A heavy sigh slipped past Akuma's lips, visible in the faint cold air of the winter morning. His gaze lingered on the sight before him, the only betrayal of his internal storm a faint twitch of his brow.
T.M. Opera O, vibrant as ever, stood at the center of the courtyard with her hands clasped theatrically against her chest, her smile radiating brighter than the weak sun overhead. Lucien, mercifully, was nowhere in sight.
"…Opera," Akuma greeted flatly, the word carried less like a welcome and more like a resignation. His posture remained straight, his aura calm, but there was an unmistakable weight in the way he forced himself to look at her rather than glance over his shoulder at the squeals echoing behind him.
She flourished a bow with the grandeur of a performer on stage, her violet eyes glittering as she rose. "Ah! Demon King. The dress suits you very much so." Her tone carried a mock reverence, but her smirk ruined any chance of sincerity.
The mockery might have stung less had Akuma not been wearing what he currently wore.
A perfectly tailored replica of Mejiro McQueen's racing attire—recolored slightly to suit his frame, but still distinctly hers—clung to his body. The military-style jacket with its ornate buttons strained slightly over his broad shoulders. The pleated skirt had been lengthened, barely, into something resembling modesty, but the stockings were unavoidable.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing through it. "…This is idiotic."
Behind him, McQueen's shrill squeals rang out like glass breaking. "M-my outfit! On him! It actually looks—no! I shouldn't say that!" She flailed, her face scarlet, torn between horror and a guilty sort of delight.
Special Week had no such restraint. "Akuma-san! You look amazing!" Her hands clapped together in unrestrained awe, her tail swishing behind her.
Tachyon, meanwhile, had folded her arms and leaned forward, her glasses glinting ominously as a mischievous grin stretched across her face. "Kuku… guinea pig, you've finally ascended. Truly, a specimen worthy of further study." Her laughter rang sharp, menacing, and delighted all at once.
Oguri Cap, seated on the steps with her injured leg tucked carefully beneath her, tried—tried—to smother her giggles into her sleeve. But when her eyes peeked over the fabric, sparkling with amusement, her shoulders betrayed her, shaking faintly.
Akuma ignored them all. He had long since mastered the art.
If anything could make the absurdity worse, it was the sight at his flank.
Adalbert, as radiant as a cathedral's stained glass, stood proudly in Rice Shower's outfit. The black and navy frills framed his lean figure unnervingly well, the skirt sweeping just above his knees, stockings drawn taut. Where Akuma stood stiffly, as though enduring a trial, Adalbert clapped his hands together with joy.
"Wunderbar! A stroke of brilliance, Opera!" His laughter carried warm and bright as he twirled once, the hem of the skirt flaring. "Truly, I feel reborn."
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Opera clapped her hands with him, their mutual delight bouncing back and forth as though they fed on each other's theatrics.
"…Mein Gott," Akuma muttered under his breath, staring forward with the resignation of a man awaiting execution.
And then there was Mischa.
The hulking trainer sat cross-legged on a crate, utterly unbothered. Or perhaps simply too powerful to be embarrassed. Where Gold Ship's elaborate racing outfit should have been, he wore a pitiful approximation: white stockings stretched over legs like tree trunks, and a red potato sack draped over his torso.
He bit into an actual potato, the crunch echoing like a challenge to the world itself.
"…Mischa," Akuma asked, his tone dangerously flat. "What are you doing."
"Eating," Mischa replied around a mouthful, tearing another chunk free. His expression remained as stone-carved as ever.
"Wearing that."
He shrugged, chewing slowly. "Couldn't fit. Improvised."
The sigh that left Akuma this time sounded heavier, older, as though the weight of his years compressed into that single exhale.
He raised his head again, fixing Opera with the stare that had cowed officials, rivals, and students alike. "…Why are we wearing this."
Opera's smile only grew wider, her hands lifting as if she held an audience's gaze. "Why, to deepen the bond between trainer and Uma, of course!" she declared, voice ringing out as if she stood on stage. "Do you not see? By donning their colors, their very spirit, you embody the essence of harmony! To let your body flourish with theirs!"
Her words carried like a performance, dramatic and unwavering.
Akuma's frown deepened. "…That's nonsense."
"It is inspiration," she corrected, wagging a finger. "Nonsense is the soil where inspiration blossoms."
From behind, McQueen gasped, still clutching her face in both hands. "I-I don't know if I should be horrified or proud…"
Special Week beamed, tail wagging. "I'm proud!"
Tachyon's giggles sharpened into a cackle. "Oh, I'm very proud. Kuku, guinea pig, I want to see him in my racing outfit next."
Even Oguri, whose usual solemnity made her laughter rare, covered her mouth with both hands to stifle another giggle.
Akuma looked at them all, their faces flushed with amusement, delight, or mischief. He let the silence hang a moment, his brow furrowing, his sigh rolling through the cold air once more.
"…Fine."
The single word cracked the courtyard like a hammer against glass. The Uma girls erupted into fresh squeals, clapping and cheering.
McQueen staggered backward, her knees nearly buckling. "H-he agreed—! Oh no, oh no…"
Special Week bounced in place, fists pumping. "Yay!"
Tachyon's grin turned downright sinister, her pen already scratching across her notebook. "Excellent. Data must be gathered. Endurance trials in McQueen's attire… yes, yes, this could work beautifully."
Opera clasped her hands, her triumphant smile rivaling a queen on her throne. "Then it is decided! Today, the Demon King and his knights don the raiment of their champions!"
Akuma pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering inaudibly beneath his breath.
Adalbert clapped, spinning once more in Rice's frills. "Oh, what a glorious day!"
Mischa chewed his potato. "…Not glorious. Just hungry."
And as the sun shifted over the courtyard, casting long shadows across the snow, the academy resounded with laughter, squeals, and the quiet, eternal sigh of its Demon King enduring yet another absurdity.