Despite the weeks of relentless promotion. Ads looping across every television broadcast and radio frequency, billboards rising above highways in bold, luminous color, banners strung across city blocks, and countdowns splashed across every corner of social media. Not even Melody had been prepared for the sheer magnitude of it. The Tokyo Big Sight had become a living artery of motion, an ocean of bodies surging through its corridors in steady currents that wound from one exhibition hall to the next. From the elevated walkways above to the polished floors below, the crowd pressed forward with a shared sense of pilgrimage, and for a fleeting moment Melody wondered whether the building itself could feel the weight of so much expectation.
Her ears twitched instinctively as her tail flicked behind her, the subtle motion betraying both excitement and the effort it took to navigate the density of people around her. She kept her arms tucked close to her sides, slipping carefully through clusters of fans who paused abruptly to take photographs or to stare up at holograms towering above them. The soft, curated fragrance of the hall mingled with the warmth flowing through the overhead vents, but beneath it lingered the unmistakable scent of concessions. Melted butter soaking into popcorn, salt clinging to the air, ketchup and mustard sharp against grilled buns. The atmosphere felt less like a convention and more like an amusement park devoted entirely to memory.
Young umas darted from exhibit to exhibit, pointing eagerly at larger-than-life projections of their heroes mid-stride, eyes sparkling as iconic finishes looped again and again across enormous screens. Cheers rose in bursts when particularly dramatic race footage played, and some girls stood motionless before display cases as though staring into sacred relics.
Melody, however, needed no introduction to any of it.
She knew the Fifteen by heart.
Every victory. Every setback. Every retirement speech. She had memorized statistics the way other children memorized multiplication tables, collected posters until her bedroom walls could barely be seen, saved her allowance for limited-edition merchandise that she treated like heirlooms. She could recount the details of international G1 victories, recall post-race interviews verbatim, and chart the trajectories of their careers long after they stepped off the track. It had earned her more than a little teasing when she was younger, classmates calling her obsessive or strange for devouring race archives like novels, but she had never minded. If anything, she had worn the ridicule like armor.
After all, one of the Fifteen had been her mother.
A soft smile curved across her lips as she trailed just behind her seniors, Kitasan Black and Satono Diamond, who moved through the hall with open curiosity rather than encyclopedic certainty. Though both had risen to prominence in their own right, even the Emperor herself had grown up idolizing a different era. Tokai Teio, Mejiro McQueen, names that shaped their childhood the way the Fifteen shaped Melody's. It was no wonder the older generation felt distant to them.
"Oh, who's this?" Kitasan slowed before a holographic projection of a lavender-haired uma whose racing silks shimmered in oriental reds and golds beneath the amber lighting. A red swallowtail butterfly and lotus blossoms adorned her hair beneath her left ear, delicate yet striking. Kitasan leaned slightly closer to read the plaque. "Hongdie Dynasty?"
"The Crimson Butterfly," Melody supplied immediately, her smile brightening with practiced ease.
"She was the second member of the Godly Fifteen after Desert Rose. Twenty-eight G1 wins, and not just domestically. She swept across the globe. Melbourne Cup. Epsom Derby. She made it look effortless."
"Twenty-eight?" Kitasan's eyes widened as she turned back to the hologram, admiration blooming across her features. "That's incredible."
Melody nodded eagerly. "And that's just the beginning. Kaʻiana was just as remarkable. She represented Hawaii and brought island speed to the mainland circuits. Her late-race acceleration was unreal."
"It sounds like you really know everything about them, Melody-chan," came a gentler voice at her side.
Melody turned to find Diamond watching her with warm curiosity. She wore a simple emerald dress accented with white lace at the collar and a soft yellow ribbon tied neatly at her throat. A green ornament framed her right ear, and her long ashen-brown hair cascaded nearly to her knees, a diamond-shaped white mark resting upon her fringe. Her golden eyes were kind, luminous with interest rather than judgment.
Melody felt warmth rush to her cheeks and shyly brought her index fingers together. "Um… well… it's kind of a hobby," she admitted softly. "I guess I've always been drawn to their stories. Especially since… you know… my mom was one of them."
Kitasan's ears perked. "Speaking of which, we haven't visited Kadokawa Hornet's exhibit yet."
Melody quickly waved her hands. "No, no, please don't rush because of me," she insisted. "There's plenty of time. I want to see all of them first." She smiled again, gentler this time. "Each one deserves that."
Diamond nodded thoughtfully. "Kita-chan, let's take our time. I'm finding every single display fascinating." She tilted her head slightly as one ear flicked. "Desert Rose especially. I didn't realize there was an uma with so many career wins. And she's stunning."
Melody's expression brightened once more. "Some people say she's the most beautiful uma to ever race," she added. "There's a reputation about Arabian umas. Beauty and speed in equal measure."
As they continued forward, the glow of the exhibits shimmered across their faces, and for a moment Melody allowed herself to simply feel it. The energy, the legacy, the sense of standing within history rather than just reading about it. Somewhere in the vast hall, beneath banners and holograms and looping victories, she felt closer to her mother than she had in years.
"It's just a shame, though," Kitasan said at last, settling her hands against her hips as she let out a thoughtful sigh, her gaze drifting upward toward the towering holograms that shimmered beneath the vaulted ceiling. "I wish the real umas could have shown up in person, even just for a little while, to meet everyone who came all this way."
There was no complaint in her tone, only a quiet longing that matched the expressions of so many girls lingering near the exhibits, hoping for more than curated footage and looping memories.
"I wish that too," Melody replied, touched with the same sentiment. "But most of them have left the mainstream racing scene behind for good." She shifted slightly and gestured toward the lavender-haired projection of Hongdie Dynasty. "Take Hongdie, for example. She's a full-time model now and one of the biggest pop singers in China. Her last tour sold out in minutes."
She turned her attention to another banner nearby, where a tanned-skin uma with sleek black hair and tail streaked in aqua stood barefoot against a painted shoreline, a surfboard tucked casually beneath her arm. "Kaʻiana went back to Hawaii and dove headfirst into competitive surfing. She's ranked internationally now."
Melody's lips curved faintly before she added, with a small nervous laugh, "And Desert Rose… well, from what I've heard, she's enjoying retirement a little too much. Interviews, galas, the occasional sponsorship. I don't think she misses the track."
Kitasan chuckled lightly at that, but before she could respond, Melody's ears lifted sharply.
"But I did hear," she continued, "that at least one of the Fifteen is planning to make an appearance. Wild Lightning."
"Oh," Diamond murmured thoughtfully, her ear giving a subtle twitch as memory aligned. "You mean the uma in uniform who gave that speech at Tracen not long ago?" Her golden eyes narrowed slightly in recollection. "She struck me as rather… strict."
"Well, she is the captain of C.H.A.S.E.," Melody replied automatically, though the words felt heavier as they left her mouth.
The moment the acronym settled between them, something tightened in her chest. Her mind flashed back without warning. To the frozen image of Nightingale and My Fair Lady locked in a silent sprint toward the finish. And then to the realization that had followed like a chill down her spine.
Lightning wasn't just a legend in uniform.
She was hunting.
After the MRA.
Melody's fingers curled tighter at her sides as the thought sharpened, and for a fleeting, disorienting moment the vast convention hall seemed to tilt beneath the weight of it, the glow of holograms and the hum of conversation fading into a distant blur. She could still hear Lightning's words from that day at Tracen, calm and resolute as it carried across the auditorium, speaking of a new task force built not from rookies or hopefuls but from former champions. Seasoned, decorated, battle-tested.
Lightning had been deliberate in her wording, careful not to name names, yet the implication had been unmistakable.
If one member of the Godly Fifteen was assembling a unit drawn from the fastest and most talented umas in the country, then this would not be a symbolic crackdown or a publicity maneuver. It would be a surgical strike. A calculated hunt.
And what, then, did that mean for the girls running beneath the neon glow of the MRA?
Nightingale was still a newcomer, not some entrenched street legend with years of notoriety behind her, but a fresh spark thrown into the dark machinery of the MRA, very much like Melody herself in the daylight world of sanctioned tracks and sanctioned dreams. She had been pulled into the shadows, shaped by asphalt instead of turf, by neon instead of stadium floodlights, and that single run had done more than impress Melody, it had hooked into her, deep and unshakable.
There had been something in the way Nightingale moved that night, something unrefined yet undeniable, a rawness that did not feel reckless so much as resolute. The courage to stand on that line. The speed that seemed to defy the narrow stretch of road ahead. The tenacity that refused to yield even when the gap tightened and the pressure mounted. It had not felt like a spectacle. It had felt like a declaration.
Melody had not simply admired her.
She had believed in her.
Believed that Nightingale was the kind of runner who did not belong buried in back alleys and hidden circuits, but blazing under a sky so wide that no one could ignore her. The kind of uma who could climb from obscurity to something monumental, carving her name into history the way the Fifteen once had.
And standing beneath banners of legends and holograms of glory, Melody felt the sharp ache of wanting that future for Nightingale just as fiercely as she wanted her own.
If C.H.A.S.E. truly mobilized under Lightning's command, with champions at her side, then the margins for error would vanish.
The MRA runners were fast, yes. Fierce. Reckless in ways that made them dangerous. But against legends forged in the Twinkle Series, against women who had mastered not only speed but discipline and strategy, how long could they realistically last?
A quiet chill crept up her spine as an unwanted realization settled in her chest.
Nightingale was no longer just a name.
She was a target.
"Um, Melody-chan?" Kitasan's hand waved gently in front of her face, pulling her back to the present. "Meeeeloooody-chaaan?"
Melody blinked, her ears snapping upright as she forced a sheepish grin. "Ah, sorry. I spaced out for a second."
Kitasan studied her for a moment longer, then relaxed, choosing not to press.
"Well," Diamond said, gracefully steering the conversation forward, "I'd really like to learn more about Hongdie." She tilted her head toward the booth, the holographic butterfly emblem shimmering faintly in the air beside it. "Shall we?"
With that, she stepped inside, the hem of her emerald dress brushing softly against the dark carpet.
Melody and Kitasan exchanged a brief smile. A spoken understanding passing between them before following after her, disappearing into the softly lit exhibit where the legend of the Crimson Butterfly awaited in light and memory.
****
The voices of the crowd wove together in restless layers, rising and falling beneath the recorded crescendos of past victories. Commentators echoed through hidden speakers, reliving final stretches where seconds stretched into eternity, narrating each impossible comeback and each triumphant lean across the line. Highlights played on endless loops across towering screens while presenters' polished tones summarized lifetimes of grit, sacrifice, and glory for the masses who lingered below.
Behind sheets of glass, plaques and trophies gleamed beneath carefully angled lights, racing silks framed and preserved like sacred relics, camera flashes bursting again and again as visitors captured fragments of history to carry home in memory, or to post later as glossy proof that they had stood here, in the presence of legends.
Yet for Fumino Nase, the Godly Fifteen themselves drew little of her interest.
Her attention remained fixed on the man who had guided them there.
She had spent the better part of the morning standing before the Deschain exhibit, studying it with an intensity that bordered on scrutiny. It was, without question, the largest installation in the hall, its walls stretching wide with a curated timeline that traced Logan Deschain's ascent from obscure beginnings to international renown.
Photographs detailed his early years at the track, then moved steadily through the championships, the celebrations, the press conferences, the accolades earned both on and off the turf. There were sections dedicated to his musical career as well, complete with framed vinyls and concert stills that seemed almost surreal beside racing trophies.
Fumino stood before a particular photograph, arms folded neatly across her chest as she regarded it with a quiet, measured sigh. The image captured a young Logan in his early twenties, standing at the center of all fifteen girls, each of them smiling with the kind of brightness that could only exist before the weight of legacy set in. His expression was confident, unguarded, almost boyish in its certainty.
She did not smile back.
She was dressed in a sharply tailored navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, brown shoes polished to a subtle sheen. Her two-toned hair fell to her waist, ashen lavender framing her face while rich brown cascaded down her back. Square golden earrings caught the light when she shifted, and a slim black choker rested at the base of her throat. Her copper eyes, sharp and analytical, lingered on the photograph as though trying to dissect the man within it.
What grated at her nerves were not the displays, nor the accolades, but the murmurs drifting through the exhibit behind her.
While most visitors admired the walls and holograms, a handful had turned their focus toward her instead, whispering behind half-raised hands, debating in hushed tones whether she was truly Fumino Nase or merely a look-alike playing dress-up. She could not entirely blame them. Her presence at events rarely went unnoticed anymore. As Tracen's most prominent trainer and the guiding force behind Super Creek, one of the celebrated Heisei Big Three, her reputation had grown beyond the academy walls. Add to that the label pundits had so casually affixed to her. Japan's youngest national trainer, and speculation had followed like a persistent shadow.
That she would one day inherit the title of The Hand of God.
"Is that her?" a young woman murmured not far behind her. "Is that Fumino Nase? The Prince of Tracen?"
Her eyebrow lifted slightly before she turned, copper eyes cutting cleanly through the small group of young men who had been staring a moment too long. The sharpness of her gaze was enough to make them stiffen and avert their attention in hurried embarrassment before drifting away into the crowd.
Fumino exhaled softly and turned back to the wall.
It was not the attention itself that unsettled her. She had long since accepted that recognition came with the territory. What unsettled her was the implication. The assumption that she was meant to step into a throne carved by another's legacy, to exist as a continuation rather than a beginning.
She did not want his crown.
She did not need his name.
Her jaw tightened as her eyes returned to Logan's image, the curated smile preserved beneath museum lighting. He may have trained the greatest umas the URA had ever seen. He may have built something monumental enough to warrant a convention of this magnitude. But beneath the banners and neon glow, beneath the myth, he had still been just a man.
"Logan Deschain," she murmured. Her copper eyes did not waver from the photograph. "The world may see you as a pinnacle, an apex carved into racing history, but to me, and to every one of us who dares to call ourselves a trainer, you are not a summit to worship. You are an obstacle."
Her reflection lingered faintly across the glass, superimposed over his frozen smile.
"A mountain," she continued, "placed squarely in our path. One that must be surpassed if we are to move forward at all."
A quiet breath slipped past her lips. "But legends die. Myths erode. Even the grandest names are eventually reduced to footnotes in someone else's ascent."
She shifted slightly. Arms still folded.
"Your throne may stand empty now," she said, the faintest edge threading through her tone, "but I have no desire to inherit it. I do not intend to sit where you once sat and be measured against the ghost of a man."
"No," she finished softly. "If there is to be a throne in this era, I will not claim yours. I will dismantle it entirely." Her gaze hardened, not with resentment but resolve. "and build one worthy of my legacy."
"Quite the proclamation, Miss Nase."
The voice that answered her was smooth, almost too refined for the noise of the exhibition hall. It cut through the layered murmur of the crowd without ever rising above it.
Fumino shifted her gaze.
A young man stood beside her, a full head taller, his posture relaxed. He wore a long black coat draped neatly over a jet-black turtleneck, matching slacks falling cleanly to polished black shoes. His hands rested casually within his coat pockets, but there was nothing casual about the way he held himself. His greenish-gold eyes remained fixed on the same photograph she had been studying, as though he had been there long before she noticed him.
What drew her attention most, however, was his hair. Short and sharply styled, charcoal grey at the back, obsidian black framing the front, a single white strand slicing through his fringe and curling faintly to the left. It was distinctive and terribly familiar.
"But then," he continued, tone light yet edged with something far more observant, "I would expect nothing less from the one they call the Prince of Tracen." His gaze shifted slightly toward her reflection in the glass. "Given your beginnings and the trajectory of your record, I daresay you possess the makings of someone capable of surpassing the man they once crowned a god."
Fumino arched a brow, her posture remaining composed. "And… you are?" she asked.
He drew in a quiet breath before releasing it, as though amused by the simplicity of the question.
"Merely someone passing through," he replied smoothly. "A fellow enthusiast, if you prefer. Much like yourself." His eyes finally settled on her fully. "Though I use that term rather loosely."
"Hm," Fumino responded evenly, studying him with sharper scrutiny now. "Then I take it you're familiar with Logan Deschain."
"Who isn't?" the young man answered, his lips curving faintly. "The legendary Hand of God. The pinnacle of the racing world. Not merely a man, but an institution. A name that eclipsed the flesh it once belonged to."
He tilted his head slightly, and though his tone remained polite, something colder threaded through it.
"However," he went on, "despite your rather enthusiastic declaration, it would pain me to ignore reality."
Fumino's eyes narrowed.
"Like it or not, Miss Nase, that throne exists. It is real. It endures." His gaze returned to the photograph of the younger Logan. "It was built not from admiration alone, but from the bones of crushed hopes and the fragments of shattered ambition. Piece by piece. Body by body. Every rival outpaced. Every trainer eclipsed. All of it shaping the legend you see before you."
The ambient light flickered softly across the glass as the hologram above shifted scenes.
"Many have sought that throne," he continued, "and many more have fought for it. Bled for it. Sacrificed for it. Yet one by one they were weighed, measured, and found wanting." A faint exhale followed. "Hana Tojou, for all her brilliance, did not reach it."
He paused, and this time his eyes did not leave Fumino's.
"Your father did not either."
The temperature in Fumino's gaze dropped several degrees. The hall remained loud around them, laughter, applause from looping race footage, the distant swell of commentary, yet in the narrow space between them, the air felt still. Her expression hardened, copper eyes sharpening like drawn steel.
The young man caught the shift in her expression at once, and whatever quiet satisfaction had flickered behind his eyes gave way to something more tempered.
"My apologies," he said smoothly, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge the line he had crossed. "No disrespect was intended. The Wizard of Tracen, alumnus of the Round Table, remains a name worthy of reverence. That much is beyond dispute."
There was sincerity in the cadence of his words, though it did little to soften the tension that lingered between them.
"I have heard," he continued after a measured pause, "that he has since stepped aside in favor of… other pursuits." His gaze drifted briefly across the exhibit hall before returning to her. "And in the same breath, there has been rather persistent chatter regarding your latest acquisition."
He raised a brow with subtle intrigue.
"The Golden Tyrant herself," he said evenly. "Orfevre."
Fumino's composure fractured for the briefest instant. Her eyes widened, her jaw parting before she could contain the reaction. "How did you—?"
He closed his eyes for a moment and released a quiet breath, as though indulging a question whose answer was obvious.
"It is often said," he began, "that we as living beings cannot exist without hope, without ambition, without something vast enough to chase." His eyes reopened, steady and perceptive. "Your ambition is admirable, Miss Nase. It is one shared by countless trainers across the globe who look upon that name." His gaze flicked once toward Logan's image. "and feel the pull to surpass it."
His expression sharpened ever so slightly.
"However, you would do well to remember that you are not the only one with designs upon that summit."
The noise of the convention swelled around them as another highlight reel roared to life, yet his words remained precise, almost intimate in their clarity.
"When the dust eventually settles," he went on, "when the arena has been scoured by competition and consequence alike, we shall discover who stands at the pinnacle… and who is consigned to history beneath it."
He stepped back, turning with unhurried elegance, his hands never leaving his pockets.
"I confess," he added over his shoulder, the faintest hint of anticipation threading his tone, "I rather look forward to that day."
He paused just long enough to glance sidelong at her.
"Until then, Miss Nase. It has been… illuminating."
And with that, he melted into the tide of attendees, black coat swallowed by the shifting sea of bodies and banners. Fumino remained where she stood, eyes tracking the space he had occupied until even the memory of his silhouette blurred into anonymity. Questions collided in her mind in rapid succession. His identity, the precision of his knowledge, the ease with which he spoke her father's name, Orfevre's recruitment, the coveted throne of the Hand of God.
More than anything, it was the familiarity about him that unsettled her, the nagging sense that this had not been chance. Her jaw tightened as she turned back toward Logan's photograph, the reflection of her own face faintly overlaying his.
No, she thought with quiet certainty.
This would not be the last time their paths crossed.
****
"Trainer Jo! Trainer Belno!" Kitasan called out brightly, lifting her arm high above the moving crowd as though she were signaling across a racetrack rather than through a sea of convention-goers. "Oguri-senpai!"
A short distance away, a brown-haired uma with a distinct white tuft crowning her head turned at once, her ears pricking forward as recognition lit her features. She raised her hand in return, smiling warmly. Beside her, a middle-aged man in a beret offered a casual wave of his own, his posture relaxed but observant as his gaze swept the bustling hall.
And then there was Oguri.
The ashen-gray-haired legend stood slightly apart, cradling an oversized paper bag so stuffed with snacks that it bulged precariously at the seams. Her cheeks were puffed full like a contented hamster, sapphire-blue eyes half-lidded in serene indifference as she chewed methodically, a wooden skewer poking from the corner of her mouth. Even amid the grandeur of the exhibition, she appeared entirely focused on her culinary conquest.
Diamond and Melody exchanged small, almost synchronized nervous smiles, their heads tilting politely as they offered restrained bows in greeting. Kitasan, meanwhile, beamed as though she had just reunited with long-lost family.
Once the brief exchange passed and they continued walking through the exhibit halls, Kitasan turned back toward them, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
"Melody-chan, the Fifteen are unbelievable," she said, hands curling into excited fists at her sides. "I can't believe there were umas out there like that. Even Miss President doesn't have a record stacked that high."
"And most of them started with nothing," Diamond added thoughtfully. "Just ordinary girls overlooked by scouts and passed over by trainers who didn't see the potential. None of them came from famous racing lineages." She paused. "Well… aside from Desert Rose. But even her story wasn't exactly fortunate."
"I suppose you could say that," Melody replied, her tone steady though her expression carried a quiet intensity that went beyond simple admiration. "But who she ultimately became… she did that in spite of her family, not because of them."
Her hands clasped together in front of her as they walked, fingers tightening slightly as though holding onto something far older than the moment.
"I read that after she won the Dubai Cup," she continued, "her family reached out to reconcile. They even offered her a share of their fortune. More money than most people could spend in a lifetime." A faint breath left her lips. "But she turned them down. After what they did to her mother. After what they did to her… there was no amount of wealth that could mend that."
Kitasan let out a firm nod, her expression resolute. "Well, good on her. You don't get to treat someone like that and then pretend it never happened just because they became famous."
Before Melody could respond, something shifted in the air around them.
The scent changed.
It was subtle at first, a soft sweetness threading through the warmer smells of food and fabric, but it grew stronger with every step forward. Lilies layered over jasmine, tulips mingling with roses, a bouquet of fragrances so rich and interwoven that it felt almost tangible.
Diamond slowed, drawing in a gentle breath as her eyes drifted closed. "That smells lovely," she murmured softly. "I wonder what it is."
Melody and Kitasan looked ahead, and stopped.
Before them stretched what could only be described as an ocean of flowers. Bouquets stacked upon bouquets, rising high enough to resemble a living wall of color. White and crimson and sapphire and gold, petals fresh and luminous beneath the exhibition lights. Convention staff moved continuously along the edges, carefully arranging new offerings as they arrived, replacing wilting stems with newly delivered blooms, ensuring the display never diminished.
At the heart of it all stood a holographic projection.
The image shimmered to life in radiant clarity. A young woman whose resemblance to Melody was impossible to ignore. Black hair streaked with yellow. A matching tail falling behind her. A posture radiating from the slight tilt of her chin. Only her eyes differed, steel gray instead of crimson, and within them was a sharp, fearless brilliance.
The smirk on her lips was unmistakable.
Melody stepped forward without thinking, weaving past a pair of visitors until she stood directly before the exhibit. The noise of the hall seemed to dull at the edges, as though the world had drawn back to grant her space.
Her eyes rose slowly to meet the projection, and for a fleeting, breathless instant, the glow of the hologram ceased to feel artificial. It no longer resembled a curated image suspended in light for strangers to admire, but something far more intimate, far more fragile.
She was not standing before a legend.
She was standing before a mother she had never known.
A presence she had constructed from stories, from archived footage, from whispered recollections and carefully preserved headlines. A woman whose voice she had only ever heard through recordings, whose laughter she had pieced together from grainy interviews, whose embrace existed only in imagination. And yet, as the steel-gray eyes in the projection seemed to shine beneath the exhibition lights, Melody felt something tighten in her chest, something almost like recognition.
Not of fame.
Of kinship.
This was not the Godly Fifteen's Kadokawa Hornet. Not the champion crowned in gold and garlands. Not the icon immortalized in statistics. This was the woman she had spent countless nights wondering about. The one she had imagined sitting in the stands, calling her name. The one she had pictured kneeling at the starting line, tying her laces with patient hands. The one she had dreamed of asking the simplest questions.
Did I run well? Are you proud of me?
For a moment, beneath the canopy of flowers and lights, Melody allowed herself to pretend that the distance between them did not exist. Her crimson gaze shimmered faintly as she smiled, small and private.
"Hi, Mom," she whispered.
Diamond and Kitasan came to stand beside her, their expressions softened by the sight.
"That's your mother?" Kitasan asked quietly, awe evident in her widened eyes.
"She's beautiful," Diamond added gently, studying the projection with admiration. "And you look so much like her."
Melody's smile deepened, fragile yet proud, as she kept her gaze fixed on the image framed by thousands of flowers. An entire hall of strangers honoring the woman she had only ever known through stories, headlines, and the echo of footsteps she was still trying to follow.
"Hey, excuse me, miss."
The voice came from just behind them, cutting through the softer hush that surrounded the exhibit. All three girls turned at once.
A young man stood a few steps away, likely in his early thirties, with messy dirty-blonde hair parted down the middle, the sides dyed a stark black that framed his face in sharp contrast. Thick black-framed glasses perched slightly crooked on his nose. He wore a gray shirt tucked into brown cargo khakis, polished loafers gleaming beneath the lights, and over it all a maroon coat with a blue band wrapped snugly around his left arm, the word Press stitched boldly across it. In his hand, he clutched a black camera already half-raised, fingers poised like a predator waiting for the right moment.
His smile was wide. Too wide.
"My name is Sensuke Fujii," he said brightly, leaning in with a zeal that bordered on invasive. "I'm a journalist."
He stepped closer, close enough that Melody instinctively leaned back, Diamond and Kitasan mirroring the movement without thinking.
"Would you, by any chance," he continued, eyes gleaming behind the lenses, "be Hachimitsu Melody? Kadokawa Hornet's daughter?"
"Sensuke…" Diamond's golden eyes widened in recognition.
"Fujii?!" Kitasan blurted, her ears shooting upright.
Melody tilted her head slightly, confusion flickering across her face as her tail gave a small, uncertain flick. "Um… yes?"
The moment the word left her lips, Fujii's entire expression ignited.
"I knew it!" he exclaimed, pumping his fist in triumph. "This is incredible!" He shifted his grip on the camera, already adjusting settings. "Coming here to pay respects to your mother just days before your G1 debut at the Shūka Shō! The symbolism writes itself!"
He lifted the camera fully now, angling it toward her. "Do you mind if I ask a few quick questions? Just a handful, I promise! It won't take long!"
Melody forced a polite, nervous smile, but before she could form a reply, Diamond and Kitasan moved in perfect, wordless coordination. Each grabbed one of her arms and pivoted sharply toward the exhibit's entrance.
"Sorry!" Kitasan called over her shoulder as she began carting Melody away.
Diamond's grip was steady as she maneuvered them through the crowd, her composure intact despite the sudden intrusion.
"Wait, hold on!" Fujii called, weaving after them with surprising agility for someone who was not an uma. "Where are you going? This is gold! Melody-chan, just one quote!"
He stretched out a hand as though he might physically stop them.
"Come back!"
****
"Heh… I remember this," Musaka said, tapping the base of his cane lightly against the carpet as he gestured toward one of the framed photographs mounted along the exhibit wall.
The image captured a younger Kadokawa Hornet at the finish line of the Belmont Stakes, sweat streaking down her temples, eyes squeezed shut as she screamed toward the heavens, arms thrown wide in a raw, unfiltered eruption of triumph. The crowd behind her was nothing more than a blur of color and motion, but even in stillness the roar felt alive.
"I was there that day," Musaka continued. "Her third and final crown. The Belmont Stakes. I can still hear it. The sound of the stands when she crossed. It wasn't applause. It was something closer to a quake."
Logan exhaled slowly as his gaze settled on the photograph, the neon light from nearby displays catching faintly along his jaw.
"Yeah," he murmured, and the single word carried an unmistakable undercurrent of pride. "She came a hell of a long way. From the girl splashed across tabloids as a loose cannon. Back then she was spending more time in the back of police cars than on the track." A soft chuckle escaped him. "Even the juvie judge knew her by name."
He tilted his head slightly, studying the frozen image of her victory.
"Then the whole country knew it," he went on. "They were chanting her name. And the best part?" His lips curved faintly. "She went out there and did it again. Proved it wasn't a fluke. Proved it was all her."
Musaka nodded slowly. "You had a rare gem in your hands, Logan." A small, genuine smile touched his mouth. "And I doubt anyone else could have polished her the way you did."
The smile faded from his face as his expression grew more solemn.
"For what it's worth… I'm sorry. For what happened."
Logan's gaze lingered on the photograph a moment longer before he straightened slightly.
"It's in the past, old man," he said evenly. "I've made my peace. Did what I needed to do. Said what I needed to say. It still stings now and then." His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. "But I still love her. That part doesn't change."
His eyes drifted across the exhibit, scanning the curated timeline, the carefully selected headlines.
"If there's one thing I'm grateful for," he added, "it's that they didn't drag her private life into this circus."
Musaka gave a low hum. "You can likely thank Director Gunn for that as well."
Logan let out a short laugh. "Maybe. If I ever find myself back home again, I might even say it to his face."
Before Musaka could reply, a sudden ripple of movement cut across the flow of the crowd. Both men turned instinctively. Three umas were weaving sharply through the sea of attendees, moving with urgency that bordered on panic. A young man trailed them, camera raised, calling out over the din as he tried to close the distance.
Logan's eyes narrowed, and then widened. In the center of the trio was a familiar silhouette. Black hair streaked with yellow, and the sight hit him like a physical jolt.
"Oh, shit," Logan muttered under his breath.
Musaka adjusted his sunglasses, squinting toward the commotion. "What on earth—? Logan, what do you think—"
But when he turned back to where Logan had been standing, the space was already empty. The old man blinked once, then raised an eyebrow beneath the brim of his hat.
"Huh."
****
Kitasan glanced over her shoulder as she and Diamond hurried forward, weaving between startled attendees. Melody dangled awkwardly between them, her feet barely keeping pace, eyes wide with confusion as she tried to process what was happening.
"W-wait—!" she managed, but her words were swallowed by the noise of the hall. "What's going on?!"
Kitasan looked back again, and froze.
"Roppei-trainer!" she called out instinctively as all three of them came to an abrupt stop.
The elderly man standing ahead of them shifted his weight against his cane, the brim of his hat casting a shadow across his sunglasses.
"It's Musaka," he replied, his tone carrying the familiar, weary irritation of a correction made far too many times. "What's the matter, Kita-san?"
Kitasan and Diamond were both slightly out of breath as they released Melody's arms and let her stand properly on her own. Melody straightened her clothes, still blinking in surprise. She had seen this man around campus before. Had heard the stories whispered about him. A veteran. An alumnus of the Round Table. A relic of Tracen's older era. But they had never been formally introduced.
"It's—it's—" Kitasan pointed urgently behind them.
Musaka followed the direction of her finger just as a familiar cry cut through the air.
"Oh, thank God you stopped!" Fujii exclaimed, jogging up to them with his camera still clutched tightly in hand. "Now, Melody-chan, if we could just—"
The rest of his sentence died mid-breath.
His expression went slack the instant his eyes met Musaka's.
The color drained from his face so quickly it was almost impressive.
"You!" Musaka growled, straightening just slightly despite the cane. "I thought I smelled a rat. What exactly do you think you're doing harassing my students?"
"Oh, God—it's you," Fujii stammered, instinctively taking a step back.
"Get your ass out of here. Now!" Musaka snapped. "Before I personally toss you in the nearest bin where you belong."
Fujii made a small, strangled sound. Somewhere between a gasp and a yelp, before pivoting sharply on his heel.
"I'll… uh, I'll catch up later!" he squeaked, already retreating into the crowd.
Within seconds, he had vanished, swallowed whole by the sea of attendees. Musaka exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"Honestly," he muttered. "I should've tossed him in with the burnables when I had the chance."
Kitasan let out a relieved laugh, Diamond pressing a hand lightly to her chest as the tension eased. Melody blinked between them all, still trying to catch up with the sudden turn of events.
"Thank you, Musaka-trainer," Diamond said gratefully.
Musaka adjusted his sunglasses, scoffing lightly. "Just doing my part to keep the vermin from sniffing where they don't belong."
His gaze then shifted to the young uma standing between Kitasan and Diamond, his expression softening beneath the brim of his hat.
"And you must be Hachimitsu Melody," he said, his tone steadier now, stripped of the sharpness he had reserved for Fujii. "It's a pleasure."
Melody straightened instinctively and bowed politely. "The pleasure's mine… um…" She lifted her head, tilting it slightly as she searched for his name.
"Musaka," he supplied with a faint chuckle. "Genjirō Musaka. Trainer at Tracen. Arguably the oldest one still shambling about the grounds."
Kitasan let out a small laugh at that, but Musaka continued, adjusting his grip on his cane.
"I was familiar with your mother, and your—" he began, and then paused when, at the edge of his vision, he caught sight of a certain hooded figure partially concealed behind one of the exhibit walls.
Logan's narrowed eyes met his for a fraction of a second, followed by a subtle shake of the head.
Musaka exhaled quietly.
"Your family, I mean," he amended smoothly. "Your grandmother was quite the runner in her day."
"Oh?" Melody's ears perked as she smiled, curiosity brightening her features. "I knew Grandma had a strong record, but I didn't realize you also knew my mother personally."
Musaka chuckled. "Well... um... you can say that." His grin widened slightly. " She had a presence about her, that one. A proper bonfire. Lived up to her name. When she moved, she moved fast, and when she struck, she struck hard."
Melody nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose that's one way to describe her."
"Still," Kitasan interjected, regaining her earlier enthusiasm, "I'm surprised to see you here, Musaka-trainer. I know Okino-trainer is around with Hana-trainer." Her ears twitched. "We ran into Belno-san, Jo-san, and Oguri-senpai earlier."
Musaka rolled his eyes theatrically. "Really? I would've wagered they were still loitering around the food court. Especially Oguri." He shook his head with a sigh. "In any case, I won't keep you girls from your pilgrimage. Off you go." He gestured lightly with his cane. "And if that slimeball crosses your path again, call Security. Don't indulge him."
Melody hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Musaka-trainer, that man earlier. Sensuke Fujii, right? Why does that name sound so familiar?"
Kitasan's expression dimmed at once. "He's the journalist behind most of the recent articles about Scarlet Rose."
Melody's face slackened.
Diamond lowered her gaze slightly. "He's been pushing the narrative that your success only exists because of what happened to Scarlet," she said gently. "Implying that the field cleared for you." A faint sigh followed. "If he'd gotten that interview just now, he would've spun your visit here as some attempt to gather luck before the Shūka Shō."
Musaka let out a derisive scoff. "Don't waste your breath worrying about him. The man attaches himself to one obsession after another. Once it was Oguri. Now it's Scarlet Rose."
His gaze lifted back to Melody, more measured now.
"I know what Scarlet meant to you," he said quietly. "And I won't deny that what happened to her was a tragedy." He paused, allowing the weight of the words to settle. "But do not let anyone convince you that your victories are hollow simply because she isn't there to contest them. Your wins are your own. Her absence does not diminish your effort, nor does it cheapen the road you've run."
The hall hummed around them, but for a moment, the space felt still.
"You run your race," Musaka added. "Not the one others try to write for you."
Melody's expression softened into something genuine and unguarded. "Thank you, Musaka-trainer," she said warmly. "That really meant a lot."
Kitasan and Diamond exchanged small smiles of agreement, the earlier tension having fully ebbed from their shoulders.
"Come on," Kitasan chimed brightly, slipping an arm lightly around Melody's back. "Let's go learn more about your mom."
Diamond nodded with quiet enthusiasm, and Melody mirrored her, the three of them bowing politely toward Musaka before turning and weaving back toward the front of Kadokawa Hornet's exhibit, disappearing once more into the sea of flowers and light.
Musaka lifted a hand in a soft wave, watching them go.
The smile lingered for only a moment before fading.
His gaze shifted, settling on a familiar figure standing some distance away, half-shadowed by one of the display walls. Behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes narrowed slightly.
****
Logan let out a slow breath, tugging his hood down as he leaned his back against the edge of the propped exhibition wall. He ran his fingers through his black hair, smoothing it back in a restless gesture, relief threading faintly through his chest.
So far, his presence had gone unnoticed.
He had been certain Melody wouldn't recognize him at a glance. Time had a way of altering faces, and the man she had met in a quiet church pew bore little resemblance to the towering projection above the hall. Still, standing here surrounded by curated history, framed photographs, timelines, and accolades that told the full story, he knew he could not afford to linger too close. Not with all the evidence stacked in plain sight.
One misplaced glance. One connection made.
That was all it would take.
He would owe Musaka an explanation later. That much was unavoidable. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of gratitude that the immediate danger had passed.
Logan pushed off the wall, intending to round the corner, and stopped.
A prickle crept up the back of his neck.
He felt it before he saw it.
The weight of someone watching.
Slowly, he turned.
Across the shifting mosaic of faces, past banners and camera flashes and the constant tide of motion, stood a young man dressed entirely in black. A tailored coat fell cleanly over a dark turtleneck, his hands resting calmly in his pockets as though he had nowhere urgent to be. His hair was short and meticulously styled, charcoal at the back and obsidian at the front, with a single white streak curving leftward from his fringe like a crescent carved into shadow. His greenish-gold eyes did not wander, did not blink, did not mistake their target.
They were fixed on Logan.
There was no confusion in that gaze, no tentative curiosity of a fan piecing together resemblance. It carried certainty. Recognition. Perhaps even calculation.
For a suspended heartbeat, the noise of the hall seemed to recede, the distance between them narrowing despite the crowd that moved obliviously through the space. Logan felt his jaw tighten as instinct sharpened beneath the surface of his calm exterior. This was no accidental meeting of eyes. Whatever game was unfolding beneath the layers of celebration and nostalgia, this young man was not merely a spectator.
Then, the stranger inclined his head just slightly before turning and stepping back into the flowing mass of bodies. The black of his coat merged seamlessly with the crowd, the white streak in his hair disappearing like a flicker swallowed by shadow, until there was no trace of him left at all.
Logan remained still for a moment longer, his gaze lingering where the man had stood, a quiet unease settling heavily in his chest. The convention lights continued to shimmer, the crowd continued to laugh and murmur and applaud, but beneath it all something had shifted.
That had not been coincidence.
And whatever this was, it had only just begun.