Late July, in a coastal town in Aomori Prefecture, the afternoon sun, laced with the salty tang of the sea, lazily bathed the weathered streets.
Cicadas screeched relentlessly, the air thick and still.
A few boys in shorts, skin tanned dark, chased and roughhoused in an empty lot, sweat matting their hair.
Among them was six-year-old Daigo Umehara.
His attention was caught by voices from the town's only decent electronics shop, where the owner animatedly chatted with young men back from Tokyo, gesturing wildly.
"…Tokyo's gone crazy!"
"Some Sega tournament—what's it called? Fatal Fury?"
"Right! Huge prizes—champion gets 5 million yen!"
"Seriously? You can earn big just playing games?"
The vague words drifted into Daigo's ears, sparking incredulous wonder.
Tokyo—so far, never been.
A game tournament?
He didn't grasp the complex terms or picture the scene, and 5 million yen only meant maybe endless snacks and toys.
But the adults' excitement, that unusual fervor, rippled through his calm heart, stirring curiosity.
What could make grown-ups so thrilled the shop owner forgot his customers?
"Hey, Daigo, what're you staring at? Quit standing there!" a friend shoved him, nearly tripping him.
"Let's go check that place out!" another kid said, eyes gleaming, nodding toward the street's end.
"That place" was the town's sole arcade—smoky, noisy, reeking of sweat and cheap cigarettes. A "forbidden zone" for kids like them.
Rumor had it, it was full of delinquent teens and gruff old men.
But today felt different.
A cluster of teens crowded the entrance, craning their necks.
Pushed by his friends, Daigo clutched his few coins, palms sweaty, heart racing with fear and unspoken anticipation. For the first time, he cautiously stepped into the dim, electronic-noise-filled world.
A large TV hung at the entrance, bigger than his home's, streaming a machine's gameplay inside.
It was Fatal Fury.
On-screen, a red-capped, blue-vested figure darted, shouting "Power Wave!"
A hulking eyepatch-wearing opponent staggered back.
Daigo didn't understand the complex moves or tactics but saw the health bars dwindling.
The red-capped figure leapt, spinning into a kick. The screen flashed; the opponent fell.
"K.O.!"
Cheers and groans erupted around him.
So cool.
As he stared, transfixed, his friends couldn't hold back, yelling, "Come on! Let's pool our money for a go!"
They emptied their pockets, scraping together a few 100-yen coins, clinking them into the machine.
The colorful character select screen dazzled them. They picked two that looked the coolest.
Game on—they crowded the machine, mashing buttons and jerking the joystick, which creaked loudly.
The on-screen characters ignored their commands, either jumping aimlessly or standing to take hits.
"How do you do that rushing punch?"
"Press this! This one!"
"No, you're doing it wrong!"
In their chaos, the screen soon faded to black-and-white.
"Continue?"
Coins gone.
Though they lost fast, embarrassingly so, the thrill of moving the screen with their actions was novel and addictive.
Unsatisfied, they squeezed back to the entrance, watching the big TV again.
This time, they studied closely, mimicking the characters' moves, chanting:
"Burning Knuckle!"
"Reverse Jump Kick!"
Their clumsy imitations didn't dampen their excited grins.
As the sun set, painting the sky red, the first friend was dragged home by an angry parent, ears pinched. Daigo and the others reluctantly left the heart-pounding arcade.
Walking home, his steps felt light.
His mind replayed the flashing visuals, noisy effects, the red-capped figure's victory, and the crowd's roars at defeat.
Though still vague, a faint longing—for games, for victory, for being the crowd's focus—planted a tiny seed in his six-year-old heart.
If he could play that well, would people cheer for him too?
The next day, a small blurb appeared in the Aomori local paper's corner.
Titled "New Video Game Competitions Draw Attention, Teens Risk Addiction," it noted the town arcade's unusual bustle due to a Tokyo tournament, attracting youths and even kids, urging parents to monitor their children to prevent obsession.
A blurry photo showed the arcade crowd, with a small boy's profile peeking out—Daigo.
The report's tone mixed observation with faint concern, treating the phenomenon as quirky social news rather than valuing the competition itself.
In distant Tokyo, the vibe was starkly different.
Major papers' entertainment and social sections splashed bold coverage of the event. Sega's PR team had greased the wheels, paying generously for coverage.
"Summer Frenzy! Fatal Fury Ignites Tokyo, Esports Era Begins?"
"Over 10,000 Players on Day One! Sega Builds a New Gaming Culture!"
Photos captured packed Shinjuku and Shibuya arcades, intense player close-ups, and lively bar scenes with people toasting the matches, brimming with atmosphere.
The term "esports," still clunky, flooded public view, radiating trendy, cutting-edge vibes.
Reports began highlighting players' names and stories, embellished by journalists.
"…Chiba's Hakuya, a dark horse, topples veterans. This high schooler's calm play impresses, practicing just two hours daily…"
TV news showed reporters outside arcades, with endless queues in the background, excitedly covering the scene, interviewing hyped players.
Cameras zoomed in on bars streaming the tournament, dubbed a "new viewing trend," showing patrons clinking glasses in a festive uproar.