The wave wakes up 🌊⚠️
You hear it before you see it, a low thunder rolling up the alleys, swallowing chatter, turning the whole map into a countdown. Obby Escape from the Tsunami is simple to say and deliciously hard to do: climb fast, think faster, and never give the wave a fair chance. Every run begins with that tiny jolt in your hands as the camera lifts and the waterline surges at the edge of your screen. The town is vertical on purpose. Ladders lean across rooftops, scaffolds jut from half-built towers, and slim platforms hang in the air like they were installed by optimists with great balance. This is not a stroll. It’s a sprint written in jumps.
First climbs and clean lines 🧗♂️✨
Early seconds decide your mood. A clean three-jump chain over crates, a wall-hop onto a balcony, and a corner cut across a slanted awning—suddenly your heart calms because speed feels real, not just noisy. The trick is to enter each jump already thinking about the next surface. If you land and then aim, you’ve already given the wave a gift. Keep the camera a touch high so the next ledge lives in your periphery. Shallow angles are your friend; steep turns bleed speed and invite panic. The game rewards tidy intention more than heroic saves.
Momentum is oxygen 💨🫁
The tsunami punishes hesitation, not daring. When you chain jumps without pausing, your speed buys distance you can’t find any other way. Treat flat rooftops as breathers, not breaks: reset your stick to neutral for half a beat, realign the camera, and push back into a diagonal that keeps the route alive. If you slip a landing, resist the itchy double-jump that sprays you sideways. Micro-back up, square the hips, and go. It looks slower; it’s faster. Flow is everything here. Lose it and the wave becomes the only conversation. Keep it and the level starts to feel kind.
Reading the map like weather 🗺️🌬️
The route isn’t a mystery, but it isn’t a hallway either. Scaffolds are efficient but narrow; stairs are safe but costly; billboard frames are fast if you enter them low and exit high. Lantern strings hint at jump arcs across courtyards. Drainpipes mark climbable corners. Wind flags tell you when a long gap is about to get petty—aim half a step deeper when fabric flutters hard. And when you see two platforms at the same height separated by a yawning alley, look for the tiny brace bar between them. It’s a single-step foothold that only exists for players who glance once and believe.
Hazards with honest timing 🪤⏱️
Swinging signs don’t hate you; they just obey clocks. Watch one pass and go on the “two” of your soft count. Breakaway boards creak a beat before they fail; land light and leave lighter. Spinning fans love a shallow entry; step onto the outer rim, drift with the blade, and hop off as it lifts you toward the next ledge. Water jets hiss before they fire—never rush a wet wall; wait for the silence and turn it into a ladder. The best runs don’t brute force these pieces; they listen, then move like they were always part of the machine.
Powerups and disguises 🎭⚡
Boost pads are rocket fuel… when you place them in your head a jump early. Enter centered, let the pad lift, then steer only after the arc settles; fighting mid-boost wastes the gift. Temporary disguises matter more than you think: blend into a crowd of NPCs near a checkpoint and rival players sometimes choose the wrong lane, handing you clean air. Magnet pickups vacuum coins and gifts without side steps—use them before long straights so your line stays surgical. And if you see a glide cape, claim it. A short glide cancels vertical losses on bad stairs and turns a scary alley into a joke you tell with a smile.
Race tactics and mind games 🧠🏁
Multiplayer turns the climb into chess at sprint speed. Draft behind confident runners to learn lines, then pass on the safer exit of a narrow. If you’re the leader, “ghost” your intentions—slow a fraction before a fork to fake left, then hard cut right onto the faster, thinner path. When rivals tailgate on a spinning platform, hop early so they enter on the platform’s weak phase; you’ll exit clean while they chase physics. Most importantly, never stare at someone else’s shoes. Your route, your rhythm. The wave doesn’t care who’s pretty; it loves hesitation.
Micro-skills that save runs 🧠✨
Feather jumps on tiny tiles; full presses overshoot. Land with the stick neutral for a heartbeat, then drive into the next launch—this kills slide drift. On angled billboards, run the low seam to turn friction into speed. Wall-kicks: face the wall, jump, flick the camera 30–40 degrees, and re-jump as you turn back—done right, it’s a neat little elevator. If a ladder is too crowded, bounce to the side brace and climb the hardware. When the wave finally nips your heels, jump from the rising foam—its lift plus your timing equals a miracle you’ll pretend was planned.
Checkpoints, splits, and smarter retries ⏱️📍
Good levels tuck checkpoints at the end of honest sections. Use them like split markers. If a segment takes three retries, pause for ten seconds on the safe tile and visualize the next five jumps. The “slow” breath pays back in a cleaner split that beats panicked repeats. When chasing leaderboard times, plan two routes: a consistent mainline and a “spicy” variant that risks one razor jump. If your run is green at mid-split, take the safe finish. If you’re behind pace, cash the spicy card and pray to the physics gods with a grin.
Solo flow and friend chaos 🤝🔥
Playing solo feels like meditation with alarms. Your hands steady, the soundtrack fades, and the city becomes a metronome. With friends, it’s delightful sabotage—laughing, racing, shouting fake advice, and then genuinely cheering when someone pulls off a jump that made you flinch. Try relay challenges: one player runs to checkpoint A, the next to B, the last to finish, adding up team splits. Or ghost races: record a clean run and send the time; everyone chases the ghost until the group chat devolves into screenshots and victory snacks.
Why it clicks in your browser 🌐💙
Obby runs need instant starts and crisp inputs. On Kiz10, you’re on the wall in seconds, no downloads, no waiting room. Keyboard or touch, the control feel is honest—mistakes belong to you, which is exactly why improvement feels addictive. Five minutes buys a new checkpoint and a personal best. Twenty minutes teaches a ladder trick you’ll use forever. The loop is frictionless and the dopamine is clean.
Moments you’ll replay in your head 🎥⭐
There will be a balcony where your toe hangs off nothing and you still stick the landing. There will be a fan you swear hates you until you ride its curve just right and launch into a rooftop glide that makes the whole server gasp. There will be a final staircase where the wave lifts like a beast breathing down your neck and you jump from its crest onto the finish tile with a laugh you can feel in your ribs. And you’ll queue again, because the only thing better than escaping once is doing it cleaner.
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