The sun was warm on his shoulders, the steady beat of feet against the dirt track echoing like a drumroll in the air. Akuma's face was as expressionless as ever, but the ridiculous reality of his situation was not lost on him.
Because right now, the so-called "Demon King" of trainers, feared and whispered about in both city alleys and prestigious academies alike… was running full stride down the track. His black hair caught in the wind, sweat rolling down his neck, and his body perfectly composed as if this was routine. But the part that soured his pride and nearly shattered his stoicism… was the fact he was still wearing Mejiro McQueen's racing uniform.
The pastel frills fluttered with every stride. The skirt whipped around his thighs. The boots pinched at his toes. And the sound of Tachyon's manic laughter only made it worse.
"Fu—fufufu! Faster, faster! Don't you dare let the Demon King outrun you! My data will only be useful if your lungs explode!" Tachyon cried as she clung to Special Week's back like a parasite, her notepad scrawling so fast the paper threatened to tear.
Akuma adjusted the clipboard under his arm, glaring sidelong at McQueen who was running furiously just ahead of him, her face red with both exertion and giddy delight, her legs pumping furiously against the dirt, her breaths sharp but filled with exhilaration. And clinging to her back, arms wrapped loosely around her shoulders, was Oguri Cap.
Her hair, that soft silver-gray, streamed behind her like a river of moonlight. Her ears twitched as the wind howled past, eyes half-lidded but glowing faintly as if savoring every fragment of sensation.
It wasn't the crowd of the racetrack. It wasn't the pressure of scouts or expectations. It was simply… running. The rhythm of boots on dirt, the rush of air, the faint smell of the sun-warmed field. She tilted her head slightly, lips parting into the faintest smile.
Ah… I had forgotten how good this feels.
Her gaze slid to the side, catching a glimpse of Akuma running alongside them, clipboard in hand, his movements steady and unshaken despite the ridiculous frilly uniform. He barked at McQueen about her form, pointed out Special Week's errors, but in Oguri's world, his words blurred into background noise.
For the first time in a while, she wasn't worrying about her limp. She wasn't worrying about her apartment, her money, or her worth as an Uma.
Just the wind. Just the track. Just this moment.
McQueen, panting, glanced back for half a second, her tone hurried but chipper. "H-how's the ride, Oguri-san?!"
Oguri didn't answer right away. She just let her eyes close, feeling the wind thread through her hair. When she finally spoke, it was soft, almost childlike.
"…It feels wonderful."
McQueen nearly tripped from how earnest it sounded, cheeks lighting up before she refocused on her steps. Special Week overheard too, grinning widely. "See? You're already smiling again!"
Tachyon snickered from Special's back, scribbling notes. "Excellent data! A synergy of wind pressure, joy, and emotional instability… fufufu, fascinating!"
Akuma glanced sideways at Oguri then, catching the small, serene smile on her lips. His expression didn't change, but his thoughts did.
Good. At least she's remembering why she runs.
He took another stride, then barked out, "McQueen, stop smiling like an idiot. Focus on your footing before you faceplant."
McQueen yelped in protest, but even as she corrected her form, Oguri's laughter — soft, melodic — slipped past her lips. It was brief. Quiet. But in the cacophony of Tachyon's cackling and Special Week's shouting encouragements, it was enough for Akuma to hear.
"Step lighter, McQueen. You're landing too harshly on your right foot."
"Y-Yes! I'll correct it immediately!" she shouted back, her tone far too cheerful for how brutal the pace was.
He watched her gait carefully, noting the adjustment. Good. She was too ecstatic still — too carried away from the morning's nonsense where Opera and Adalbert forced him into this cursed uniform. Her emotions were spilling over, and in racing, that could be fatal. But even as he noted every flaw, every correction… the tiniest curve pulled at the corner of his lips.
Special Week puffed alongside them, her eyes bright with both exhaustion and admiration. "Akuma-sensei! You're amazing, you're running in that outfit without even tripping!"
Akuma coughed into his fist, refusing to let his face betray him. "Eyes forward, Special Week. Your form is better today — don't ruin it."
But Special Week's lips quirked mischievously, her innocent question sliding out as if it were harmless. "Then… Akuma-sensei, when will you wear our outfits?"
Akuma nearly choked on his own spit.
Before he could retort, Tachyon's giggle sliced through the air, sharp and menacing. "Fufu… I would love to see you in my outfit. To capture you in my experiment notes, the great Demon King dressed in pure Tachyon fashion. My guinea pig…!"
Akuma's face betrayed him then, heat flushing up his neck. He quickly turned his head, barking out like a drill sergeant to cover it. "Don't talk! Save your breath for running! Two more laps — full pace, or I'll add three more!"
"Yes, Sensei!" the Umas cried out in unison, fear and respect straightening their spines. Even Oguri, who had been blissfully staring at the clouds, blinked rapidly, then leaned forward, a rare smile tugging her lips as the wind whipped through her hair.
Akuma slowed, finally dropping his clipboard under one arm and pulling his canteen from his belt. He twisted it open with one hand and took a measured sip, savoring the bitter taste of tea. His lungs expanded with a calm exhale.
And then he made the mistake of looking across the grounds.
Adalbert was in the middle of the field, waltzing gracefully with Rice Shower clutched to his chest. His movements were elegant, his steps calculated with aristocratic flair, while Opera stood before them waving her arms like a conductor leading a symphony.
"One-two-three, one-two-three!" Opera sang in her theatrical voice, her hat tilting with every flourish.
Adalbert's voice carried, smug and delighted. "Ah, wunderbar! Rice, mein kleiner Stern, you are learning quickly! Step with your heart, not with fear!"
Rice Shower's face was crimson, her eyes downcast as she squeaked. "I-I'm trying…! But why am I learning to dance instead of race training…?"
"Because!" Opera declared with sparkling eyes. "Grace on the stage leads to grace on the track! A true Uma must flourish in all arts!"
Akuma deadpanned, slowly dragging his hand down his face.
His gaze shifted again.
Nearby, Vodka and Daiwa Scarlet were "dancing" as well — though to call it that was generous. Vodka shoved Scarlet's shoulder, Scarlet shoved back, both of them barking about who got to lead.
"You're stepping on my foot, idiot!"
"That's 'cause you're trying to boss me around again, princess!"
"I'm supposed to lead!"
"No way, I'm the stronger one—"
Their argument devolved into a full-on wrestling match, both trying to twist each other's arms into submission as Opera shrieked about ruining the flow.
Akuma's temples throbbed. He turned his head again — and immediately regretted it.
Because there, on the far side of the field, Mischa was hammering nails into the dirt. With every strike of his mallet, the earth shook. On his broad shoulders sat Top Gun, who was holding an entire stack of wooden planks like it was nothing. And directly beside them, Gold Ship — because of course it was Gold Ship — was gleefully smashing her own hammer into the ground, sending dirt flying like an artillery barrage.
"Oi, oi, oi, Mischa! If we hit hard enough, we'll make a new racetrack straight to the center of the earth!" Gold Ship cackled, her hair flying wildly as she slammed again.
Top Gun tilted her head, chewing her lip nervously. "Uh… are we… actually building something…?"
"Of course!" Mischa barked, sweat running down his forehead as he hammered another nail. "A foundation! Strong foundation builds strong spirit!"
Akuma froze. His eye twitched. He shut his canteen with a snap, facepalming as he muttered under his breath, "For the love of the three goddesses… give me one normal trainee. Just one…"
His voice was swallowed by the chaos — Opera's dramatic shouts, Tachyon's maniacal giggling, Gold Ship's bombastic laughter, and McQueen and Special Week's cries as they sprinted another lap. Oguri hummed to herself, lost in the bliss of running again.
The Demon King stood there, frilly skirt swaying in the breeze, clipboard pressed against his chest.