The low hum of chatter filled the Kyoto race track's waiting room, but inside one sectioned-off corner, the air felt different—tighter, more focused. Special Week sat on a bench, her legs bouncing like springs, while McQueen sat perfectly still, hands clasped together, eyes fixed on the floor.
Akuma leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, eyes flicking between the two.
"Nervous?" he asked, voice steady.
Special Week laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck. "A little…"
McQueen didn't answer, but the faint twitch of her fingers said enough.
Akuma pushed off the wall and stood before them. "Alright, listen up. Don't think too much about losing. Just… enjoy the race for what it is. Winning isn't everything. If you run your hardest, have fun, and learn something from it… that's a bigger win than getting the trophy."
Special Week's eyes lit up. "Wow… Akuma-san, you're so cool and calm all the time! I promise I'll win just for you!"
Akuma deadpanned, blinking slowly. "…I literally just said that isn't—" He sighed. "Well, no matter."
Then his eyes landed on McQueen. Her posture was still poised, but when she met his gaze, her expression softened—warm, almost nostalgic.
"What?" he asked.
McQueen smiled faintly. "…You look amazing. As if you're now standing where you truly belong."
The words seemed to catch him off guard. Akuma's mouth twitched—half-smile, half-wince. "You really think so?"
"I do," she said simply.
Akuma exhaled and gave them both a grin. "Alright then… go out there and do your best, alright!?" He held out a fist.
Special Week bumped it eagerly. McQueen followed with a small, dignified nod.
Without another word, Akuma stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The noise hit him immediately—crowds murmuring, laughter, the distant sound of hooves clopping in warm-up. Trainers lined the rails, clipboard in hand, all business.
And then… the stir began.
Heads turned. Whispers started.
"…The Demon King actually returned?"
"No way… I thought it was just a rumor."
"Does that mean he actually left for that position? Guess he really was greedy…"
Akuma ignored them all, slipping into his place among the trainers like he'd been here yesterday instead of years ago. His eyes were locked on the track—sharp, focused.
Even the announcers noticed the shift.
"Ladies and gentlemen," one of them began, "I believe I'm not the only one sensing a certain… restlessness in the crowd today."
The co-commentator chuckled. "Restlessness? More like anticipation. The atmosphere's changed ever since a certain figure stepped into the stand."
"You think…?"
"Oh, I know. Perhaps today we will witness not only the rise of new legends… but also the return of one!"
Special Week took her lane, bouncing slightly on her heels. Her ears flicked back, catching the echoes of the crowd. She didn't have to understand the words to feel the buzz in the air.
McQueen stood beside her in her own lane, serene as ever, though her gaze kept drifting toward the trainers' stand—toward him.
Akuma didn't wave. Didn't shout. He simply gave them both a look that said everything: Run. Do what you came here to do.
The starter raised his flag. The crowd hushed. The wind swept across the track.
The gates snapped open.
The air exploded with the pounding of hooves, the sound rippling through the stands like rolling thunder. The front-runners burst forward instantly, kicking up a spray of dirt.
Special Week and McQueen?
They didn't move with that initial burst.
Instead, they settled into a steady rhythm, eyes locked on the pack ahead. The strategy of a pace chaser—wait, measure, and strike at the perfect moment.
"McQueen and Special Week are holding back!" one announcer cried.
In the lead, a fiery chestnut Uma surged forward, clearly intending to burn the competition early. The crowd roared, loving the aggressive start. Behind her, the rest of the front pack jockeyed for position, elbows brushing, tails flicking irritably.
Special Week kept her eyes fixed on the space between two runners, her breathing even. McQueen, just to her right, glanced at her once, then back to the track.
They didn't need words—both understood the timing game.
From the stands, Akuma's gaze tracked every twitch of muscle, every shift in stance. His arms were folded, but his eyes burned.
"That look…" Mischa muttered beside him. "The Demon King's measuring the field again."
Adal smirked. "Ahh, I truly missed the feeling of helplessness under that gaze~."
The front-runner pushed harder, trying to stretch the gap. A risky move this early.
Special Week's ears twitched back, catching the heavy breathing ahead. "She's burning out," she thought.
McQueen saw it too. "Five lengths… three lengths…" she counted silently.
The moment they felt the leader's speed falter, the two shifted gears.
Their strides lengthened, the sound of their hooves sharpening against the track. In seconds, they devoured the gap, weaving through the pack like water through rocks.
"Here they come!" the announcer shouted. "McQueen and Special Week slicing through the field!"
The front pack realized too late what was happening. Some tried to block, drifting sideways, but Akuma's training paid off—both Uma darted through openings no bigger than a breath, their footwork precise enough to avoid any contact.
"... so that's why you made me pay those vendors to have an early market discount" Mischa said, grinning. "You've been planning for this exact kind of chaos."
Akuma grinned, "Da, my friend."
By now, the crowd had picked up the rhythm—two figures surging from the middle, perfectly in sync, eating up the distance.
The chestnut leader was still clinging to first, sweat darkening her coat. She glanced back—just in time to see two shadows loom over her shoulder.
McQueen was the first to strike, her stride smooth and unbroken as she swung wide to take the outside lane. Special Week darted inward, skimming the rail so closely it seemed impossible she wouldn't clip it.
"Double pincer!" the announcer roared. "The rivals are cornered!"
The chestnut faltered. One stride. Two. And then—she was gone from the front.
The crowd was on its feet now.
It was down to McQueen and Special Week.
Neither looked at the other. Neither said a word.
McQueen's form was textbook—upper body still, each step a polished surge of power. Special Week's was rawer, a wild, almost overeager energy, but no less dangerous.
From the stands, Akuma's rare smile curved his lips. "They've found their rhythm," he murmured.
Mischa crossed his arms. "So… who are you rooting for?"
Adal chuckled. "Neither. He's watching to see which one cracks first."
Fifty Meters Left
McQueen's steady breathing turned sharper—her polished control starting to strain under Special Week's relentless drive.
Special Week's eyes locked on the finish line. She pushed harder, but McQueen matched her step for step, the two locked in a dead heat.
The crowd's roar became a wall of sound. The announcers were shouting over each other, the words lost in the chaos.
Both lowered their heads, every ounce of power in their bodies unleashed for the last stretch.
Special Week's wild energy flared—her stride lengthened, almost reckless. McQueen's response was pure precision, each step timed perfectly to maximize speed without losing form.
Ten meters.
Five.
One.
The crowd erupted, not even caring who had taken it.