The air above Nakayama was electric. The home stretch loomed, the dirt track shimmering under the winter sun, and four silhouettes thundered toward it—Mejiro McQueen, Silence Suzuka, Tokai Teio, and Special Week.
The announcer's voice cracked with excitement, barely keeping pace with the race itself.
"Here they come—McQueen holding the lead, Silence Suzuka just half a length behind! Teio and Special Week chasing hard—ladies and gentlemen, this is what we were waiting for all year!!"
McQueen's silver hair streamed behind her like a comet's tail, her body perfectly aligned, every muscle honed and straining for that razor-thin advantage. She could hear Suzuka's breathing over her shoulder, the soft rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her steps matching her own.
Silence Suzuka's eyes were sharp and unblinking, her late-race burst now unleashed in full. Her frame moved with fluid precision, each stride a scalpel aimed at McQueen's lead.
"Silence is closing the gap! She's right there! The crowd is on their feet—are we about to see McQueen toppled!?"
Tokai Teio, jaw clenched, ran like a woman possessed. Her legs burned, lungs screamed, but her heart roared louder. "Not yet… not yet!" She surged, matching the leaders' speed, refusing to fall behind.
Special Week, trailing just a breath behind, caught a break. She dug her heels into the dirt at the outer edge of the home stretch, the momentum snapping her body sideways in a tight arc—positioning her into the open space between Teio and Suzuka.
"Special Week with an unorthodox move! She's side by side with Suzuka now!"
The stands exploded into cheers and gasps. People gripped the rails, some shouting encouragement, others simply screaming. Cameras flashed, catching the spray of dirt and the strain etched on every face.
200 meters.
McQueen kept the lead but only barely—Suzuka was a whisper behind, and now Special Week was matching their rhythm. Teio refused to back down, her strides pounding the ground like war drums. The four of them were locked together, no one yielding an inch.
"Four Umas, neck and neck! This is the hopeful skates at its absolute best! The difference now is down to less than a head!"
100 meters.
McQueen shifted her weight subtly to her inside leg, creating just enough torque to lengthen her stride by a fraction—enough to keep Suzuka from overtaking. Suzuka countered instantly, pressing her shoulders forward, searching for the tiniest gap.
Special Week inhaled sharply, calling on every last reserve she had. She pushed forward, her form breaking slightly but her speed climbing—just enough to nose past Teio. Teio bared her teeth, shoving her legs into overdrive, refusing to be left behind.
"McQueen and Silence! Special Week and Teio! Four fighters in the final straight—WHO WANTS IT MORE!?"
50 meters.
Every muscle screamed mutiny, but none of them listened. McQueen's breath came in ragged bursts. Suzuka's teeth were clenched in silent defiance. Special Week leaned into the pain, feeling the roar of the crowd become one with the pounding of her own heart. Teio's eyes shone—not with defeat, but with unbroken resolve.
"It's down to the wire—McQueen just half a head ahead—Suzuka closing—Special Week taking third! Teio trying to come back—!"
10 meters.
McQueen dropped her head and drove her body forward, the very image of determination. Suzuka lunged, her final step nearly even. Special Week pushed one last time, breaking away from Teio by the barest of margins.
The instant their bodies crossed, the track seemed to explode in noise—cheers, gasps, shouts. The announcer, nearly losing his voice, roared into the mic:
"And across the line—FIRST PLACE! MEJIRO MCQUEEN with an unbelievable show of endurance! SECOND—Silence Suzuka, mere fractions behind! THIRD—Special Week, what a comeback! FOURTH—Tokai Teio, holding her ground to the very end!"
The rankings flashed on the giant board:
1 — Mejiro McQueen
2 — Silence Suzuka
3 — Special Week
4 — Tokai Teio
The stadium erupted again, the sound a deafening wall that rolled over the track and into the winter sky.
The roar of the crowd was still shaking the air when Mischa leapt up from his seat, pumping his fists toward the sky.
"Da…! POBEDA!!!" he howled in triumph, his voice cracking halfway through but never losing its force.
Adal was just as explosive, practically vibrating as he spun around and grabbed Rice Shower into a hug so tight the poor Uma squeaked in surprise. "Marvelous! Simply marvelous!" Adal laughed in that grandiose, theatrical way of his, lifting her off the ground. "Using information to its utmost potential! I could weep from the brilliance!"
Besides them Vodka and Daiwa Scarlet were a whirlwind of arms, hair, and joyful chaos, hugging each other and yelling incomprehensible strings of celebration.
Mayano Top Gun had somehow latched onto Mischa's torso like an overexcited koala, laughing and crying at the same time, while Gold Ship—in true Gold Ship fashion—drop-kicked a random trainer who had been standing too close to the railing. "Victory drop kick!" she shouted as security scrambled to sort out the scene.
Not far away, Lucien rose to his feet with that maddening composure only he could maintain. His gloved hands came together in a slow, deliberate clap, his eyes fixed on the track. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, just enough to say you win this time. Without another word, without even glancing back toward Akuma, he turned and began walking up the steps, disappearing into the crowd with the grace of a man already planning his next move.
Tachyon didn't notice him leave. She couldn't.
She was standing perfectly still, her wide eyes locked on the track below where confetti rained in glittering waves over the victors. Her breath came unevenly, as though she had been the one sprinting for her life instead of the girls. Her heart—dormant for so long—was pounding hard enough to echo in her ears. She could feel it again, that old rhythm, that fever in her blood.
The cheers, the smell of the track, the glint of sunlight off dirt and sweat—it all rushed into her at once, reviving something that had gone quiet inside her years ago. She almost didn't realize her hands were trembling.
And then she looked at him.
Akuma stood just ahead of her, back towards her, the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. As if he'd been expecting this from her all along.
He glanced over his shoulder, catching her gaze. For a moment they simply stared at each other, the world around them still roaring with celebration. And then, with a quiet snicker, he turned fully toward her, holding out his hand.
"Care to join me now?" His tone was casual, but there was no mistaking the weight in his words. "The Demon King can't exactly win if he's missing his brain."
Her breath hitched.
For a heartbeat, she almost laughed—not because the joke was good, but because she felt absurdly close to tears. Instead, she stepped forward, the corner of her lips curling up.
"Where will you be without me, guinea pig?" she teased, her voice steadier than she felt.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't pull his hand back. "Probably lost."
She giggled, a light sound that carried with it both fondness and resignation. Her fingers slid into his, their hands fitting together as naturally as if they had never let go years ago.
The confetti still fell, the crowd still roared, and somewhere below, McQueen and Special Week basked in their moment of glory. But for Tachyon, the real victory was simply standing there again—next to him, with the fire in her veins burning brighter than it had in years.