The electronic chimes rang out across campus, layered tones rippling through corridors and stairwells as classroom doors slid open in near unison. Umas spilled into the halls in waves, bags slung over shoulders, laughter and low conversation weaving through the air beneath the muted glow of a late-fall morning. The sun hung behind a sheet of gray cloud, its light diffused and pale, while the warmth from the central vents pushed back the chill that pressed against the windows.
Shoes tapped rhythmically across polished floors. The steady cadence broken only by the occasional burst of laughter. Ears twitched, tails flicked in idle emphasis as groups clustered together, some animated, others subdued. Among Gurren and her circle, voices dipped lower, words sharpened into half-sentences and coded phrasing. At Tracen, you learned quickly that walls had ears. There was always someone willing to run to the Student Council, or worse.
Beyond the student corridors, the faculty room hummed with a different energy. Trainers, instructors, even teachers, drifted between desks and coffee machines, papers rustling, ceramic mugs clinking against saucers. Some bent over lesson plans and training schedules, red pen marks cutting through margins. Others discussed the coming season in measured tones, eyes already set on spring fixtures. A few stared absently at calendars, minds drifting toward Christmas break and the rare promise of quiet.
Tracen stood as the crown jewel of uma academies across Japan, the gold standard by which the others were measured, though no one said it aloud. Rivalries existed, simmering beneath polite smiles and handshake ceremonies, but prestige did not need to boast. It simply endured.
Inside the Rigil training room, however, prestige felt like paperwork.
Hana groaned softly, rubbing at her temple as she sat hunched over her desk, which had long since disappeared beneath towers of documents and manila folders. Diet charts, performance graphs, split times, muscle recovery schedules, psychological assessments. Each sheet carried the weight of expectation. She adjusted her glasses and leaned forward, elbows planted against the desk as she studied the latest projections for stride efficiency and caloric intake, fighting the increasingly persistent urge to step outside and light a cigarette.
With a quiet sigh, she leaned back in her chair and reached for the topmost folder, flipping it open. The photograph clipped to the inside caught her eye immediately.
Melody.
The youngest member of Rigil, and already the name lighting up sports panels and racing columns nationwide. Her performances had turned commentators into believers and skeptics into cautious admirers. With the Shūka Sho barely a week away, the final leg of the Triple Tiara, the stakes were rising faster than the autumn wind.
Hana understood the nuance better than anyone. Melody could not claim the Tiara this year, not without the earlier victories, and no one stood on the brink of a hat trick this season. But that did not mean this race was inconsequential. Far from it. The Shūka Sho would not grant her the end to a triple tiara, nor a crown, but it would grant her something perhaps more powerful. A stage.
A win here would echo. It would cement her presence, amplify her name, and declare to all of Japan that she was not a fleeting headline but the beginning of something larger. Next year, she would not be chasing shadows. She would be hunting the Triple Crown itself.
A faint smile touched Hana's lips as she lowered the folder and lifted her gaze to the oak-framed photograph resting at the corner of her desk. In it stood a much younger Hana, hair long and straight, posture still uncertain in the way only a trainer-in-training could be. Beside her, arm slung over her shoulder with unapologetic familiarity, stood an uma with a wide, mischievous grin and yellow streaks cutting through black hair like lightning through storm clouds.
"Bee," Hana murmured. She reached out as her fingers brushed the edge of the frame. "If only you could see her now."
She adjusted her glasses, composure settling back into place even as her eyes lingered on the photograph.
"She talks about you all the time," Hana continued under her breath. "About chasing that same fire. About becoming the undefeated two-time Triple Crown Champion you were."
Her gaze hardened. Not with doubt, but with resolve.
"And I swear to you," she said quietly, "I'll do everything in my power to make sure she gets that chance."
The months had passed so quickly they felt unreal, as though someone had pressed fast-forward on the year and left no room to breathe. When Hana thought back on it, what came to mind was not a calendar turning, but the sound of footfalls before dawn and the sharp whistle of cold air in her lungs as she pushed Melody through drill after drill without mercy.
It had been a crucible. Not figuratively, but in every tangible sense.
Roadwork before sunrise while the campus still slept. Timed dashes until legs trembled. Endless calisthenics that burned through muscle and pride alike. Strength cycles layered with recovery protocols so precise they bordered on obsessive. Form corrections repeated until they were second nature. There was no wasted movement, no indulgence, no comfort.
Hana knew exactly what they called her when her back was turned. Cold. Severe. Unforgiving. Even her fellow trainers sometimes watched from the sidelines with faint disapproval in their eyes, murmuring about balance, about rest, about the risk of pushing too hard.
What they never questioned were the results.
After all, Hana Tojou did not produce mediocrity. She produced champions.
She had stood behind Air Groove, the Empress whose composure could silence a stadium. She had refined the explosive brilliance of Fuji Kiseki. She had sharpened the raw force of El Condor Pasa. And she had helped mold the legend of Symboli Rudolf, the Emperor herself. There had even been a time when her name was spoken in the same breath as a certain other title, The Hand of God, whispered as though succession were inevitable.
And yet, for all of that legacy, this year had felt different.
Because Melody had never once complained.
Not when her muscles shook under the weight bar. Not when rain turned the track into a slick hazard. Not when exhaustion hollowed her eyes and stole the color from her cheeks. She did not sulk. She did not argue. She did not falter.
She embraced it.
If Hana raised the bar, Melody leapt for it. If Hana extended the session, Melody stayed. More than once, she had run circuits long after dismissal, chasing seconds off her splits while the floodlights cast long shadows across the turf. One morning, Tazuna had found her sprawled at the center of the track, fast asleep beneath the paling sky, her body simply giving out where it stood.
Hana had scolded her fiercely for that, but the memory still pulled a reluctant smile from her lips. It had not been recklessness. It had been devotion. In a single year, Melody had stormed through the ungraded races, then through the G3s and G2s with the kind of steady escalation that pundits described as inevitable. She had not relied on hype. She had built momentum the hard way, stride by disciplined stride.
Now she stood at the threshold of her G1 debut, the bright line separating promise from proof, and with it came her first true step into the big leagues. Hana folded her hands on her desk, gaze drifting once more to Melody's file. Pride was not an emotion she wore openly, but it settled in her chest all the same. Whatever the world chose to call her after this race, one thing was certain.
Melody had earned the right to be there.
Her smile did not disappear all at once, but rather faded in stages, the warmth draining from her expression as her eyes caught the edge of newsprint peeking out from beneath a stack of manila folders. She reached forward and drew it free with measured restraint, smoothing the creased paper across her desk as though the physical act of flattening it might dull the irritation rising in her chest.
Instead, the bold lettering only sharpened it.
Hachimitsu Melody — A Rising Star in the Shadow of A Rose.
For a long moment, Hana did not blink.
Her jaw tightened gradually, the muscle along her cheek flexing as her gaze lowered to the photograph beneath the headline. Melody mid-stride, hair streaming behind her, eyes locked forward with that familiar, relentless focus. It was a strong image, one that should have stood on its own merit, yet it had been framed beneath a narrative that diminished it.
Sensuke Fujii.
There was a time when his byline carried weight, when his coverage of Oguri Cap had elevated the sport rather than cheapened it. He had once written with depth and discipline, with an understanding of what it meant to build a champion rather than exploit one. Now, however, he peddled tension and tragedy, crafting angles designed not to honor talent but to provoke speculation and stir public appetite. He no longer chronicled greatness. He engineered conflict.
Hana leaned back slightly in her chair, fingers pressing against the edge of the paper as her thoughts drifted to Scarlet Rose.
She had known the girl well enough to understand the magnitude of what had been lost. Scarlet had not merely been promising. She had been electric, a presence that shifted the air around her when she entered a room. Pundits had already begun positioning her alongside Melody as part of the next generation's triumvirate, and there had been serious whispers that she might follow in Air Groove's footsteps as the next Empress, perhaps even claim the Triple Tiara at an age that would force the record books to adjust themselves around her.
Those dreams had ended abruptly, and the academy still carried the quiet weight of that absence in its corridors. Yet what unsettled Hana most was not that Scarlet's name still surfaced in conversation. It was that Fujii had chosen to tether Melody's ascent to Scarlet's absence, as though one girl's rise required the other's fall to justify it. Hana exhaled slowly. The breath steady despite the simmer beneath it.
Scarlet Rose did not need to be resurrected as a narrative device, and Melody did not need to be framed as a beneficiary of misfortune. Both deserved better than to be reduced to opposing halves of a headline engineered for attention. She folded the newspaper and set it aside, her expression settling into something firm and controlled.
If the press wanted a story, then Melody would give them one soon enough, and when she crossed that finish line at the Shūka Sho, it would not be in anyone's shadow.
"Good morning, Hana-san!" came a bright, almost offensively cheerful voice from just over her shoulder.
Most people would have startled at the sudden intrusion, perhaps knocking over a stack of folders or sending a pen skittering across the desk in reflexive alarm. Hana Tojou did neither. She did not flinch, did not gasp, did not so much as twitch. Instead, she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and allowed a slow, measured groan to echo through her thoughts before pushing her glasses higher along the bridge of her nose.
"Good morning," she replied evenly, turning her head just enough to acknowledge him. "Okino-san."
Okino's grin widened as though he had accomplished something impressive merely by existing. A lollipop stick jutted from the corner of his mouth at an angle that might have passed for a cigarette from a distance, and he flicked it lightly with his tongue before raking his fingers through his messy brown hair, shaved close at the sides and tied back into a short ponytail that bounced with the movement. His yellow shirt clashed enthusiastically with the otherwise subdued faculty. The black waistcoat left unbuttoned over it as though restraint were an optional concept. Long black trousers fell neatly over plum-colored leather shoes, a white belt cutting a bright line at his waist.
He leaned forward without invitation, one hand braced against her desk and the other resting on his hip, surveying the spread of documents, diagrams, and nutrition plans as though he were inspecting a battlefield map. A low whistle escaped him.
"Someone's been busy," he said lightly, rolling the lollipop to the other side of his mouth. "Though I can't say I blame you. The Shūka Sho's practically breathing down everyone's neck at this point."
Hana folded her arms across her chest, the chair creaking faintly as she leaned back and regarded him with a look that carried neither warmth nor hostility, only quiet appraisal. Okino was around her age, though he carried himself with the casual swagger of someone perpetually convinced he had more time than he actually did.
"You would think," she replied, arching a brow, "that you might share a fraction of that urgency, considering you have a runner entered in the Kikuka Sho." Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. "Or is this your version of preparation, hovering over other people's desks while your own schedule gathers dust?"
Okino rubbed the back of his head, his grin turning sheepish in a way that might have worked on anyone else. On Hana, it barely made a dent.
"Come on, Hana," he drawled, rocking back on his heels. "Can't a man take a breather once in a while? We're not machines." He gestured vaguely at the mountain of folders on her desk. "Besides, I just figured I'd wander over and check in on you before you turned into one of those tragic cautionary tales about overworked trainers collapsing in their own offices."
His tone was light, but as he tilted his head, the grin eased into something more measured.
"How's Melody?" he asked, this time without teasing. "If you don't mind me askin'."
Hana was quiet for a moment, her eyes drifting to the file still open before her, the photograph clipped neatly to the top corner.
"She's as ready as she can possibly be," she said. "I've pushed her where she needed pushing and held her back where restraint was required. I've shaped what was raw without dulling what makes her dangerous." Her gaze sharpened slightly. "She has the makings of a grand champion. The kind that doesn't just win races, but defines eras. Just like her mother."
Okino straightened at that, folding his arms as his attention shifted toward the oak-framed photograph resting on the table's edge.
"Kadokawa Hornet," he murmured, nodding once. "One of the Godly Fifteen. Undefeated. Two-time Triple Crown." A faint exhale left him. "Would've been something to see her in person back then."
Hana let out a quiet sigh that carried more memory than exhaustion.
"Trust me," she said dryly, "knowing you, she would have clocked you within the first five minutes of meeting you." A subtle shake of her head followed. "And that's assuming you were lucky. I've seen her do far worse for far less."
Okino grimaced theatrically. "Unbelievable. You really don't have any normal friends, do you?"
Hana's lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile.
"Considering you and I are still on speaking terms," she replied, "I'd say the answer is no."
Her gaze shifted toward the shelf along the far wall, where trophies and plaques caught the muted daylight filtering through the windows, the gold edges glinting against the subdued tones of the room.
"But I'll admit, you and I both have come a long way since we stepped through those gates together," she added more quietly, not quite to him and not entirely to herself.
Okino's gaze drifted toward the folded newspaper resting atop a stack of training charts. He reached for it casually, though his fingers lingered for a fraction longer than necessary before unfolding it. The lollipop shifted between his teeth, the hard candy clicking faintly as his eyes scanned the bold headline once more.
"Damn," he muttered, exhaling sharply, "Fujii just can't help himself, can he? Man's always gotta poke the hive." The stick rolled from one corner of his mouth to the other as he shook his head. "I remember how much Musaka-san couldn't stand him. Swore one day he'd staple his press badge to his forehead. Hell, Belno-chan once chased him clear across the grounds with rock salt like he was some kinda stray."
He lowered the paper, tapping it lightly against the desk before setting it down again.
"That being said, his heart's in the right place," Okino added, though even he didn't sound entirely convinced.
Hana's glare was immediate and unfiltered, sharp enough to cut through whatever levity he had left.
"Alright, alright," he amended quickly, lifting one hand in surrender. "Most of the time, anyway." He leaned one hip against the desk, expression turning more thoughtful. "You can't deny he's got influence. He rallied enough voices to pressure the URA into amending regulations a few years back. Even Rudolf backed him publicly. That's not small-time stuff. The guy knows how to work the press, how to frame a narrative, how to stir just enough outrage to get things moving."
His eyes flicked back to the headline, and the humor drained from his face.
"He was a huge Scarlet Rose supporter," he said more quietly. "Ran piece after piece on her. Built her up like she was the future of the sport. After what happened… I think something in him snapped. Now every article feels like it's trying to keep her name alive by tying it to whoever's closest to the spotlight."
"That's putting it generously," Hana replied. She reached out and flattened the edge of the newspaper with two fingers as if physically suppressing it. "I can tolerate his flair for theatrics. The baited headlines. The self-righteous tone." Her gaze darkened. "But the smear campaign against Suzuki Hiroshi was reckless. He turned grief into spectacle. That is where I drew the line."
Okino let out a slow breath, the lollipop finally sliding free from his mouth as he held it between his fingers.
"Yeah… I talked to him about that," he admitted.
Hana's head turned sharply toward him, one eyebrow lifting in quiet accusation.
"Hey," he said, lifting both hands defensively. "I've got friends outside these walls. Try not to look so scandalized." He sighed, shoulders sagging just slightly. "I told him to dial it back. Said it was an accident. That not everything needs a villain attached to it. Sometimes bad things just happen."
He shrugged, though there was no real ease in the gesture.
"But you know how it goes," Okino added. "Fans don't want accidents. They want someone to blame. And once that narrative starts rolling, it's damn near impossible to stop."
Okino squeezed his eyes shut and dragged a hand through his hair, teeth grinding as a low groan slipped from his throat. "Honestly, the whole damned mess almost set Tracen on fire," he muttered, waving a hand as though trying to disperse smoke that no longer lingered. "We've had injuries, we've even had careers end in a blink of an eye, but nothing like that. The mood on campus shifted overnight. Parents were calling in a panic, sponsors were sniffing around, reporters camping outside the gates." His gaze dipped toward the floor. "And then there was what happened to Gendo-san."
Hana let out a dry scoff that carried no sympathy. "Spare me," she replied coolly, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. "What happened to that man was not tragedy. It was karma finally catching up."
Okino blinked, straightening slightly as he studied her. "I knew you two didn't exactly see eye to eye," he said carefully, "but I didn't realize you despised him that much."
"Deservedly so," Hana answered without hesitation. "Gendo was once a brilliant trainer. That much I will grant him. He produced champions in his prime, and no one can erase that record. But he became stagnant. Arrogant. He refused to adapt while the sport evolved around him." Her eyes narrowed, a faint edge cutting through her composure. "And his pride cost more than one promising girl her future in the Twinkle Series. Including his own daughter."
Okino's expression shifted, the levity gone.
"He had tenure. He had history. That shielded him for years," Hana continued, folding her arms. "Akikawa had already taken notice before Scarlet even rose to prominence. Gendo hadn't produced a true contender in nearly a decade. Scarlet was his last grasp at relevance."
She tapped her fingers lightly against her arm. "Yes, he trained her well enough to win. On paper, his methods worked. But they were outdated, rigid, and unsustainable. Even without the accident, she would have struggled to clear the second Tiara. I saw the cracks long before anyone else wanted to admit they were there."
She turned her gaze back to Okino. "And when everything fell apart, so did he. You were there. You saw it."
Okino nodded slowly. "Yeah," he admitted.
"We all heard about the day Akikawa finally intervened," Hana went on. "Kashimoto-san had him escorted off the grounds, and Tazuna practically dragged him out like a man who had forgotten how to walk on his own." She closed her eyes briefly before reopening them. "What most people do not know is that he abandoned both his daughters shortly after and disappeared without so much as a word."
A flicker of irritation crossed her face. "Curious how Fujii never found room for that in his columns."
"Oh, he tried," Okino interjected, and Hana's head snapped toward him.
He set his hands on his hips, expression serious. "Turns out an old detective got to him first. Twisted his arm hard enough and made it clear that if he printed even a line of it, he'd be answering questions in a cell before the ink dried."
A measured silence stretched between them, thick with implication and unspoken conclusions, until Okino finally broke it, his tone lighter but edged with curiosity.
"Scarlet's sister, Black Dahlia," he said, tilting his head slightly as he studied Hana's expression. "You said Gendo cost her a future. What exactly did you mean by that?"
Hana gave a slow nod. "The details are murky, but from what I've gathered, she never quite fit the mold of a racer in Gendo's eyes. She failed her debut, lost a string of races after that, and when she attempted to transfer into Tracen, she did not make the cut. After that, her name simply faded from the brackets and the programs."
Her fingers tapped once against her arm. "I would not go so far as to call her talentless. That would be careless. But knowing Gendo, I suspect the fault did not lie solely with her ability. His methods were rigid, uncompromising, and poorly suited to anyone who did not conform to his exact expectations."
She lifted her eyes to Okino, something sharper settling there. "And I find it difficult to believe that the sister of Scarlet Rose, raised in the same house, exposed to the same foundation, would lack potential entirely. If anything, there is a possibility she possessed a different kind of talent, one that required a different approach."
A faint pause followed before she added, more quietly, "Sometimes, it is not the student who fails. It is the teacher who cannot see what stands in front of him."
Okino let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tell me about it," he muttered, though the humor lingered only a second before something seemed to click behind his eyes. "Ah—right. Almost forgot."
He reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a rectangular slip of paper, crisp and white with bold red accents lining the edges. Black lettering stamped clean across the front.
"I had a few extras," he said casually, though there was a faint pride in the way he held it out. "Figured you might want it."
Hana accepted it, adjusting her glasses as her gaze traced the printed text.
The Godly Fifteen Convention.
Her eyes widened before she could stop herself. "Wait," she said, lifting her head sharply. "These sold out weeks ago. I've been trying to secure one since the announcement." Her gaze narrowed slightly. "How exactly did you manage this?"
Okino's grin widened, the lollipop stick shifting at the corner of his mouth. "Like I said," he replied, tapping his temple, "I've got friends outside these walls. Connections. A little charm goes a long way."
His expression softened as his eyes drifted toward the framed photograph.
"And besides," he added more quietly, "I figured you'd want to go. Pay your respects. Even if it's just in spirit." He shrugged lightly. "I passed a few more around to some trainers and a couple of my girls. Thought it'd be good for them to see where the legends stood. Exposure never hurts."
For a rare moment, genuine warmth spread across Hana's features. The severity in her posture eased as she held the ticket more carefully, almost reverently.
"I don't know what to say," she admitted. "Thank you."
"Hey, don't make it weird," Okino said quickly, though the pleased smile remained. "Just do me one small favor."
"Anything," Hana replied without hesitation.
Okino's grin turned sheepish as he reached for his wallet and flipped it open, angling it upside down. Nothing fell out.
He gave her an apologetic look. "You mind covering lunch today? I'm, uh… financially experiencing growth in the negative direction."
Hana stared at him, her expression flattening so abruptly it could have frozen water.
"You know," she said dryly, sliding the ticket neatly onto her desk, "forget Bee. I might just clock you myself."
Okino leaned back immediately, hands raised in surrender. "Hey, hey, let's be reasonable. I bruise easy."
His attention drifted lower, catching on a smaller section tucked beneath the main article, a narrow column pushed off to the side, easy to miss if one wasn't looking for it. The headline read: Gurentai Attacks On The Rise – Public Advised To Avoid Being Outside After Hours.
Okino's brow lifted slightly as his finger traced along the print, his curiosity piqued. "Gurentai?" he said, tilting his head. "Can't say I've come across that one before."
Hana gave a small shrug, though there was little casual about the way her gaze settled. "That's what the police and media have started calling those roaming groups of dropouts hanging around the city," she explained.
"They're mostly concentrated in Shinjuku, especially around Kabukichō, but they've been spreading into places like Roppongi and Ikebukuro as well. They used to be little more than a nuisance, just another pack of troublemakers causing a scene, but lately…" She paused, her expression tightening. "Lately, it's escalated. Assaults, robberies, muggings, even arson. It's not just noise anymore."
Her gaze hardened slightly as she continued. "The Chairwoman and the Student Council already briefed both faculty and students to avoid those areas after dark. If it keeps getting worse, they may start enforcing a curfew."
Okino let out a small huff, leaning back slightly as he folded his arms. "That's funny," he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "I don't recall hearing anything about that."
Hana adjusted her glasses, her fingers pressing briefly against her temple as she turned to look at him with a flat, unimpressed stare. "That would be because you decided to nap through the entire briefing."
Okino flinched visibly, the grin on his face shifting into something far more sheepish. "Oh, right," he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
****
The cafeteria roared with life, a sprawling sea of uniforms and flicking tails beneath high vaulted ceilings lined with beams of pale wood. Nearly every table, whether long and rectangular or small and round, was filled to capacity as umas shuffled through the aisles balancing trays heavy with lunch. Shoes tapped and scraped across the polished floorboards, the rhythm blending into a steady hum of voices that bounced off the walls and climbed toward the rafters above.
Conversations overlapped in waves. Debates about coursework, gossip about dorm life, whispered speculation about holiday plans once the term eased into winter. Laughter broke out in pockets, then dissolved into the steady clang of cutlery against porcelain bowls and lacquered trays. Steam curled lazily through the air from bowls of udon and soba, their broths rich and fragrant, mingling with the sharper scent of peppered steak, grilled mackerel, crisp tempura flakes, and freshly steamed rice. The entire space carried the warm, comforting weight of abundance.
Tracen never believed in cutting corners when it came to fueling its athletes. Seconds were encouraged. Thirds were never questioned. A hungry uma was a growing one, and a growing one might yet become a champion. Today, however, appetite took a backseat to anticipation. The Shūka Sho was only days away, and speculation crackled through the cafeteria like static before a storm. Names were tossed around, odds debated, strategies dissected with the intensity of veteran pundits rather than teenagers with chopsticks in hand.
At one of the round tables near the far windows, Melody looked nothing like a rising favorite.
She was folded over the table, cheek pressed flat against the cool wood as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her lunch tray sat barely an inch from her face, untouched. Her ears lay splayed against black hair streaked in yellow, the color dulled slightly under the cafeteria lights. Crimson eyes blinked sluggishly, unfocused, while her tail swayed behind her in slow, exhausted arcs.
Even the neatly packed bento in front of her. Rice still steaming faintly, teriyaki chicken glazed and glistening, miso soup sending up a thin ribbon of warmth, failed to stir the faintest spark of interest. Every muscle in her body ached with the deep, punishing soreness that only relentless training could carve into bone. Her limbs felt weighted, as though she had run the length of the country and then doubled back just to prove she could. Chewing felt like effort. Swallowing felt like work. Even lifting her head seemed like a task better suited for tomorrow.
Around her, the cafeteria buzzed with excitement. At her table, Melody simply groaned into the wood. And the worst part of it all was that she had no one to blame but herself.
Hana had warned her. Not once. Not twice. She had told her plainly to ease off the throttle, to let her body recover, to trust the taper before a major race. But Melody had nodded, smiled, and then done the exact opposite. A few extra sets on the weight machine when no one was looking. Another few kilometers around town under the excuse of "loosening up." A handful of late-night sprints when the track lights were already dimmed.
What's the worst that could happen?
Melody let out a soft, defeated groan into the table.
She was finding out exactly what could happen.
Her muscles burned with a deep, stubborn soreness that refused to fade, settling into her joints like it meant to pay rent. Even her shoulders felt heavy, as though someone had draped sandbags across them while she wasn't paying attention. Hana was going to find out. Hana always found out. And when she did, Melody knew she would be treated to a lecture so thorough it would make the soreness feel merciful by comparison.
She shifted her cheek slightly against the wood and forced one eye open, her gaze drifting across the cafeteria.
At a nearby table, sitting alone with enviable composure, was a familiar figure. Long, ghostly-gray hair fell down her back in a smooth curtain that caught the overhead light with a faint silver sheen. In her hands sat a bowl of rice stacked high enough to defy reason, but that wasn't what drew Melody's attention.
It was the croquettes.
A tower of them, golden and perfectly fried, stacked with alarming precision beside her tray. So many that it bordered on architectural ambition rather than lunch. Oguri-senpai's cheeks were slightly puffed as she chewed methodically, unfazed, calm as ever, as though consuming the caloric equivalent of a small village were simply part of the daily routine.
Melody remembered the first time she had seen Oguri eat like that. She had genuinely thought it was some elaborate prank. No one that slender, that composed, could possibly put away that much food. It had taken her all of five minutes to realize that not only was it not a joke, it was a spectacle she would witness again and again. Back then, watching Oguri devour two, three, four croquettes in succession had left her faintly nauseated.
Now, Melody watched with something dangerously close to envy. To have an appetite like that. To be hungry. To not feel like her body was staging a quiet rebellion against her own ambition. She sighed again, tail giving a weak flick as Oguri reached for yet another croquette with unwavering dedication.
But as Melody lay slumped against the table, her thoughts drifted despite herself, slipping past the present and circling back to something she had tried, over and over again, to bury.
She had promised Gurren she would keep quiet, that she would lock it away and never speak of it, never even dwell on it for too long, yet it surfaced at the most inconvenient moments, rising unbidden whenever her mind was left unattended. That night. That door. The moment Gurren had pulled back the curtain on a world Melody had never imagined existed.
A world where umas did not race beneath stadium lights and roaring crowds, but beneath fractured neon and the glow of streetlamps that flickered over cracked asphalt. Where rubber cleats screamed against the road, and leather jackets caught the city's artificial glow as figures tore through the dark like living comets. There had been no cheering stands, no polished rails, no URA banners fluttering in the wind, only the sharp scent of smoke and rubber and the electric tension that hummed through the air before a sprint.
It had frightened her in a way she had never quite experienced before, not the clean, structured fear of a starting gate snapping open, but something wilder, more dangerous, untamed and unsupervised. And yet, beneath that fear had been something else, something she could not name without feeling a flicker of guilt.
Intrigue.
She had sat there in that room, frozen, heart pounding, watching silhouettes blur across concrete, watching muscles coil and release under neon lights, and though every rational part of her had told her to look away, to walk back through that door and pretend she had never seen it, her eyes had refused to obey.
It had called to her in a way that made her uneasy, not loudly, not blatantly, but persistently, a low hum beneath her thoughts that never quite faded. The more she tried to dismiss it as reckless and wrong, the more it lingered. The more she told herself she belonged on turf beneath regulated banners and official timers, the more that other image pressed at the edges of her mind.
Like a song carried on the wind that you swear you will not follow, yet somehow find your feet turning toward. And that was what unsettled her most, not the danger itself, but the quiet, unwelcome truth that a part of her had not only watched that world in shock, but had felt something stir in her chest as she did.
"Oh, Melody-chan, are you alright?"
Melody's ears lifted at once, her head rising from the table as she turned toward the voice. Standing beside her was an older uma with sleek black hair, a single white streak cutting cleanly through her fringe like a stroke of ink across silk. The red rope ornament adorned with crimson and white petals rested just beneath her right ear, framing her face with quiet elegance, and her crimson eyes studied Melody with open concern.
"Kita-senpai," Melody greeted, straightening up as best she could and offering a small smile that did little to hide the fatigue in her posture. "I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all."
Kitasan Black, former star of the Twinkle Series and one of Tracen's brightest names before her retirement, carried herself with the kind of presence that never quite faded even after stepping off the turf. Ten major victories, countless awards, and the kind of legacy underclassmen whispered about in awe. Melody still remembered her first day at the academy, how her heart had nearly leapt out of her chest when Kitasan and Satono Diamond had personally led the new recruits through the halls during orientation. She had clung to every word back then, half convinced she was dreaming.
Even now, despite belonging to different teams, Kitasan always seemed to appear whenever Melody was in over her head, especially during moments when she didn't want to burden her own seniors, knowing how heavily Student Council responsibilities weighed on them.
Kitasan placed her hands on her hips, one cheek puffing slightly in mild disapproval as she looked Melody over from head to toe.
"You didn't go and run yourself ragged again, did you?"
Melody rubbed the back of her neck, her smile turning sheepish as her tail gave an awkward flick behind her. "Um… maybe a little?"
A soft sigh left Kitasan as she pulled out a chair and settled beside her.
"Melody-chan," she began, her tone gentle but firm, "there was a time when I thought I could run forever without feeling it the next day, but not every uma is built the same, and even the ones who are still have limits. Pushing yourself this hard right before a big race won't sharpen you. It'll dull you."
"The Shūka Sho isn't won by who trains the most the week before. It's won by who arrives with strength left in the tank," she added.
"I know, I know," Melody said, shrugging her shoulder as she rotated her arm. "I was dumb. I thought that if I'd run longer. Pushed harder, maybe it'll be me an edge out there." Her gaze softened. "It's just that, I really want to win. Not just want to, I have to."
Kitasan's expression softened, the earlier firmness easing into something warmer as she watched Melody struggle against her own exhaustion.
"I know that feeling, Melody-chan," she said, tilting her head just slightly. "More than you think. And you're not alone in it." Her gaze drifted across the cafeteria, taking in the sea of uniforms and restless ambition. "I can't think of a single uma here who hasn't stepped onto the track imagining herself on the biggest stage, trophy in hand, name etched into a plaque that'll sit in glass for decades."
Her eyes returned to Melody, steady and certain. "And I've watched you run. You're not just chasing that dream blindly. You've got the foundation for it. You've got the speed, the discipline, and more importantly, the hunger. That counts for more than people realize."
Melody blinked, her cheeks warming despite the fatigue dragging at her limbs. "Um… thank you, Kita-senpai," she murmured, scratching lightly at her cheek and glancing away in embarrassment. "That… means a lot. Especially coming from you."
Kitasan gave a thoughtful hum before tilting her head again. "By the way, Melody-chan, do you have any plans tomorrow?"
"P-Plans?" Melody repeated, caught off guard. She glanced down at her tray, then off to the side as if the answer might be written somewhere nearby. "Not really…" Her ears angled forward uncertainly. "I was thinking of… um… training."
Kitasan stared at her.
"You need a break," she said flatly, though her tone carried more concern than criticism. "As it happens, Trainer-san managed to get us a few tickets to the Godly Fifteen Convention. Dia-chan and I are going, but we have one more seat."
She smiled. "Why don't you come with us?"
For a moment, Melody simply stared.
Then her crimson eyes widened so abruptly it was almost comical. "You have tickets to the Convention?" she asked, disbelief overtaking exhaustion in an instant.
"Yeah, and—"
The rest of Kitasan's sentence vanished beneath the loud scrape of wood against wood as Melody shot to her feet, chair legs dragging harshly across the floor.
"You actually have tickets to the Godly Fifteen Convention?" Melody burst out. Her earlier fatigue forgotten. "They've been sold out for weeks! People camped outside for days just to get a chance. They're going for insane prices online. How did you even manage—"
Kitasan raised both hands quickly, a flicker of alarm crossing her face.
"Now, now, Melody-chan—"
"I'd love to go, Kita-senpai!" Melody declared, straightening before bending into a deep, earnest bow that nearly knocked her tray off the table. "Please!"
A ripple of attention swept outward from their table as the surrounding chatter faltered. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Even the nearby tables quieted under the sudden volume of her enthusiasm.
Kitasan's crimson eyes darted left and right as she became acutely aware of the cafeteria's focus, her composure slipping for the first time.
"Alright, alright, please sit down," she whispered urgently, waving her hands downward. "Everyone's staring."
Across the room, Oguri continued chewing, blissfully unaffected by the spectacle, another croquette disappearing without ceremony.
Melody lowered herself back into her chair, the scrape softer this time, though she paid little attention to the lingering stares around her. The world beyond their table seemed to blur at the edges, replaced by a bright, almost childlike spark in her eyes.
"Thank you, Kita-senpai," she said, breath still slightly uneven from the burst of excitement. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to go." Her gaze dipped to the tabletop, fingers tracing faint circles in the wood grain. "I honestly thought I'd never get the chance."
Kitasan let out a small, understanding chuckle, though there was something gentler beneath it. "It sounds like it means a lot to you," she observed quietly. "That makes sense, considering your mother was one of the Fifteen." Her ears gave a thoughtful twitch. "I know what it's like growing up with a famous parent. My dad's a singer, after all." A faint smile touched her lips. "Though I suppose that's still a different kind of spotlight compared to being Kadokawa Hornet."
Melody nodded, the earlier brightness dimming just slightly. For a moment she tried to hold onto the smile, but it faltered, softening into something more reflective.
"I just wish I could've known her as she really was," she admitted. "Not just through interviews, or stories from people who trained with her, or articles I've read over and over." Her tail swayed slowly behind her, no longer animated but thoughtful. "Sometimes I wonder… if she were still here, what she'd think of me."
She swallowed faintly before continuing.
"Would she be proud? Would she think I'm doing enough?" A small, almost fragile smile curved across her lips. "Would she be in the stands, cheering like everyone says she used to cheer for her friends…" She hesitated just slightly. "With my dad."
Kitasan's expression softened at once, her posture shifting from mentor to something closer to an older sister, her crimson eyes steady and warm.
"Melody-chan…"
A quiet moment lingered between them before Kitasan's expression shifted, warmth returning to her features as she rose from her chair in one smooth motion, her tail giving an energetic flick behind her.
"Well," she said, stretching lightly as she stood, "I'd better get going. I've got a group of juniors to guide around campus, and there are a few things I need to handle over at the Spica clubhouse before the afternoon wraps up."
She placed her hands on her hips, then let her gaze drop pointedly to Melody's untouched tray.
"You should finish your lunch," she added firmly, though her tone was kind. "Then go somewhere quiet and rest. We'll meet at the front gate at ten tomorrow morning."
"Sure, Kita-senpai," Melody replied at once, her earlier fatigue replaced with a bright, almost radiant smile.
Kitasan took a step forward, then paused and lifted a single finger in warning, leaning in just enough to make Melody instinctively lean back in her chair.
"But," she said, narrowing her eyes playfully, "if I catch you sneaking out for roadwork tomorrow morning, I won't be nearly as nice about it. You're resting. That's not a suggestion."
Melody's grin tightened nervously. "S-sure," she echoed, nodding a little too quickly.
Kitasan studied her for a second longer before letting the tension dissolve into a soft smile.
"Good. See you later, Melody-chan."
She gave a small wave and turned, weaving easily through the crowded cafeteria as conversations gradually resumed around her.
Melody remained seated, watching her go with a quiet smile that refused to fade. The thought of attending the Godly Fifteen Convention sent a warm rush of excitement through her chest. She had been talking about it for weeks, rereading announcements, scrolling through old interviews, even asking her grandparents, almost pleading with them, to secure tickets. They had tried. They had truly tried. But every slot had been booked solid, lines filled for weeks, perhaps until the convention's final day.
And now, somehow, the door had opened.
Her fingers curled into a small fist before her chest, a determined spark igniting behind her eyes. Tomorrow could not come fast enough.
"Um…"
The hesitant voice pulled her from her thoughts.
She looked up to find Oguri standing beside her table, slightly hunched forward, her expression as flat and unreadable as ever. Without preamble, Oguri pointed to Melody's untouched tray.
"Are you going to eat that?" she asked simply.
Melody blinked, then laughed softly under her breath, pushing the tray toward her without protest.
"Please," she said.
Oguri's eyes lit up just slightly as she clapped her hands together in front of her chest.
"Thank you for the meal," she declared solemnly before lifting the tray with practiced ease and returning to her own table.
Melody watched her go, shaking her head with a small, amused smile, the earlier heaviness in her limbs finally beginning to ease beneath the promise of tomorrow.