The Nakayama Racecourse was alive in a way few places could match. The grandstands were crammed to capacity, the constant hum of chatter carrying down the hallways into the preparation area like the rush of a restless tide.
Amidst the muffled din, Akuma stood with his hands casually in his pockets, flanked on either side by McQueen and Special Week. The two Umas were quiet—not from lack of words, but from the charged atmosphere that seemed to press down on everyone in the room.
Across the way, Lucien was doing much the same, his scarf shifting with the faint winter breeze slipping through the open gate behind him. Their gazes locked—two smiles meeting in the air between them. But neither smile was warm. It wasn't the polite grin of acquaintances; it was the measured curve of rivals acknowledging the other's presence, the unspoken words: I see you.
Lucien's head tilted slightly, the faintest ghost of amusement crossing his face. Akuma's eyes narrowed, but his smirk held, steady as a blade's edge.
McQueen shifted uncomfortably, glancing between them, but neither man spoke. It wasn't until Akuma exhaled through his nose in a small, dismissive shrug that the moment broke. Without another glance, he turned his attention elsewhere.
The other trainers in the preparation area weren't subtle. Some pretended to busy themselves with their trainees, but their eyes flicked toward him again and again. Their hushed whispers rode the air—snippets of rumor carried half a sentence at a time:
"Is that really—?"
"—the Demon King…"
"I heard he—"
"…left for—…"
Akuma paid it no mind. Let them talk; they always did. Instead, his gaze swept the room until it landed on a familiar figure—Silence Suzuka, standing near the far wall. Her focus was unshaken, her posture immaculate. When she noticed his eyes on her, she smiled faintly and raised a hand in greeting.
He returned the gesture with a relaxed wave, his own small smile forming—not the sharp one he used on rivals, but something easier, lighter. Then he turned back to the two Umas beside him.
McQueen's hands were clasped in front of her, shoulders square but taut. Special Week's tail flicked anxiously, her ears twitching every so often toward the sound of the roaring crowd outside.
"Just like last time," Akuma began, his tone even, "it doesn't matter if you win. So don't think too much about it."
They both looked at him, listening. His expression softened a fraction as he continued. "After all…"—his lips curled into a confident smile—"…you should focus on thinking about what to eat after winning."
Special Week blinked, then grinned despite herself. McQueen let out the smallest breath of amusement, though she tried to keep her composure.
Akuma chuckled, stepping closer. He reached out and rested a hand on each of their heads, giving a firm but gentle pat to both. "You've trained hard. Do your best out there."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and headed toward the exit. The hallway beyond was awash in the muted roar of the stands above, the sound swelling as he stepped into the light.
The winter air bit sharper up in the open stands, carrying the layered scents of grass, churned dirt, and the faint sweetness of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. Akuma stepped onto the stairs leading upward, only to notice Lucien had matched his pace beside him.
"You seem awfully close to your trainees this time around," Lucien said, his voice light but tinged with something more—like a fisherman casually remarking on the weight of a line he'd just cast.
Akuma glanced sidelong, his expression unreadable. "How about you? Still keeping them at arm's length?"
Lucien's lips curved. "Well, you know how it is… plus, it's a fear of mine. Of what would happen if I did."
Akuma huffed a small laugh. "Ah. Touché."
The banter was easy, the pace unhurried, but the way they moved—never quite looking at each other for long—was all it took for the nearby spectators to start whispering. To the crowd, their quiet words were invisible threads of challenge, a subtle duel taking place with each step upward. Even in silence, the two seemed to invite the onlookers to imagine entire rivalries unfolding between them.
From the corner of his eye, Akuma noticed Lucien's scarf snap in the cold wind as they reached the top row. His gaze briefly followed the waving fabric before landing on the vast track below, the horses milling restlessly before their warm-ups.
"Ah, there you are, assistant."
Akuma's head tilted slightly at the voice, the familiar cadence drawing his attention. Standing in the aisle just a few seats over was Agnes Tachyon—white oversized lab coat swaying over her yellow turtleneck, her eyes bright with the same mix of curiosity and mischief she'd carried for years.
Lucien chuckled low in his throat, tilting his head toward Akuma. "Can't escape her, huh?"
"Technically," Akuma murmured back, a sly curve tugging at the corner of his mouth, "she can't escape me."
With that, he stepped away from Lucien, weaving through the row toward her. "What are you doing here?"
Tachyon beamed as if it were obvious. "Why, to support, of course." Her tone was breezy, as if she hadn't noticed the small eruption her arrival caused among the crowd. People pointed, whispers rising like small brushfires—recognition and nostalgia blending into waves of chatter.
Akuma sighed, resting one hand on his hip. His gaze shifted briefly toward the VIP stand across the way, where Mischa and Adal sat with their own trainees, the two giving half-hidden waves in his direction.
"…Well, fine." His voice was resigned but not unkind as he took the seat beside her.
Together, they looked down toward the track.
From where they sat, the view stretched wide: the gates gleaming under the low winter sun, the sharp shadows of the runners stretching across the dirt, the crowd rippling with anticipation.
And for just a moment, the present blurred. In Akuma's mind, the image beside him shifted—not the grown Tachyon in her lab coat, but the younger, reckless girl with untamed ambition in her eyes, standing shoulder to shoulder with a far less measured version of himself. Two fools, staring down the track, dreaming they could conquer the world.
The faintest, almost imperceptible smile ghosted across his face.