have collapsed like I nearly did against Ninerik.
The screen went dark. The results flashed:
Mrekk: 100%, 0 miss.
Pantera Grigia: 100%, 0 miss.
A perfect tie.
The entire crowd sat stunned; after a few seconds of silence, thunderous applause broke out for that insane performance.
BTMC stammered: "Unbelievable! Both SS, 100% accuracy! This has never happened." He paused, then added: "Now what? I don't remember all the tournament rules…"
There were a few minutes of break while I rested my fingers, watching BTMC rush around the hall talking to staff.
Finally, he came back to the couches, grabbed the mic, and announced: "By the rules, this round doesn't count! We're moving to an extra round, round 3-bis, picked by the player who didn't select the third-round map: so, Pantera Grigia!"
The crowd went wild at the news, thrilled to get a longer final than usual.
I wasn't nearly as happy: my fingers were already aching, and dragging this out only made things worse for me.
My pick. I was exhausted, but adrenaline kept me going.
I chose Marshmary, 9.16 stars, 290 BPM—the map that broke Ivaxa. "I can't handle four 10-stars in a row, and I don't think Mrekk can either."
My fast flicks were a deadly weapon, and I wanted to hit Mrekk where I was strongest.
The map kicked off, a whirlwind of flicks dragging me in like a wave.
Mrekk was relentless, crushing circles with millimeter precision, but halfway through he hesitated on a jump pattern. Miss.
My combo climbed—500, 600, 700—no mistakes.
The crowd roared: "Pan-te-ra! Pan-te-ra!"
BTMC shouted: "Pantera Grigia pulls ahead! Mrekk's feeling the pressure!"
The screen went dark, then the results:
Pantera Grigia: 99.98%, 0 miss.
Mrekk: 99.87%, 1 miss.
2-1 to me.
The hall exploded, a roar that shook the glass.
BTMC cried: "Pantera Grigia takes the lead! One point from victory!"
My turn again, since the round I had picked was the extra for round 3. Now, as scheduled, I got to choose the fourth-round map.
A bold idea hit me.
I would pick an insanely hard map and, once it started, just stop playing—letting Mrekk tire himself out alone.
The strategy would only work on a map with no breaks, so he wouldn't have time to check the leaderboard.
I selected Quaver, 10.88 stars, 370 BPM. Only 2:15 long, but nonstop slaughter.
The map began. I handled the slow first 20 seconds—the only window where Mrekk might notice I wasn't playing. Then I stopped.
He kept going, cursor flying without a pause.
After a minute, with score piling up, he stopped too.
He stood and walked slowly to my station, staring me down.
"Thought you could trick me that easily?" he said, laughing. "You think I haven't studied you? Now I get why you're so strong."
Confused, the music drowning out his words, I stammered: "What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb. You can focus on the whole screen too, just like me." He laughed. "My technique's more refined than yours. You thought I wouldn't notice the leaderboard?"
I shot to my feet. "How's that even possible?!"
BTMC shouted: "The two finalists are talking, but we can't hear a thing!"
Meanwhile the map ended, and Mrekk returned to his station.
We were tied 2-2.
His pick now, and I was scared.
At lunch, I had caught his hesitation: he had probably realized he wasn't the only one with that technique, and it rattled him.
The big screen showed his choice: Galaxy Collapse, 11.02 stars, 380 BPM. A legendary map, a monster no one had ever cleared. "Now it gets real."
Fear gripped my chest. "If I lose, I'll carry this regret forever. And I'll have to quit Osu!."
I thought of my community, Nijiro, my dad, my friends. I had to win—for them, for me, for my passion.
The map started, a tornado of notes that looked ready to shatter the screen.
Circles rained down like meteors, sliders weaving impossible patterns at inhuman speed.
My fingers flew, the cursor chasing every note with a precision I didn't know I had.
Mrekk was right there, score climbing step by step, a fight to the death.
Halfway through, a 380 BPM pattern made me shake.
The pen slipped, sweat burning my eyes. "Don't miss."
I hammered every circle with fury, combo at 800.
Mrekk faltered on a slider but corrected at the last second.
The crowd was a roar. BTMC shouted: "Pantera Grigia and Mrekk are doing the impossible! No one's ever cleared an 11-star!"
The final minute was bullet hell: tiny circles, sliders at insane speeds.
My fingers screamed, my wrist burned, but I kept going—the panther in me roaring louder than ever.
Mrekk was a shadow, his cursor dancing with otherworldly fluidity.
We were neck and neck, scores flickering on the big screen.
The last pattern was a brutal crescendo, a storm of notes defying physics.
I hit every circle with fierce determination, but we both made mistakes.
Victory would go to whoever messed up less.
For three endless seconds the screen stayed black, then the results finally appeared:
Pantera Grigia: 93.12%, 5 miss.
Mrekk: 92.98%, 6 miss.
We had cleared the 11-star version of Galaxy Collapse—the first time in Osu! history.
I slumped back against the chair, sliding backward.
Then I pinched my cheek: I wasn't dreaming. "I did it. I won."
BTMC cried: "Pantera Grigia and Mrekk have cleared an 11-star! Pantera Grigia takes the round! 3-2! He's the world champion!"
I stood, legs buckling, the world spinning like a graphics glitch.
The crowd screamed, banners with my panther waving everywhere.
Chat was a flood of emojis: panthers, trophies, Italian flags.
«Pantera champion,» Boolif typed.
«W Pantera,» Chaco wrote.
Mrekk walked over, offering his hand with a tired but genuine smile.
"You're the first to beat me in four years, Christian," he said. "My technique might be more polished, but you had more determination. We made history together."
"Thanks," I replied, shaking his hand, the fear finally fading. "You're a legend, Mrekk. I didn't think I could do it."
BTMC dragged me in front of the camera, near the couches, mic in hand. "Christian, you're the world champion! What do you want to say to everyone?"
I looked straight into the lens. "Thanks to everyone who believed in me. You've been my strength. Dad…" My voice cracked. "I did it. This is for you. For me. For Italy."
The crowd's cheers grew even louder during my speech, while passersby outside had no idea what was happening.
Two staff members brought out the trophy: a golden cup with the Osu! logo and matching wings, about 50 centimeters tall.
I raised it, and the crowd exploded; then I lowered it, raised it again, and the roar grew even louder.
I had done it. I had won the World Cup—and with it, the bet with my dad. Now I could keep my PC and keep streaming, and that was honestly the best part of the victory.
I had also become the youngest player ever to win the Osu! World Cup, at exactly 15 years old.
"Guess this trophy is my birthday present," I thought, staring at it.
After two hours of celebrations—photos, interviews, and moments with fans, way more people than had shown up the day before the tournament—it was already eight in the evening.
I went to dinner with the whole group: Nijiro, Mrekk, Ivaxa, and BTMC, who had ended the stream.
We sat in a restaurant on the top floor of a building in Shibuya, the twentieth floor, with a breathtaking view of the city sparkling below us, just like from my hotel room.
"Well done, champ," Nijiro said with a nod.
"Congrats!" Ivaxa added, raising a glass.
BTMC leaned forward. "Thanks, guys. You gave everyone an unforgettable final, and I managed to do my job perfectly."
"We also hit a new viewership record—over 100,000 during the final. Insane!" he added.
Mrekk laughed. "You talk like you're the event coordinator who at least gets paid, while you're doing it for free."
"Exactly," I said, laughing too.
Mrekk laughed even harder. "Next time try qualifying instead of commentating."
We all burst out laughing—except BTMC, who took it personally.
"It's not my fault!" he shot back. "I always run into strong players. Actually, this time it was worse: I got knocked out because of Christian, who went on to win the whole thing. You get it?"
Nijiro announced: "Tonight we celebrate—I'm covering it! But don't make me spend too much, or I'll leave my wallet here."
Mrekk grinned. "Too late. I'm ordering the most I can."
I ordered a perfectly grilled and cooked wagyu beef tagliata, served on a bed of rice with cherry tomatoes, sesame seeds, and teriyaki sauce on top.
"This is amazing!" I exclaimed, savoring a bite.
"No wonder," Nijiro said. "You see the price? 17,000 yen."
"Expensive, but the cut is perfect and the meat quality is too!" I replied, almost like a real connoisseur.
We finished eating, and I asked Nijiro curiously: "How much did you spend?"
"120,000 yen," he answered with a sigh. "But it's fine. Money spent on good food is never wasted."
I laughed. "I don't know how you have the nerve to take us to a place like this and drop 700 euros."
Nijiro put a hand on my shoulder. "I told you, today we're celebrating the new Osu! legend. Price doesn't matter."
Right after, we started planning the next day.
"I don't have an exact schedule," Nijiro said, "but we leave at four in the morning for Kyoto. It's five hours by car, so we can explore in the morning too."
"Sounds good," I said, "but I'm heading to bed now—no late night."
"Me too," Ivaxa added.
"Then everyone to bed early," Nijiro said. "And don't forget the alarm!"
We said goodbye in front of the Skyline R32. "Now head back to the hotel and get a good night's sleep," Nijiro said as he got in the car. "See you tomorrow!"
"Bye!" the four of us replied, walking toward the Cerulean Tower Tokyu Hotel, just a few minutes away.
Once back at the hotel, I noticed Jessica wasn't on duty yet—it was too early, her shift hadn't started.
In my room, I set the trophy on the nightstand and turned on my phone. Notifications everywhere: Instagram, Discord, WhatsApp. My community was losing it.
China: «Great match, totally deserved win!»
Mathew: «You did it, champ! You made history!»
John spammed emojis: panthers, trophies, Italian flags.
I decided to join the public voice channel on the server, where 54 people were already hanging out.
"Hey everyone, how's it going? Thanks from the bottom of my heart for cheering me on from the start and believing in me! We brought it home!"
The voice channel exploded—everyone started talking over each other, so I had no choice but to leave.
I collapsed onto the bed, the trophy beside me.
I stared at the ceiling, a smile cracking my lips. "Dad, now you'll understand. It wasn't a waste of time—all the dedication I put in paid off."
The next day I would be going to Kyoto for my birthday, and I couldn't wait. I closed my eyes, buzzing with excitement for the adventure ahead.
The top was mine.