The days after the tournament—I had thought they would be quiet—turned into a brutal hit to my bank account, something I hadn't seen coming at all.
The accountant my parents had hired to handle closing my VAT number had already done the preliminary calculations, but it wasn't until I got the final document that I realized how bad it really was.
I had opened that VAT number on September 12, 2024, buzzing with the feeling of finally being grown-up—at least financially. It was a way to make my Twitch earnings official and feel like a real professional.
Nijiro had told me to close it as soon as we started planning the move to Japan.
"No point keeping it open if you're not operating here anymore," he had said on an evening call. "You'd just be giving money to Italy for free."
So the same day Nijiro started the process for my Certificate of Eligibility, we decided to get moving on that front too.
We spent hours scrolling through online lists of accountants in my area, filtering by reviews, rates, and experience with the flat-rate regime.
We picked one who seemed solid—a middle-aged guy with a minimalist website and a promise of "fast closures with no surprises".
We emailed him, attaching the basics: bank statements, past tax returns, everything that showed my income as a streamer.
His reply came the next day: an online appointment to go over the details, followed by a quote of 500 euros for the whole process, which I paid upfront by bank transfer.
My VAT was under the flat-rate regime, with a reduced tax rate that my dad had explained to me countless times over family dinners.
"It's a system for small entrepreneurs," he would say, drawing lines with a pen on a notepad. "Taxable income is only 78% of gross revenue, and the IRPEF is lower."
I would nod, pretending to follow, but it all went in one ear and out the other.
My taxable income—calculated as 78% of that year's gross earnings—had gone over the 17,000-euro threshold, which meant I had to pay contributions to INPS, the agency that handles pensions and insurance and that every worker has to contribute to.
The rate was 26% on that taxable income—a percentage that, when I first heard it, had seemed pretty manageable.
Seeing it applied to my actual numbers changed everything.
"Six thousand six hundred euros!" I blurted out the moment I opened the PDF the accountant had emailed me that morning. "That's insane!"
"That's more than a quarter of what I won at Worlds!" I realized right after, my mouth hanging open.
To win Worlds I had poured everything I had into it: I had stopped going to school during qualifiers and slept barely three hours a night.
And now I had to hand over part of my prize money to the Italian state, as if it had been the one competing at Worlds or streaming in my place.
My father, whom I had called to help me with the INPS payment, gave a slight smile. "And you still have to pay taxes. This is Italy."
Luckily, there was still enough money in my account to cover it all.
I had saved almost the entire Worlds prize plus a big chunk of my Twitch earnings.
I hadn't moved it to my debit card to avoid the temptation to blow it impulsively—yet I had still given in and bought the Samsung S25.
All told, my balance was 24,800 euros: an amount that, for a guy my age, felt like an endless fortune, but it was shrinking fast with one expense after another.
My dad helped me make the payment from my computer, where the accountant's PDF was already open.
We filled out the INPS forms online and, with a deep breath, I authorized the 6,600-euro transfer, clicking "confirm".
A few seconds passed, then the debit notification popped up, and my balance plunged to 18,200 euros in a flash—a drop that made me clench my jaw.
"I'd better cool it with the spending," I thought, staring at the number on the screen like it might magically change.
Next, I paid the taxes, which arrived in another PDF from the accountant: 1,300 euros total.
This time I didn't even flinch. I had known it would sting, so I just confirmed the payment and watched the balance slide down to 16,900 euros.
A few quiet days followed, spent streaming Fortnite and Osu! and playing Apex Legends with Nijiro—the only one of my friends who actually liked the game as much as I did.
Then an unexpected email landed: my fourth sponsorship offer, this time from an up-and-coming mouse brand, with tempting terms and a four-figure payout.
I read it twice, sitting at my desk, more out of curiosity than anything—I already knew what my answer would be.
They were offering custom banners and their new super-lightweight mouse to test and feature on stream.
Tempting as it was, I turned it down without a second thought, sending a polite but firm reply.
«Thanks for the interest, but I'm not looking to sponsor your company right now.»
I double-checked the spelling, then hit send.
I had decided a long time ago that I didn't want to tie myself to outside sponsors—only something I had built myself.
Even as a kid I had never wanted a normal job, with a boss barking orders. I wanted to do things at my own pace.
So from a pretty young age I would set my mind on becoming an entrepreneur one day and starting a company around something I genuinely loved.
When April 2024 rolled around—the month the Frois were founded—I started thinking that this could be the brand I would grow.
I had already pictured myself, once I retired from competitive gaming, stepping in as the project's CEO.
"We could make Frois-themed peripherals and merch, or set up an academy where we sign up-and-coming talent," I would think.
Unfortunately, in August 2025 the Frois were going through a rough patch: nobody on the team was playing Valorant anymore, the game we had originally been built around.
As early as the start of 2025, the only ones still active on it were Bonzo, Diruz, and Mathew.
But just a few weeks earlier, Bonzo and Diruz had decided to drop Valorant and go all-in on Fortnite.
That left Mathew on his own—he had stopped entering tournaments and was just grinding ranked.
On top of that, we hadn't managed to find time in recent months to all hop on a call and talk it through, so nobody really knew whether the project was dead or just paused.
Finally, on August 30, the moment I had been waiting for all summer arrived: my Certificate of Eligibility was here.
The courier buzzed the building intercom at 10:37 a.m., and I hurried downstairs to grab the document.
I had originally hoped it would just come digitally, but Nijiro had explained that the visa required the original paper copy.
After paying the school's 50-euro shipping invoice, I jumped on Discord, buzzing with excitement, to break the news to the guys.
"Guys! The CoE just arrived! Only took three weeks—I can't believe it!" I blurted the second I joined voice, cutting across whatever they had been saying.
"No way, Christian! Just the visa left and you're in Japan," China said, genuinely happy for me.
"Yeah, man! You're insane. Pulling all this off at your age is wild," John added—he had finally bought some cheap headphones that actually worked.
"I'm really happy for you, Christian," Mathew said, though I could hear the envy underneath.
"You got seriously lucky. Three weeks for the CoE is practically a miracle," Nijiro chimed in last, stunned at the speed—he had been expecting at least five.
In the days that followed, Nijiro coordinated the final steps with my family, sending an email to the consulate to push for the visa as soon as possible with the Certificate of Eligibility in hand.
On September 4—exactly five days after the Certificate of Eligibility arrived—the student visa came through.
"We've got everything," Nijiro said that same evening on a Discord video call.
"Now we just need the ticket," he added, completely relaxed, knowing that was the easiest part.
That very night I bought the ticket to Tokyo, since I would be spending my first few days there with him.
I didn't waste a second. I sat down at the computer and started looking for a flight out of Milan.
After scrolling through options and filtering for Milan Malpensa to Tokyo Haneda, a question hit me.
"Nijiro, what day do I leave?" I asked, unsure whether to go for the following weekend or a weekday.
"I'd say Saturday. Your parents can even take you to the airport," he answered, leaving me speechless.
"The day after tomorrow?! I haven't packed anything!" I shot back.
"Eh, you've got tonight and all day tomorrow," he said. "Besides, the sooner you go, the sooner you can start school."
I ruled out direct flights right away—they started at 800 euros and up. I wanted to save where I could.
So I went for a one-stop flight, the cheapest that still had decent timing.
I picked an Air China flight leaving Milan Malpensa at 7:00 p.m., with a four-hour layover in China and landing in Tokyo at 7:40 p.m. the next day, factoring in the time difference.
Total: 550 euros. A clear saving over the direct, which left me a little extra for things like housing.
I confirmed with a click, the payment went through in seconds, and an email with the receipt landed in my inbox.
Just to be safe, I printed it out. The rest of the family was still awake, so the printer wouldn't wake anyone.
Back in my room, receipt in hand, I sent a message on Mathew è Storto: «Guys, I've finally got everything. We leave for Japan on Saturday.»
Instead of waiting for replies, I decided to start packing—I had barely more than a day left.
It was 11:37 p.m., early for me, so I figured I might as well get ahead and start filling the suitcase.
I slipped into my parents' room and quietly opened the walk-in closet, careful not to wake my dad—he was the only one already asleep.
In one corner were the three suitcases we used for summer trips, stacked together.
I dragged one out as quietly as I could, carried it back to my room, and set it on the bed.
"What do I even pack?" I asked myself the moment I opened it.
This wasn't a one-week vacation. I had to fit everything I would need for the next two years in Japan.
Clothes first—I couldn't live in the same ones forever.
I opened my closet and pulled out all five short-sleeved T-shirts, two pairs of shorts, two pairs of long pants, and one hoodie.
I didn't own a single long-sleeved shirt; they had always bothered my arms, so I had never bought any.
I tried folding everything neatly, but I was hopeless at it, so I just stuffed them in as best I could.
Next came underwear: seven boxers and seven pairs of socks—one set for each day of the week.
Then I went to the bathroom, grabbed a toiletry bag, and opened it on the sink.
I tossed in everything I spotted that might come in handy: my toothbrush, the mint toothpaste, shampoo, shower gel, deodorant, and nail clippers.
I grabbed a pair of tweezers too, just because I saw them in the cabinet—I had only used them once, as a kid, to pull out a splinter.
I figured I would bring them anyway; they barely took up any space.
Finally, I took the shaving kit my dad had given me at the start of the summer, when I had begun shaving.
My dad was always meticulous about getting a perfect shave and, like me, hated keeping any stubble.
I zipped up the toiletry bag and headed to the kitchen for the meds I used when I felt rough: paracetamol, headache tablets, and throat spray.
I opened the medicine cabinet and slipped in every drug I thought might be useful and that I remembered having taken before.
I stashed them in a smaller toiletry bag than the one I had used for bathroom stuff.
"My parents are gonna think we got robbed tomorrow," I thought with a grin as I closed the cabinet.
Now came the most crucial part: finding room for the various pieces of my gaming setup that I was taking to Japan.
To keep the peripherals and laptop safe, I grabbed my black school backpack—the same one I had used for the Osu! World Cup.
First in was the ROG Strix G18 laptop, which up to that point I had only booted up to install apps and tweak the system: updating drivers and messing with BIOS settings.
I laid it flat on the bottom of the backpack, on top of its cooling pad; together they took up the entire base.
Then I took the Wooting 60HE keyboard and the Logitech G PRO X Superlight 2 mouse, placing them directly on top of the laptop along with the graphics tablet, hoping they would not get damaged.
I unplugged the Elgato Facecam MK.2 webcam from the PC, but the second I picked it up I realized I couldn't just toss it in loose.
It was expensive, with fragile lenses—throwing it in carelessly would risk wrecking it.
In the end I decided to put it back in its original box, even if that meant taking up more room in the backpack.
For the Elgato Wave 3 mic I weighed my options: the arm was over a meter long—there was no way it would fit in the backpack or the suitcase.
So I settled on bringing just the microphone itself, along with the pop filter and the stand it came with.
I had been meaning to swap out the stand anyway, since I preferred having the mic on an arm so I could move it wherever felt best.
Unfortunately the stand's base was too bulky for the backpack, so I wedged it into the suitcase among the clothes, jamming it between the T-shirts.
The Logitech G PRO X headphones did not fit in the backpack either, so I slipped them into their soft pouch along with all the USB cables I could manage to fit inside.
I slipped that bag into the suitcase among the clothes too—there was still a bit of room on the right side.
The only setup item left was the XXL Razer Strider gaming mouse pad, which was too big to fit anywhere.
I decided I would just order an identical one as soon as I got to Japan.
I wanted the exact same model because I loved it: that hybrid surface, halfway between rough and smooth, let me make fast, precise movements.
In the remaining space in the backpack I added the Japanese power adapter the receptionist in Chicago had given me during Worlds.
I threw in the Tessan universal adapter too, the fully charged power bank, and a bunch of other cables.
In the front pocket I put a compact umbrella, my passport with the visa sticker, and the official Certificate of Eligibility papers, all sealed in a clear plastic envelope.
I brought my physical debit card, even though I always paid with the one saved on my phone.
In the small outer pocket I slipped a pack of tissues and my usual two chocolate protein bars.
I added a couple of energy bars too, planning to eat them whenever jet lag made me crash.
After two hours, I had finally finished packing both my suitcase and backpack, although my initial intention had merely been to get a head start.
Once I found my rhythm, however, I allowed myself to be carried away; adding one item after another, I had nearly filled every available space.
Just as I was about to zip them shut, I glanced at the piece of furniture separating the two beds: the trophy sat there, staring back at me. "I can't leave it here."
I dug into the center of my suitcase, attempting to create as much space as possible. I carefully slipped the trophy inside my hoodie and buried it beneath the rest of my clothing to form a protective layer.
"I just hope it doesn't break," I mused, observing the makeshift padding meant to absorb any shocks.
I zipped the luggage completely shut and lifted both the suitcase and the backpack to gauge their weight. I was fairly certain that both remained under the limit, even with the addition of the trophy.
At 1:50, I turned off the bedroom light, left my bags near the desk, and collapsed onto the bed.
All that remained now was the departure, and finally I would be heading toward my new life in Japan—no longer just a dream, but a printed ticket and a suitcase packed with possibilities.