The year passed in the blink of an eye.
Seasons melted into each other, races blurred together, and victories stacked high like monuments no one could topple.
Akuma's roster grew. El Condor Pasa with her wild confidence, the kind that turned every track into a festival. Taiki Shuttle, bright as the morning sun, energy so boundless she dragged the others into her orbit.
Every single one of them—undefeated.
For most trainers, it would have been paradise. For Akuma, it was suffocating.
Win after win. Applause after applause. The roars of the crowd that once thundered through his chest now echoed hollow. He stared at trophies lined in glass, polished and perfect, and whispered to his reflection:
"Is this really it?"
Then Lucien arrived.
Even back then, he was confident. Too confident. Almost unbearable.
He strode into École Royale with a coat too bright, a grin too wide, and an aura that turned every head. He carried himself not as a newcomer, but as if the academy had been built for him.
The first thing he did was walk straight up to Akuma. No hesitation.
An arm slung itself over Akuma's shoulder, uninvited but impossible to shake.
"Alors… toi must be the Demon King, non? I have heard so much about you. C'est un honneur, vraiment."
Akuma blinked. Silent.
Lucien leaned in, his grin stretching wider, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"And now—at last—I have my rival."
For the first time in years, Akuma smiled. Just faintly.
A rival.
At Lucien's side was his new ace.
Aston Machan.
She was not radiant like Condor, not dignified like Groove, not fearless like Shuttle. She was something else—raw joy wrapped in fragile hope. When she ran, the world tilted toward her. When she smiled, the crowd leaned forward, waiting.
Akuma had guided many. But Machan… Machan lit something different inside him.
Even when she wasn't his.
It happened on a cold spring day. Symboli Rudolf, Lucien's second great Uma, had lined up against Maruzensky. The Demon King's undefeated jewel versus the Emperor's crown.
The race thundered. The crowd shook.
And for the first time, Maruzensky faltered. Rudolf's regal stride cut her down.
Akuma's throne crumbled.
Defeat.
It wasn't crushing. It wasn't humiliating. But it was real.
And from the ashes of loss, Akuma felt it.
The spark.
His chest burned. His blood roared. For the first time since stepping into this academy, he was alive.
And Lucien? That arrogant Frenchman laughed as though he'd just married the world.
"Mon ami! Enfin! You look alive! Ahh, it suits you. Losing suits you! Don't you see? You need me, Akuma!"
Akuma almost punched him. Instead, he laughed too.
Because Lucien was right.
From that day, the academy bloomed.
They were rivals, yes. But more than that—they were brothers of the track.
They bickered endlessly.
"Your regiment is madness, mon démon," Lucien sneered, gesturing wildly with a half-smoked cigarette. "They are athlètes, pas des machines!"
"And your coddling will break them faster than my drills ever could," Akuma shot back, arms folded, voice flat but sharp as a knife.
"Pfff!" Lucien waved him off, tossing his scarf over his shoulder with dramatic flair. "Rudolf will outlast them all. She is consistency! Stability! An emperor needs no cruelty to rule."
"One day, she'll meet someone who pushes past stability," Akuma murmured. "And she'll fall."
They argued. They mocked. They laughed until their throats hurt.
And when night fell, when the Umas were asleep, they sat side by side, drinks in hand, staring at the empty track. Brothers. Rivals. Equals.
Machan rose like a storm.
Race after race, she conquered. She outpaced Groove. She matched Maruzensky stride for stride. She even stood against Condor and Taiki without flinching.
The crowd adored her. Lucien adored her. Even Akuma… though she wasn't his, he couldn't help but treasure her.
When she laughed, so full of life, so bright with the thrill of racing, something twisted in his chest. It was pride. It was joy. It was dread.
But he buried it. Because this was what he had longed for.
A golden age.
Days bled into weeks, weeks into months.
The academy rang with laughter. Condor turning every training session into a circus. Shuttle dragging the girls into marathon sprints through town. Groove and Rudolf clashing with icy stares that could cut glass.
Even Akuma found himself smiling more than he realized.
And Lucien, flamboyant bastard that he was, thrived in it all.
"Ah, mon frère, do you not see?" he said one evening, spinning his glass of wine as though he were center stage. "This—this is history. We are shaping it with every race, every smile, every tear. Together, toi et moi. Non?"
Akuma only sipped his tea, hiding his grin. "…Yeah."
For another year, they lived like that.
Wins. Losses. Victories that made their hearts soar. Defeats that stung but made them stronger.
The Demon King and Le Destructeur.
The academy alive with fire.
The Umas thriving, laughing, crying, pushing past their limits.
It was everything Akuma had wanted. The thrill of struggle. The fulfillment of pushing his girls past the edge, of watching them fight and bleed and smile anyway.
This was the true calling of a trainer. To give. To take. To fall. To rise.
To live.
But nothing lasts forever.
Not victories.
Not rivalries.
Not sparks.
And deep down, Akuma knew it.
The end was coming.
He just didn't know how soon.
Or how cruel.