A persistent young reporter pressed on, "But arcade halls have such a complex environnt. Aren't you worried he'll learn bad habits?"
The shop owner's temper flared. He snatched the microphone, pointing at his clean, tidy establishnt. "Look around! What's so complex about this place? It's a smoke-free zone! Aside from the ga sounds, all you hear is kids cheering each other on! Bad habits? Here, they learn to put in another coin after losing instead of crying and running ho to Mom!"
These blunt yet honest words left the reporters montarily speechless.
The owner's words spread across Tokyo through the television caras.
Unfazed, he shooed away a fly, wiped his sweat, and turned back to his shop.
Daigo Uhara still stood in the sa spot, his small figure appearing lonely amidst the noisy arcade.
"Daigo," the owner said, his voice much softer as he approached. "This has beco quite a fuss."
He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, hesitated, then stuffed it back into his pocket, adhering to his own "no smoking" rule.
"The reporters are swarming the entrance. Your parents will see it on TV or read it in the papers sooner or later. Instead of letting them hear it from soone else, you should go ho and tell them yourself."
The boss patted Daigo on the shoulder, his thick, rough hand conveying his support.
"You're a champion, and you earned it through your skills. There's nothing to hide. Go on, have a proper talk with them."
Daigo Uhara looked up at his boss, nodded firmly, and without inserting any more coins, slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked out of the arcade.
Uhara Family
The dinner atmosphere was subdued.
Father Uhara Masao, a taciturn man and mid-level manager at a construction firm, was accustod to wielding absolute authority at ho. Mother, on the other hand, kept piling food onto her son's plate, chattering about school gossip in an attempt to lighten the mood.
The evening news was playing on the TV:
"...The biggest upset of the Tokyo qualifying round of the Sega Esports Tournant saw Daigo Uhara, an eleven-year-old elentary school student, defeat the first-generation champion, Nagai Kenta, to claim the title..."
The screen flashed, and a clear image appeared: Daigo Uhara stood atop a beer crate, his expression blank as he faced the interviewer.
The mother's chopsticks clattered to the table.
She glanced from the TV to her son, who was shoveling rice into his mouth, her eyes wide with confusion.
"Daigo? Isn't that... you?"
Uhara Masao set down his bowl and chopsticks without a word. The atmosphere in the living room instantly turned frigid. His gaze slowly shifted from the TV screen to his son's face, sharp as rebar on a construction site.
Daigo Uhara.
Each word the news anchor uttered felt like a hamr blow to the hearts of the couple.
Daigo also set down his chopsticks.
He pulled an envelope and a gold-embossed certificate from his backpack and gently placed them on the dining table.
"I went to Akihabara."
His voice was calm, without a trace of emotion.
"I entered the King of Fighters tournant."
"I won."
The mother frantically opened the envelope. When she saw the check inside, printed with a long string of zeros, she covered her mouth with a gasp.
One million yen!
Uhara Masao's pupils also contracted.
He picked up the championship certificate, the words "Daigo Uhara" written clearly on it.
The living room fell into a long silence, broken only by the news anchor's voice from the TV.
After a long pause, Uhara Masao placed the certificate back on the table, leaned back in his chair, and let out a heavy sigh.
He looked at his son—a boy who had always been expressionless, often lost in his own thoughts—and the emotions in his eyes shifted rapidly.
"So, the 'beast' the newspapers are talking about... that's you?" Uhara Masao's voice was hoarse. He pointed at the TV, then at the one million yen check on the table.
This sum was nearly half a year's salary.
Daigo nodded.
"You—" Uhara Masao felt a lump in his throat. He had so much he wanted to say, but he didn't know where to start.
He wanted to scold his son for running off to such a shady place, but the gleaming gold-embossed championship certificate and the solid check silenced all his reprimands.
A champion? An eleven-year-old boy, winning a championship in a place like Tokyo?
This sounded even more surreal than the projects he was in charge of.
"Daigo," his mother's voice trembled with tears as she wrapped her arms around her son's slender shoulders. "Why didn't you tell ? All alone... at school... was it because of your accent? Were you having trouble making friends?"
Two years ago, the family had moved from Hokkaido to Tokyo. Daigo's thick Hokkaido accent had made him a target of ridicule at school, gradually making him more withdrawn.
The couple, busy with work, had assud their son was simply shy. They never imagined he was bringing all his loneliness to that noisy arcade.
Daigo's body stiffened montarily. Though he didn't speak, his reaction said everything.
He pulled away from his mother's embrace, keeping his head lowered as he continued, "The shop owner is really nice. He stopped the bullying."
He began to tell his story, his voice quiet but clear.
From his first visit to the shop, to how the owner tacitly allowed him to play all afternoon with a single coin.
From how the owner stepped forward to scold the older kids who had surrounded him, to today's tournant, where the man in an ill-fitting suit cheered him on from the audience, clenching his fists in support.
He also ntioned the special beer crate.
"I couldn't reach the counter, so the owner gave a sturdy crate."
This simple statent made Uhara Masao's fingers tremble.
He imagined the scene: his son, standing on a dirty beer crate, defeating all the adults watching him with his small hands.
This wasn't obsession; it was a child finding his own way to gain leverage.
Uhara Masao's anger had faded without him noticing, replaced by an indescribable mix of bitterness and self-reproach.
As a father, he hadn't even realized his son was being bullied at school. Instead, it was a stranger—the arcade owner—who had shown him the most concern.
"Husband..." The mother looked at her husband, her eyes red and teary.
Uhara Masao let out a long sigh, his entire deanor deflating.
He picked up the check, looked at it again and again, then helplessly placed it back on the table.
"Tomorrow," he said, looking at his wife and then his son, making a decision, "we'll take a gift and visit that arcade."
The mother paused, then understood her husband's aning and nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes! We must go! We need to properly thank the owner!"
She began frantically planning. "What should we bring? Sake? Or sweets? Should we buy so good cigarettes? Wait, no—the owner on TV said his shop is smoke-free—"
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