Late July, Tokyo sweltered under sticky summer heat, like molten asphalt coating the city.
As summer vacation began, outside a major Sega-partnered arcade in Shinjuku, a buzzing crowd drowned out nearby construction noise.
Sweat, smoke, and the aroma of grilled squid mingled in the heatwave, creating a peculiar scent.
A massive external TV screen set up by Sega showcased Fatal Fury's fierce battles, captivating passersby.
The crowd was a dense mass—teens on tiptoes, girls encircled by boyfriends' arms, curious faces, even salarymen with briefcases, likely skipping work.
Click! Click!
Camera flashes popped as reporters, lugging equipment, struggled through the throng to capture this unusual fervor.
At the arcade entrance, a simple barrier held back the crowd. Sega-vested staff shouted hoarsely, sweat soaking their backs.
"Please line up to enter!"
"Competitors, register here!"
Their voices drowned in the buzzing chatter.
Inside, air conditioning eased the heat, but the tension was palpable.
The competition area, cordoned by red velvet ropes, lined up dozens of Fatal Fury machines.
Players, mostly young, wore expressions of nerves, excitement, and intense focus.
Each precise combo, clutch defense, or flashing special move sparked gasps and chatter from the crowd.
"Nice! That 'Power Wave' dodge was clean!"
"This Terry's playstyle is so aggressive—total control."
Hakuya stood in the waiting area, in his faded high school uniform.
His palms, sweaty and slick, gripped tightly.
The noise, the scrolling match list on the overhead screen, and the curious or judging stares pounded his heart like drumbeats, quickening its pace.
A mix of unease and exhilaration coursed through him.
Finally, the announcer called his name and match number.
Hakuya inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and walked to an open machine, trying to keep his steps steady.
He inserted a warmed coin, its clink crisp. The character select screen lit up.
His opponent, a twenty-something with a cigarette, eyed him with a veteran's casual scrutiny, a faint smirk on his lips.
"ROUND 1, FIGHT!"
As the match began, Hakuya's focus blocked out everything but Andy Bogard on the screen.
He tried recalling his notebook—opponent's likely openers, his counters.
But in the first round, he fumbled, his brain and fingers out of sync.
The opponent's slick, seasoned playstyle landed attacks in Hakuya's move gaps.
Andy fell back, and soon, "Defeat" flashed on the screen.
Hakuya barely landed decent combos.
The crowd sighed softly; someone muttered, "Tch, too green."
Before the second round's countdown, Hakuya closed his eyes.
Not giving up—his mind raced.
The opponent's go-to moves—what were the flaws? His notes on frame data… right, those long-recovery moves!
Opening his eyes, his gaze steadied.
He stopped rushing, controlling distance with Andy's nimble "Zan-ei Ken" to probe and restrain.
The opponent, caught off guard, lost rhythm.
The cigarette twitched; the casual look faded.
Hakuya watched the screen, catching every post-attack pause.
It was grueling—each block, each counter strained his nerves like a taut bowstring.
Sweat dripped from his brow, splashing onto the cool button panel.
A chance!
Seizing a whiffed heavy punch's recovery, Hakuya's fingers danced on the joystick and buttons. "Hisho Ken" landed clean!
He pressed forward, chaining a memorized combo after a low kick broke the guard.
The tide turned!
The opponent, knocked down, grew frantic, pushing harder but exposing more flaws.
Hakuya calmly countered, capitalizing on openings.
"K.O.!"
As the giant letters filled the screen, Hakuya realized he'd been holding his breath, chest heaving from oxygen deprivation.
He'd won the second round.
Clearer applause and louder chatter erupted.
"Not bad, this high schooler! That combo was spot-on!"
"The smoker got cocky, didn't he? Look at his face!"
"Haha, got careless!"
Hearing the buzz, Hakuya's tense shoulders eased, a mix of relief and joy washing over him.
Glancing over, the opponent's face soured, angrily stubbing out his cigarette.
Just the first match—plenty more ahead, Hakuya thought, fingers returning to the joystick.
The crowd's cheers warmed his numb fingers, easing his nerves.
In the third round, he played with more confidence, clinching the match by a slim margin.
His heart still raced, now from victory's thrill.
Standing, he bowed to his opponent and nodded to the approving crowd, then hurried to the counter to report his number and result.
In the bar next door, a different scene unfolded.
Under dim, tipsy lighting, the air mixed beer, yakitori, and cigarette smells.
The bar owner, seizing the moment, had a temporary deal with Sega to stream the tournament on corner TVs, opening early. Sleepy staff, fueled by hefty overtime pay, grabbed coffee from the bartender.
Non-competitive players and curious salarymen gathered, clutching cold beers, loudly critiquing the matches.
"Ugh, he should've used a reverse jump kick!"
"This Joe's done—cornered with no comeback."
"Cheers for that slick combo!"
Each thrilling play sparked collective cheers or groans, glasses clinking nonstop.
No competitive tension here—just pure spectator revelry.
Takuya Nakayama, in plain clothes, blended into the arcade's outer crowd like a regular onlooker.
He watched the entrance's bustle, heard cheers from within, and noted excited faces and the lively bar nearby.
His lips curved slightly in a satisfied smile.
To a marketing subordinate, also in casual attire, he said quietly, "This partner arcade's doing great. We should collaborate more."
"We want more than a tournament for core players—a spectacle that grabs everyone."
His gaze caught a reporter interviewing a young, still-boyish winner, drawing curious looks.
Exactly the "grassroots hero" effect he'd planned.
"Compile reports from all regions, especially audience reactions and media focus," he instructed. "I want to know what people are saying. If there's negative buzz, report it immediately."
His subordinate nodded, vanishing into the crowd.
The tournament's early fervor and ripple effects exceeded Takuya's boldest expectations. It made sense—gamers, usually low-key, unleashed pent-up passion when rallied by an event like this.
Media attention and bar tie-ins were turning "esports," a vague term, into a vivid, tangible phenomenon for the masses.