The second week started with a mistake.
Ryoma overslept.
He'd stayed up too late trying to beat a level with disappearing platforms and spinning saw blades. Every time he jumped, the platform blinked out from under him. Every time he hesitated, the saw blades chased him into a pit. It wasn't even the last stage of the world. Just another choke point. A test of patience.
By the time he finally cleared it, the sky outside had turned the color of washed-out linen. Pale light leaked in through the shoji slats. His blanket was still on the floor. His eyes burned.
Now he sprinted through Kumogakure's morning chill, half a rice ball clutched between his teeth, hair wild, breath fogging with each step.
He skidded around the last corner and reached the Academy gates just as they were closing.
The instructor raised an eyebrow. Didn't say a word.
Not reprimanding. Not sympathetic. Just noting.
Ryoma bowed quickly and fell into line, chest still heaving. He wiped the sweat from his neck and tried to pretend the world wasn't swimming.
---
That day's drills were on misdirection.
Clone techniques. Feint steps. Sleight-of-hand with kunai.
His Shadow Clone flickered into existence—then popped like a soap bubble before he could stabilize it. Still too much physical chakra, not enough mental focus. He bit the inside of his cheek and moved on.
But the footwork drills felt sharper.
When a chuunin assistant tossed a shuriken low and fast, Ryoma rolled aside without thinking, his eyes already fixed on the spot where the next strike would come. He didn't stumble. Didn't pause. Just flowed.
Later, during sparring, his opponent—an older girl from one of the lesser clans—tried to corner him against a tree. He shifted at the last moment, a sidestep with perfect timing. She overcommitted. He drove his shoulder into her ribs and broke the lock.
They both fell.
She got up faster. Won the round.
But he hadn't been flattened.
For the first time in weeks, he heard someone on the sidelines say, "Nice counter."
It echoed louder than it should have.
---
At home, the black box waited.
Ryoma didn't eat dinner. Just murmured something about being tired and slipped into his room before his parents could press.
The screen flared to life with a pulse like breath held too long. Warm. Familiar. Hungry.
World 4: Vanilla Dome.
It looked innocent at first—blue skies and pastel terrain. Then the shell traps began. Then the sloped terrain. Then the flying red Koopas with divebombing accuracy.
He died five times in ten minutes.
Reset. Start again.
When the game over screen appeared for the second time, he stared at it for a long while.
Then he reached under his bed and pulled out the spiral notebook he'd been filling with maps. Linework sprawled across every page. Arrows for pipe directions. Crosses for traps. Numbers for timing intervals. A new language only he could read.
He flipped to a clean page.
Slopes, he thought. Momentum. Jump angle.
He began to sketch.
---
By Thursday, he'd mapped half the world.
The maps helped.
He started predicting bounce arcs. Counting beats between fireball patterns. Saving his power-ups for boss runs. Even the underwater levels stopped killing him every two minutes.
But it still took him three nights to beat the castle.
He didn't cheer. Didn't pump a fist or whoop like he used to after a breakthrough.
He just sat back. Breathing slow. Chest rising and falling like he'd just left a real battlefield.
The map scrolled.
World 5: Forest of Illusion.
The name alone gave him pause.
---
The Forest looked cheerful. Bright trees. Cartoonish mushrooms. Enemies that waddled more than they ran.
But it was a lie.
Every stage looped.
No matter how well he played, the map snapped back. Fake goalposts. Misleading exits. Dead ends that sent him in circles.
Two days. Three days. He'd lost count.
At school, he was starting to drift.
He still showed up. Still trained. Still sparred.
But during throwing drills, he missed more often than not.
He fumbled a clone technique so badly the instructor had to stop and reset the flow of chakra around him.
During a lecture on tactical formations, his instructor called out: "Ryoma. Repeat the last sentence."
His brain froze. All he saw were floating keys and warp pipes.
"...Sorry, sensei."
Another mark in the mental ledger. Not cruel. Just recorded.
He clenched his fists under the desk, nails digging half-moons into his palms.
---
That night, he faced the Ghost House again.
Its music alone made his stomach clench—high-pitched, looping, layered with whispers.
Doors everywhere. Illusions. Timers that felt too short. Everything looping back.
He failed. Once. Twice. Ten times.
He screamed into his pillow.
Tore up a page from his notebook.
Started over.
And on the eleventh attempt, he found the hidden block behind a stairwell. Took the secret door. Skipped the false exit.
A hidden key. A second path.
The map shifted.
Finally.
He slumped backward, head resting against the floorboards, arms splayed wide.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
---
By the end of the second week, Ryoma had cleared the Forest of Illusion.
The screen showed the path forward now. Mountains rising. Lava flows blinking in the distance.
Bowser's Valley waited.
He didn't smile.
Didn't breathe a word.
He just sat there. The hum of the screen painting his face in warm, synthetic light.
Closer.
Closer than anyone would believe.