The sun had already dipped beneath the stands, leaving only the pale orange glow of early evening. The roar of the crowd had faded into the distant hum of dispersing voices, and the turf that had once thundered under Machan's hooves now lay still and quiet.
Akuma walked along the corridor behind the bleachers, his coat slung over his shoulder, expression tired but content. Machan's laughter still echoed faintly in his head — bright, ringing, full of that radiant joy only victory could bring.
He was halfway to the exit when the sound of muffled voices stopped him.
He wouldn't have paid attention normally. Racing venues always buzzed with noise — handlers, staff, reporters, fans sneaking in for autographs. But this was different.
The voice that cut through the silence was sharp, high, and dripping with disgust.
"…Absolutely disgraceful."
Akuma froze.
The voice came from one of the side rooms. The door was cracked open, light spilling into the hall.
He took a step closer.
Inside, Haru Urara stood with her head down, hands clenched tightly in front of her chest. Beside her stood Akitsu Teio — stiff, trembling, her jaw tight as if she were physically holding herself back.
Across from them stood the Aristo Hall Academy's director.
Akuma recognized him instantly. Everyone in the circuit did. The kind of man who dressed too well, spoke too softly, and smiled like he was already above you. His cane gleamed with gold accents; his tie clip had the academy's emblem in silver filigree.
And his words were poison.
"You humiliated us," the man spat, his voice slicing through the air. "You took our banner, our crest, our prestige — and you smeared it across the dirt in front of the entire nation."
Haru flinched. "I… I'm sorry, sir. I tried my best—"
"'Tried'?" he hissed, stepping closer. "Do you think trying is enough? This isn't some schoolyard charity race, girl. You represent Aristo Hall! You represent me! And you've done nothing but embarrass us since the day you were accepted."
Akitsu lifted her head, voice trembling but firm. "Sir, please—she's still young, she's still learning—"
The director laughed, a brittle sound. "Learning? What did you think you were doing enrolling her here? We give opportunities to the right people. People who can elevate us. Not… charity projects for sentimental fools."
Akitsu froze.
The director's smile widened, oily and cruel. "Perhaps it's because her trainer is too sentimental. Too focused on pity to recognize when a creature simply doesn't have the talent."
Akuma's fists clenched.
He wanted to walk away. He told himself it wasn't his business — that he shouldn't meddle in another academy's matters. But the way Haru's small shoulders trembled, the way her tail was tucked in tight against her leg, and the way Akitsu's eyes glistened but never shed a tear — it made something twist deep inside his chest.
The director's voice grew louder, venom spilling without restraint.
"You were never worth the investment. Either of you."
Haru's head snapped up, her eyes wide. "W… what?"
"You heard me." He leaned in, smiling like a serpent. "You're a waste. A waste of resources, a waste of effort, a waste of breath. I told the board it was foolish to admit a useless uma like you. And now? You've proven me right."
Akitsu stepped forward, voice shaking. "Enough. She's still a student—"
The man rounded on her. "And you," he hissed, "you're even worse. You were once a promising Uma yourself, Akitsu Teio — the pride of our academy. And now look at you — clinging to a failure as if it'll somehow bring you back your own lost glory."
She opened her mouth, certain she had something to say that would change the room's angle, but the director's next move took the air from her lungs.
He raised his hand. Not high enough to be theatrical. Just enough to show that he could. The room — already small — shrank with it. For one breath, the gesture hung in the air like a promise.
Haru flinched and stepped back. Her small shoulders rose; her lips trembled. The motion was so fragile it broke something in the silence.
Then the director's cane smashed against the wall beside Haru's face with a crack that echoed off the concrete and made every head in the corridor turn. Plaster dust trembled. Haru's eyes flew wide; her mouth opened, a soundless cry trapped in her chest. The slap of wood on wall reverberated like a public verdict.
"Do you understand?" he hissed, leaning close so his words were a sour breath. "This isn't a playground. This is my institution. My standards. You are a drain on both. You should be grateful we tolerated you this long."
He stepped forward and shoved Akitsu aside with a sharp palm to the arm — not so much to make her fall as to announce that in his world she was a nuisance. Akitsu stumbled, steadying herself against the doorframe, face paling.
"You were never worth anything," he said, every syllable curated to bruise. "Both of you are useless."
A heater died somewhere in the room. Haru's fingers dug into the sleeve of her coat until the fabric puckered white. She shook, and for the first time — the school's bright smile was gone. Tears slid down her face and she could do nothing but try to swallow the heat of them.
Akitsu's lips parted, and a sound — half a sob, half a strangled apology — escaped. She tried to speak, to say your honor, to say you can't, to point out the cruelty — but the man cut her off with a look. He did not have to raise his voice; the contempt in his silence did the rest.
"You should leave," he said finally, as if dismissing trash. "We will not accept the spectacle of defeat in our name. Take your failures elsewhere."
Akuma had heard enough.
He stepped into the doorway. The sound of his shoes against the floor broke the tension in an instant.
The director turned, his expression twisting from irritation to disdain. "And who might you be?"
Akuma's gaze was cold — unreadable, but burning underneath. "Akuma," he said simply, "Ishigawa Academy."
The name made the man pause. Just for a second. Then he chuckled. "Ah, yes. The upstart. The one taking in strays and calling it a school."
Akuma's voice stayed even. "Funny how a school filled with strays is a better school than yours.."
The director's smirk sharpened. "Teaching requires potential. You can't polish glass and call it a diamond, boy. And that—" he pointed his cane toward Haru "—is no diamond. She's dead weight. You'd be wise not to involve yourself."
He turned to leave.
Akuma stepped forward, blocking the doorway. His eyes were calm, but there was a danger in them — that quiet, measured kind of fury that needed no shouting to be understood.
"Apologize."
The director blinked. "…Excuse me?"
"Apologize," Akuma repeated, voice low. "To her. To both of them."
The man's expression turned cold, his nostrils flaring slightly as if insulted. "You must be joking."
Akuma didn't move.
The director leaned closer, sneering. "Know your place, boy."
And with that, he brushed past him.
Akuma didn't stop him. Didn't raise a hand. Didn't shout.
But his silence said everything.
The man's laughter echoed down the hallway as he disappeared into the distance.
When it faded, only the quiet sound of Haru's sniffles remained.
Akuma turned slowly. Haru was on her knees now, her hands covering her face as tears ran freely down her cheeks. Akitsu stood beside her, motionless — not crying, not speaking, just staring at the floor. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, and her hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
She'd tried to stand up for her daughter — and failed.
Akuma's chest tightened at the sight.
He crouched down beside Haru, his tone soft but steady. "Hey."
Haru looked up, eyes red and glistening.
He smiled faintly. Not the polite, detached one he used for sponsors or officials — but the warm, tired one that he used only for his own students.
"Run with us."
Haru blinked, unsure if she heard him right.
Akuma extended his hand. "No matter how many times you lose… you'll never be alone."
The hallway was silent for a long moment — the kind of silence that carried weight.
Haru's lips quivered. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and took his hand. Her small fingers trembled in his grasp.
Behind her, Akitsu finally lifted her gaze.
She wanted to protest — to tell him that they were done, that she didn't want anymore pain to fall on her daughter. But the words never came. Because when she looked at him — at the calm, unwavering light in his eyes — she realized something she hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
Akuma helped Haru to her feet, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Take your time," he said gently. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, come to Ishigawa. We'll start again from zero."
Haru sniffled and nodded, clutching his sleeve like a child afraid to let go.
Akitsu stepped forward, her voice small. "…Why? Why would you—"
Akuma looked at her, expression steady. "Because everyone deserves a place to belong."
For a moment, Akitsu couldn't breathe. Her composure broke just a little — her hand covering her mouth as a quiet sob escaped.
Akuma said nothing more. He just placed a hand on her shoulder — a simple gesture, grounding, human — before turning toward the exit.
Behind him, Akitsu sank to her knees beside her daughter and held her close, whispering broken apologies that turned into soft laughter as Haru clung tighter. As he walked down the corridor, the last of the sunlight spilled through the windows, painting everything gold.