The winter wind bit at the Hanshin Racecourse.
Breath from thousands of spectators fogged into the frigid air as the crowd roared over the first length of the race. Hooves hammered against the frozen ground, the sharp rhythm cutting through the noise.
Akuma stood with his coat collar turned up, eyes locked on the distant pack. His posture was calm, almost indifferent, but his focus was absolute—like a hunter watching for the moment to strike.
Then—
"Well… well…"
The voice came smooth, unhurried, rolling with the kind of confidence that only came from a man who had never needed to raise it to command attention.
"To think I would ever see the Demon King again… on such a marvelous event as this… quelle surprise."
Akuma didn't turn immediately. Only when the crunch of footsteps on the steps above drew closer did he glance over his shoulder.
Standing a few flights up was a tall figure draped in a long, dark winter coat, a wool scarf fluttering slightly in the cold breeze. Lucien's eyes—warm in color but sharp in weight—regarded him with the knowing gaze of an old friend… and a lifelong rival.
Akuma's mouth moved in a low murmur.
"Le Destructeur."
Then he turned back to the track as if nothing important had happened.
Lucien descended leisurely, each step deliberate, his leather gloves tapping against the railing as though marking time.
"Ne sois pas comme ça, mon vieil ami," he said when he reached Akuma's level, voice carrying that effortless French lilt that turned even mockery into music. "Don't be like that, my old friend."
Without asking, Lucien wrapped an arm casually over Akuma's shoulders, leaning in with a smile that balanced charm and danger in perfect measure.
"Are you not even heureux to stand here again, comme aux beaux vieux temps? Like old times?"
Akuma's reply was a shrug, his gaze never leaving the track.
"It's alright, I suppose. Though I'd prefer not to dig up the past."
Lucien clicked his tongue softly, feigning disappointment.
"Ah, mon ami… You are only twenty-five. The past shouldn't be something you bury. It should be something you carry, non?"
He let the words linger as he withdrew his arm, standing beside Akuma now with hands folded behind his back. The crowd's cheers rose and fell with the shifting race, but the space between the two men felt insulated, almost private.
"I truly missed you, mon ami."
The tone was softer now, stripped of playful theatrics—yet still laced with an edge that could draw blood.
"I'm flattered," Akuma said without turning. "But I doubt you came all the way down from your ivory tower just to reminisce."
Lucien chuckled, the sound low and genuine enough to be disarming.
"Always cutting straight to the bone. You haven't changed. Not in that, at least."
For a moment, neither spoke. They simply stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the pack of racing Umas. Their breath drifted upward into the cold air, and somewhere in the distance, the announcer's voice cracked over the speakers with excitement.
Then, quieter—
"But why now?" Lucien's voice lowered, the warmth cooling to something more pointed. "Why choose this moment to return?"
Akuma's brow twitched at the question, but he didn't take his eyes off the track. The crowd roared again, but he spoke evenly, his voice carrying more weight than volume.
"Because I have people worth more than my image."
Lucien's gaze lingered on him for a long second, searching his face for cracks.
Finally, he gave a slow nod. "Je vois."
They watched as one of the frontrunners stumbled slightly in the curve, the crowd reacting in a collective gasp. Lucien smirked faintly, his eyes narrowing.
"Still reading the field like a chessboard. Tell me… which of these little prodigies have caught your eye? Or will you keep your secrets from me, even now?"
Akuma didn't answer. The only movement was the faint tightening of his jaw.
Lucien's smirk grew.
"Toujours le même. Always the same. You guard your hand as though it's the last one you'll ever play."
"And you," Akuma said, "still talk too much."
For a beat, Lucien was silent. Then he laughed—genuinely, fully, the sound carrying over the noise of the stands. It wasn't mocking this time.
"Ah, mon ami… You really have missed me."
The two men stood there as the race thundered past the halfway mark. The air between them was thick—not hostile, not warm, but charged in the way only two people with too much shared history could create.
Lucien tilted his head toward Akuma slightly.
"You know, I always wondered… when the Demon King vanished, was it because he'd finally grown tired of the game? Or was it because he was afraid of losing?"
Akuma's eyes slid toward him, cold and sharp.
"Careful."
Lucien smiled like he'd gotten the reaction he wanted.
"Ah… there you are."
The crowd erupted again as the Umas entered the final stretch, but the two men didn't cheer or shout. They just watched—reading the race, reading each other.
Somewhere beneath the surface pleasantries and small smiles, the message between them was clear:
The game had resumed.
Lucien leaned slightly on the railing, eyes narrowing, but not at the frontrunners. His gaze drifted farther back, toward the middle of the pack, where chaos seemed to ripple in waves.
"There," he murmured, tilting his chin in the direction of a chestnut Uma whose easy stride didn't look remarkable—until you noticed the trail of disruption she left in her wake.
Akuma followed the gesture, his eyes locking onto her. Nice Nature was keeping pace, not pushing for the lead. Instead, she was slipping into gaps, forcing other racers to adjust their lines. A perfectly timed feint here, a shoulder nudge within the rules there—nothing overt enough to draw a penalty, but enough to shatter rhythm. A confident frontrunner was suddenly boxed in. Another stumbled when she slid in just ahead of them at the curve.
She wasn't racing to win. She was racing to make others lose.
"Subtle," Akuma murmured.
Lucien's smile curved like a blade. "Not subtle. Surgical. Look at her spacing—always close enough to choke the line, never close enough to draw the marshal's eye. Every second she stays in the pack is a second her ace has to break away."
He adjusted his scarf, watching as Nice Nature's 'ace' took advantage, creeping into a freer lane ahead while the rest fought each other.
"That one," Lucien continued, voice smooth as silk, "I intend to have by my side for the upcoming Hopeful Stakes." His tone was matter-of-fact, but beneath it was the quiet challenge that made the words more than casual conversation.
Akuma didn't react immediately. His gaze stayed fixed on the chestnut Uma, tracking her as she slipped behind another racer, using their own speed to slingshot around the next bend and block an opponent just enough to break their stride. He could almost feel the crowd's focus drifting toward the flashy frontrunners, unaware that the real architect of the race was in the middle.
Then—slowly—his lips curved into the grin.
It was the same grin that had earned him his moniker before he'd ever set foot on the trainer's podium. The kind that said he'd found a puzzle worth solving, a battlefield worth claiming. The kind Lucien had been hoping to see again.
Lucien caught it instantly, his own smirk blooming in return, sharper, more calculating.
"Oh… voilà. The Demon King awakens." he whispered
Akuma finally looked at him, his grin still in place. "Is that so?" His tone was mild, but his eyes told a different story—one of interest, calculation, and the faintest flicker of predatory intent.
The two men locked eyes for a moment, their expressions a silent conversation of strategies yet to be revealed. Then, as if on cue, they both laughed—not loudly, but with the quiet, knowing mirth of two generals watching the same battlefield from opposite hills.The race roared toward its final stretch, but Akuma had already turned away from the railing. His hands slid into his coat pockets, the grin never quite leaving his face as he started down the steps.
Lucien tilted his head slightly, watching him go. "Leaving so soon?"
"Mm," Akuma hummed without looking back. "I've seen enough."
"And?" Lucien pressed.
Akuma paused at the bottom of the steps, just long enough for the winter wind to catch his coat. Then he glanced over his shoulder.
"See you there… Lucien."
Lucien's smirk deepened, and he gave a small, almost courtly nod. "À bientôt, mon ami."
The crowd's roar swallowed the rest of the moment as the race concluded, but the real contest had already begun.