Special Week could barely keep still. She bounced on the balls of her feet beside McQueen and Rice Shower, tail swishing like an excited puppy's as she grinned toward the start line.
"This is gonna be so fun!" she chirped, clasping her hands together as McQueen adjusted her gloves with her usual refined poise.
"You seem awfully energetic, Special-chan," McQueen said with a small smile. "Let's just make sure we win that energy."
Rice Shower, on the other side of Special Week, was quieter—eyes down, but a faint, determined smile tugged at her lips.
Across the track, their opponents—Daiwa Scarlet, Vodka, and Mayano Top Gun—stood ready. Scarlet and Vodka were, predictably, already glaring each other down, while Top Gun looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.
Everyone's attention, however, wasn't on the starting line. It was on Akuma.
The headmaster stood between the two teams, his usual calm expression intact… but his suit jacket was streaked with dirt, and a small twig protruded stubbornly from his hair like a misplaced ornament. It looked like he'd just crawled out of a hedge after losing a fistfight with it.
In his hands was a small notepad, which he was reading from as if this were the most ordinary sight in the world.
Adal, standing beside him, was busy fussing over the mess. "Boss, boss, boss," he scolded in a silky tone, brushing at Akuma's lapel with a cloth. "Though I adore the natural, rugged look you're working right now… the Umas would definitely adore you even more if you were looking clean and dashing. Presentation is half of leadership, mein Freund."
Akuma slowly lifted his eyes from the notepad and gave Adal the flattest stare humanly possible.
From the sidelines, a few of the Umas snickered under their breath. Even McQueen, ever composed, raised a gloved hand to hide a small, polite laugh.
Special Week tilted her head in curiosity. "Boss, what happened to you?"
Akuma didn't answer. He simply let out a slow exhale, turned back to his notepad, and snapped it shut. "Alright. Calm down, all of you." His tone cut through the low chuckles, and the group settled quickly.
He began speaking clearly so both teams could hear. "Today's training will be a group relay race. You'll be running the full track… but you'll notice it's not the same track you're used to."
Everyone glanced around. The once-clean oval was now littered with obstacles—wooden hurdles, rope nets, sand pits, barrels placed in precarious zigzags.
"I see Mischa has been… creative," Akuma muttered dryly. His gaze slid toward one obstacle that looked suspiciously like a seesaw with water buckets dangling from it. Then he muttered again, quieter this time, "…and Gold Ship is doing anything but training, I see."
Sure enough, off to the side, Gold Ship was wiping her forehead like she'd just completed the most grueling workout of her life—despite clearly having been having fun setting up chaos instead of participating in her own regimen. Mischa was beside her, looking smug and proud of their handiwork.
Akuma sighed and returned to the matter at hand. "Your goal is simple—get your baton through all three runners of your team and across the finish line first. You're allowed to help your teammates if they fall behind, but…" He glanced between Scarlet and Vodka, "you're not allowed to sabotage anyone. And yes, that includes your own teammates."
Both rivals glanced away with feigned innocence.
Akuma tucked his notepad under his arm. "The winning team will accompany me on an open race outside the academy grounds."
The announcement sent a ripple of excitement through the group.
Special Week's eyes sparkled like she'd just been told she'd won a lifetime supply of carrots. "An open race?! With you, trainer?!"
Rice Shower's hands tightened slightly on her baton, a quiet but determined glimmer in her eyes.
Scarlet straightened up immediately, tossing her hair. "Obviously, that's going to be my team."
Vodka snorted. "Ha! You wish."
Top Gun just muttered, "We're in the same you two…"
Akuma glanced between them, noting the rising competitiveness. He didn't need to push any further—motivation was already at its peak.
He raised his hand to signal the start, expression returning to that calm, unreadable mask. "Alright, runners. On my mark…"
Akuma's hand hung in the air, the tension between the teams palpable. Scarlet was glaring daggers at Vodka, Vodka was grinning like a wolf, Top Gun was humming some tune to herself, McQueen adjusted her gloves with elegant calm, Rice Shower silently gripped her baton, and Special Week bounced in place like a coiled spring ready to burst.
"…Go."
Scarlet and McQueen exploded off the starting line, each taking the first leg. Immediately, the first obstacle loomed—a series of low hurdles that demanded quick, precise footwork.
Scarlet powered through them like a machine, knees pumping high, eyes locked forward. McQueen, while slightly slower, was flawless in her timing, clearing each hurdle with grace.
But then—Gold Ship happened.
From the sidelines, she called out, "You're both too serious! Try adding style!" and proceeded to demonstrate a ridiculous cartwheel over a hurdle. Her showboating distracted McQueen for a split second, enough for Scarlet to pull a hair ahead.
"Gold Ship…" Akuma muttered with a twitch in his eye.
The next obstacle was a sand pit. Scarlet charged straight through, not caring about the drag on her legs, while McQueen took smaller, measured steps to keep her balance. Scarlet emerged first, tossed the baton to Vodka, and immediately spun around to shout, "Beat them into the dust!"
Vodka didn't need encouragement—she sprinted like a madwoman, laughing all the way. McQueen passed her baton to Rice Shower, who darted off quietly, eyes narrowed in focus.
Obstacle three: a rope net crawl. Vodka hit it head-on and tried to bulldoze her way through… which ended with her tangling herself up like a wild animal caught in a trap.
"Oi—seriously?!" Vodka barked, struggling to get free.
Rice Shower, meanwhile, glided through the net like water through a sieve, easily overtaking her.
"Come on, Vodka!" Scarlet yelled from the sidelines, half-laughing, half-annoyed.
By the time Vodka untangled herself, Rice Shower was already hitting the next obstacle: barrels lined up in a zigzag pattern. Rice was careful and methodical, weaving through with sharp, efficient turns.
Then came obstacle four—the seesaw with the dangling water buckets.
Rice stepped carefully, making sure the seesaw tipped slowly so she wouldn't get drenched. But halfway across—splash!—a stray soccer ball from somewhere (Top Gun, giggling in the distance) smacked one of the buckets, soaking her head to toe.
"Mayano!" Akuma barked from the sidelines.
Top Gun, on the opposite team's third leg, waved cheerfully. "What? I'm warming up!"
Rice Shower pushed through with admirable restraint and passed the baton to Special Week.
Special snatched it with a grin. "Alright, my turn!"
She shot off like a cannon, speed already impressive. Her obstacle was the rope swing over a small mud pit. She leapt, grabbed the rope—
—and swung so hard she overshot the landing, tumbling into the grass with a laugh before scrambling back onto the track. "I'm okay! I'm okay!"
Top Gun, finally starting her leg for Scarlet's team, skipped up to her first obstacle—a series of small hurdles. But instead of simply jumping them, she decided to bounce from hurdle to hurdle, arms flailing like a kid on a playground.
"This isn't a game, Top Gun!" Scarlet screamed.
"Yes it is!" Top Gun yelled back cheerfully, actually managing to keep pace with Special purely because Special got tangled up in the next obstacle: a rope tied between two poles at knee height.
Special tried to duck under it… and got her hair caught. "Ehh?!" She pulled herself free and sprinted again, determined.
Top Gun finally reached the baton hand-off point where Vodka was waiting for the final leg. Special passed hers to McQueen.
Now it was a clean head-to-head—Vodka versus McQueen on the home stretch.
Vodka powered forward, muscles straining, barreling through a gauntlet of hanging tires with sheer force. McQueen, refusing to lose, wove through them with balletic precision.
The last obstacle—a steep, short ramp—loomed ahead. Both hit it at the same time. Vodka went for raw speed, leaping high, while McQueen timed her stride to hit the ramp perfectly.
And then… they both stopped.
Because there was nothing beyond the ramp. No tape. No line. No markers.
The track just… ended.
"…Akuma-san," McQueen said through labored breaths, turning to him. "Where exactly… is the finish line?"
Akuma blinked and glanced flatly at Mischa who simply shrugged.
"Bossman said make track, nothing about finish line."
The entire group froze in disbelief. Then, as if on cue, every single runner collapsed where they stood, sprawling out on the track.