We set off toward the spot Nijiro had picked for our final three hours in a city that, without me even noticing, had completely captured my heart.
The destination was Kiyomizu-dera Temple, the famous Buddhist complex nestled among the Higashiyama mountains.
On the drive over, Nijiro had told us that Kiyomizu-dera wasn't just a single temple but an entire complex of sacred buildings, gardens, and shrines, built in perfect harmony with the surrounding nature.
As we parked the Skyline at the bottom of the hill, Ivaxa was already doing the math.
"Are we gonna manage to see everything in under two hours?" he asked, checking the time on his phone with a focused look, his mind already leaping ahead to the traffic to Tokyo and the airports.
"No chance," Nijiro answered, shrugging. "We'll just hit the main one: the main hall, the Kiyomizu-dera Hondō."
BTMC, still feeling rough from the night before, nodded and grumbled, "As long as there aren't too many stairs."
We started up the hill through the quiet crowd of tourists and pilgrims, passing ancient lanes lined with pottery shops where artisans displayed hand-painted vases decorated with maple leaves and cherry blossoms.
The higher we climbed, the more everything seemed to slow down: steps grew deliberate, sounds muffled, as if we were stepping into another dimension where time no longer mattered.
The air grew cooler, scented with incense, while the distant ring of temple bells guided us toward the main hall.
We passed through the imposing red gate, the Niōmon, guarded by its two carved protectors—the statues of the Niō.
As we kept climbing, we began to catch glimpses, in the distance, of Kiyomizu-dera's famous overhanging veranda.
Built entirely of wood without a single nail—a masterpiece of traditional Japanese architecture—it seemed to defy gravity, jutting out into empty space above a valley of cherry trees that weren't in bloom.
Nijiro explained that the temple had been founded in 778 by the monk Enchin Shōnin, who had a divine vision to build a shrine near the pure Otowa spring.
"Over the centuries, it's been rebuilt many times," he said, his voice full of respect. "The current main structure dates back to 1633."
You didn't have to take off your shoes to go onto the veranda, since it was an outdoor platform open to the public, designed so everyone could enjoy the view without any extra rituals.
There were tons of people—we had hit peak tourist hour, with organized groups snapping selfies on extendable sticks and couples holding hands while taking in the panorama.
We stood there gazing out at Kyoto in the distance while I took a few photos of that incredible view.
We talked a bit before our time ran out, sharing how unforgettable this trip had been.
We tried a Kyoto specialty, mitarashi dango—chewy, elastic glutinous rice dumplings skewered on sticks and glazed with a sweet sauce.
Nijiro had bought them for all of us, insisting we had to try them, from a stall near the veranda where an elderly vendor prepared them with a warm smile.
As we chewed them happily, Ivaxa announced in his practical, urgent tone, checking his phone clock again: "Guys, it's time. It's three o'clock. If we don't want to miss our flights, we need to leave now."
Nijiro, after swallowing the dumpling in his mouth, said with a relaxed smile: "Alright, just a sec—let us finish the food at least."
We finished our skewers under Ivaxa's mounting pressure—he absolutely refused to deviate from his schedule.
"Come on, Ivaxa, chill out for a second," Mrekk teased him.
By 3:20 we were on the road, using the same reliable method as on the way there: an open voice call to stay connected between the two cars.
"Guys, I just remembered something," Mrekk said suddenly, sounding worried.
"What's up?" Nijiro asked, ready to handle the unexpected.
"I gotta return the rental car," Mrekk replied.
"We're already running late, and now you're adding this?" Ivaxa said, frustration clear in his voice.
"Speaking of which, we also need to stop at a 7-Eleven. You guys ate all my dorayaki!" Nijiro added, pretending to pout.
We drove on for a while as the sun slowly set on the horizon, painting the sky a deep orange-red.
Looking out the open window of the Skyline, with the cool breeze brushing my face, I thought back on this incredible trip: the Osu! World Cup, the karaoke, the night at the ryokan, right up to the rural morning with Nijiro.
At 6 p.m. we stopped at a service area that also had a 7-Eleven—a place that had become as familiar as a second home in this week.
Nijiro, suddenly full of happy energy again, went in and raided the store like an excited kid, buying up every last pack—sixteen packages of dorayaki in total—stacking them in his basket like precious treasure.
The rest of us took the chance to stretch our legs after hours in the car, walking around the parked vehicles, stretching with exaggerated groans and chatting.
We hit the road again with Nijiro looking way more satisfied than before and Ivaxa on the verge of losing it over the time we were losing, constantly checking the clock and Google Maps on his phone.
We teased him with jokes, and the more annoyed he got, the harder we laughed.
On the final stretch I seized the opportunity to sleep, even though the racing seat wouldn't recline.
BTMC did the same in the Corolla, exhausted but happy after days of nonstop adventure.
By 9 p.m. we were at the car rental return.
Since dropping off the car would only take a few minutes—filling out forms, checking the vehicle for scratches or damage, and signing papers—Nijiro decided not to wake me right away, letting me rest until we reached the airport.
"Hey! Hey, Christian!"
I felt a voice as someone gently touched my shoulder—a light, caring gesture that pulled me out of deep sleep.
I opened my eyes slowly, rubbed them with my hands to shake off the drowsiness, and saw Nijiro, his face lit by the artificial lights of the parking garage, wearing a patient, affectionate smile.
"Finally, you're awake," he said with a grin. "The others are trying to wake BTMC—he's out like a rock."
Still a bit disoriented, my mind foggy from sleep and the long drive, I looked out the window, trying to get my bearings in the darkness dotted with lights.
We were in a huge multi-level parking garage, with planes taking off in the distance.
"Where are we?" I asked, yawning wide, my body aching from the hard, uncomfortable seat.
"You don't even recognize it? We're at Tokyo Haneda Airport—you've been here before," Nijiro answered, laughing at my confusion.
"Oh, right, now that I'm looking better, it does look familiar," I said, yawning again and stretching in the seat, my body protesting the hours spent in the car.
It was 9:30 p.m. when we all walked into the airport together, surrounded by the constant hum of passengers, announcements in Japanese and English, and the mixed smell of fast food and coffee filling the air.
We grabbed a quick dinner, opting for food from a Family Mart—another konbini chain—instead of a crowded, expensive restaurant, to save time and money in those last hours.
On Nijiro's recommendation, I got the chain's most famous item, the Famichiki: a piece of fried chicken wrapped in grease-proof paper, crispy on the outside with golden, spiced breading, juicy and tender inside, perfectly hot with balanced seasoning that blended salt, black pepper, a hint of garlic, and Japanese herbs.
As we ate on some benches, chatting away, I asked the group excitedly: "Guys, what do you think about joining my private Discord server too? I know you're already in the community one, but this is more exclusive—we're only six... yeah, not many, I know."
BTMC, mid-chew on a juicy bite of Famichiki with a satisfied look, said: "Sure, add me in."
Everyone joined without hesitation, phones buzzing with welcome notifications and enthusiastic messages from my Italian friends.
"Great, now we can stay in touch even easier," I said. "You'll find me in the main voice channel a lot when I'm playing, so hop in anytime."
"Don't worry, we will," Nijiro said, his warm smile putting me at ease.
"There's just one thing," I pointed out. "Half the people in there only speak Italian, so I'll translate for them if needed."
"Perfect," Mrekk said, nodding approvingly.
Before we had to split up for check-in, we took one more walk around the seemingly endless airport, with giant screens announcing flights to destinations all over the world.
By 10:30 p.m., BTMC already had to head to check-in, called by the loudspeaker announcements for his flight to New Orleans.
Before saying goodbye, we wished each other good luck for upcoming tournaments and life in general.
We exchanged energetic hand slaps—an improvised ritual that felt like a silent vow of lifelong friendship.
"Nijiro, you told me Japanese people don't shake hands—they bow," I said, confused.
"True, but between close friends, we high-five, just like you guys," Nijiro replied with a smile.
BTMC headed toward the check-in area, his Totoro tucked under his arm like a loyal companion.
After thinking about it all day, I called out, my voice trembling a little with emotion: "Guys, I've made a decision."
BTMC turned curiously and took a few steps back to hear me out.
"These past few days, I've realized I want to live in Japan. And I will, no matter what it takes," I said firmly.
They all burst out laughing—a loud, affectionate chorus that drew curious glances from passing travelers.
"There he goes again with those sky-high ambitions, same as always," Mrekk said.
"Wait three years, and then you can move once you're legal," BTMC said, laughing but with an encouraging edge.
"No, you don't get it. I'm moving to Japan this year," I shot back, my heart racing with the thrill of it.
The laughter only got louder, warmer, unstoppable.
"Highly unlikely—there are so many hurdles you'd face alone that I'd still be listing them when BTMC's already missed his flight," Ivaxa said, half-serious, half-amused.
I stopped to think, mind spinning, then said, "Maybe it'll take two years instead of one, but just so you know—I will come back here."
Nijiro was the only one who didn't laugh. He stepped closer and gripped my hand firmly, warmly.
"I'm sure you'll do it if you give it everything," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "That's exactly what I meant this morning: I have no idea where you pull these wild ideas from, but that's what I love about you."
"I'll help however I can," he added. "It's still gonna be really hard."
"Thanks, Nijiro," I said, grateful that he believed in me.
Once I had made my big announcement, Nijiro turned and raised his hand in one last wave. "All right, this is as far as I go."
I watched his back as he walked away, knowing it wasn't goodbye—it was "see you soon."
He vanished into the night with his Skyline, heading home after two intense days of shared adventures, leaving behind a quiet promise of meetings to come.
We all headed off to our check-ins, final goodbyes and "catch you on Discord" ringing out.
I went toward my own flight, handling check-in, security, and passport control.
Sitting on the benches in the gate area, I started running through all the obstacles I would face going it alone—problems that multiplied the more I thought about them.
"I need a student visa, somewhere to live, enroll in a Japanese school, register residency, open a bank account... and who knows what else I haven't even thought of yet."
I was driving myself nuts listing everything, my mind caught in a whirlwind of plans and worries.
The hardest part, though, wasn't any of the things I had racked my brain over in endless mental checklists—it was convincing my parents.
"Getting them to let me come to Japan for a week was already a battle... imagine a permanent move!" I thought, picturing the arguments back in Trento: my dad shaking his head, my mom getting worried the moment I brought it up.
I already knew that to make this dream real, I would have to fight the same way I had fought to win tournaments or push through sleepless nights.
In the final minutes before boarding, I opened Discord and saw a new message in the main chat of the private server.
It was BTMC: «In the end I had to buy a ticket for Totoro too» with a photo attached of him and the giant plush side by side on the plane, seatbelts fastened.
I burst out laughing, trying to keep it quiet, as a rush of warmth and nostalgia hit me.
Just then my gate opened, the announcement echoing through the speakers, and I headed over, ticket in hand, backpack on my shoulder.
It was time to start my new mission—the one that would shape the months ahead: Project Japan.
It wasn't some vague dream or teenage whim: it was a solemn promise to myself and to Nijiro, who believed in me.
An ambitious goal that would drive me past every bureaucratic, family, and personal hurdle, with the certainty that, no matter how long it took, I would be back.
As the plane lifted off, I looked out the window at Tokyo's twinkling lights slowly fading below.
"See you soon, Tokyo."
The trip was over, but the adventure was only just beginning.