The next morning began like any other. Ryoma rose before dawn, teeth gritted against the cold washbasin water, and dressed in the same too-loose Academy uniform he'd been wearing since last term. He made his own breakfast—half a rice ball and a boiled egg—then left a note for his parents, who were already at the stall.
By the time he reached the Academy courtyard, the sun had burned off the last of the mist. A taijutsu drill was already underway.
Ryoma lined up beside the others. The ground was packed dirt, chalked with target circles and sand-scuffed from years of practice. He exhaled, slid into a stance, and threw his first punch.
Sloppy.
He adjusted. Threw again.
Each motion felt distant, as if his body was just a shell his thoughts passed through. His arms remembered the controls from last night. The start-stop rhythm of jumping over pit traps and diving Koopas played through his head like a lullaby.
Miss.
He shook himself and refocused. The instructor glanced at him, expression unreadable.
"Ryoma. Keep your balance low. You're swinging wide."
He bowed slightly. "Yes, sensei."
The rest of the session passed in a blur. Sparring. Shuriken angles. A brief exercise in tree climbing with chakra control—he barely made it three steps up before sliding down. No one laughed, but no one applauded either.
When the final bell rang, he walked home slower than usual. Every part of him ached.
But he still played that night.
---
World 2 was harder than the first. Trickier enemies, swimming levels, time limits. Ryoma failed over and over again. Fish hitboxes were unforgiving. He couldn't aim jumps underwater. Every death was a reset, every reset a test of patience.
He whispered the retry jingle under his breath until it stuck in his dreams.
But by the fourth day, something clicked.
He started learning.
The Koopas had a rhythm. The jumping physics obeyed patterns. Ghosts moved only when you looked away. If he counted tiles. Timed movement. Remembered.
He passed the water castle by the skin of his teeth.
---
At the Academy, the change was small but real.
His strikes landed more cleanly. Not stronger—but better timed. He didn't trip during footwork drills. He even caught a thrown practice kunai during reflex training. The instructor gave a slight nod.
It felt like progress.
That night, he made it halfway through World 3.
He'd started sketching rough maps in his school notebook, careful to keep them tucked between fake math notes. Arrows marked hidden pipes. Stars showed shortcut blocks. He began watching how NPCs moved. Predicting what would trigger traps.
His mother noticed the shadows under his eyes. "Are you staying up too late studying?"
He nodded. "Just a bit. I want to catch up."
She smiled and tousled his hair.
He felt guilty. But not enough to stop.
---
The Ghost House nearly broke him.
Saturday night, alone in his room with the screen's glow painting his walls, he stared at the endless looping corridors. Three times he thought he'd found the exit. Three times, the timer ran out. Each failure was met with the same mocking jingle.
He screamed into a pillow. Slammed his fist against the mattress.
But he didn't quit.
He replayed the level from the start. Counted doors. Watched the movement of every Boo.
And finally, on his last life, he found the key.
The victory jingle echoed in his bones.
---
By the end of the week, he'd cleared World 3.
He sat in the dark, screen crackling softly.
The overworld map shifted. New terrain unfolded. A new challenge ahead.
He pressed Start.
And the next world began.