The roar of Nakayama's winter crowd was a living thing—
—not a cheer, not a chant, but a pulse.
It beat through the rails. Through the track. Through the bones of every Uma on the course.
McQueen was at the tip of the spear.
Her breathing was sharp, measured, her eyes locked on the final curve like it was a finish line in itself. The winter wind whipped past her ears, biting at her cheeks, but she didn't blink. Couldn't blink.
Because somewhere behind her…
…there was the rhythm of another's steps.
She didn't have to look to know.
Teio was coming.
The memory hit her unbidden—the Tennosho Spring.
The final stretch.
Teio's shadow swallowing her whole.
And then… that moment.
Not the defeat.
Not the loss.
But the smile.
Akuma's smile, warm and proud even as her own chest burned with humiliation. "You were amazing."
It had been worse than any scolding.
Because it was genuine.
Because he had meant it.
Because it meant she had let him down—and he didn't even see it that way.
Not again.
Her stride lengthened.
She leaned into the turn, every muscle in her legs screaming in defiance. The earth beneath her boots trembled with the power of her steps—boots, not hooves; the weight of each impact feeling heavier, more human, more desperate.
500 meters.
The final straight.
Teio's footsteps were louder now.
Close.
Too close.
"McQueen!" a voice cut through the roar—it could have been anyone, but it sounded like Akuma.
Her heart clenched, then hardened.
She drove forward, her lungs burning like they were filling with molten lead. Her vision tunneled, the crowd melting into streaks of color, the track stretching into an impossible horizon.
Teio's shadow edged up alongside her.
McQueen's breath caught.
Teio's teeth were grit tight, her eyes locked ahead but brimming with that same fire McQueen knew she carried herself. She wasn't running to beat McQueen.
But to prove herself.
They were alone now.
The rest of the field had been left to fade into the blur.
400 meters.
Their strides matched for one impossible, breathless second—perfect synchronization—
—before McQueen pulled a half-step ahead.
Her chest felt like it was going to split open.
Every step rattled her bones.
The gap was nothing.
The gap was everything.
300 meters.
Teio edged forward—half a head—
McQueen snarled, a raw, uncharacteristic sound ripping from her throat as she surged back.
The finish line was a blade hanging above them both.
And neither was willing to let it fall first.
The crowd was deafening, but up here, in the small cluster of VIP seating, the world felt strangely still.
Akuma stood at the railing, scarf loose around his neck, eyes fixed on the straight. Beside him, Adal leaned forward with hands clasped, while Mischa rested an elbow on the rail, jaw set tight.
None of them spoke.
Until another voice joined them.
"Magnifique view, isn't it?"
Lucien Vaurien slid into place beside Akuma like he had always belonged there. No announcement, no hesitation—just that easy, dangerous charm in his smile.
They watched in silence for a moment, eyes following the duel below.
"You know," Lucien said at last, voice carrying that silky lilt, "I should thank you."
Akuma didn't turn.
Lucien's smile widened, eyes glinting—not with mockery, but with something sharper. "For stepping up. For becoming exactly what I believed you could be."
The words were light, almost conversational, but there was weight beneath them. A weight only rivals shared.
Lucien's gaze flicked to the track. "For giving my beloved Umas the rivals they deserve. I feared they would grow complacent without true opposition."
Akuma was silent still, but his hands curled slightly on the railing.
"And yet…" Lucien continued, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, "…here you are. Restoring the stage. Sharpening the game. Exactly as I hoped."
It wasn't praise.
It wasn't mockery.
It was an acknowledgment.
Finally, Akuma looked at him.
The air between them shifted—no heat, no venom, just the cold, electric current of two men who had already decided that their war was worth fighting to the last breath.
"…Thank you too," Akuma said quietly, almost too quiet for the noise of the race to swallow.
Lucien's brow lifted.
"For keeping the throne warm," Akuma continued, eyes locking on his rival's. "I'll make sure to sit on it the moment my beloved family gives it to me."
A spark flickered in Lucien's eyes—part amusement, part promise.
"Then I will see you there, mon ami," he murmured.
They turned back to the race.
Below, McQueen and Teio were locked in a dead heat, the finish line screaming toward them.
The crowd roared.
And in the stands, two kings watched the crown hang in the air—
—waiting to see whose hands would close around it first.
200 meters.
The noise was no longer sound—it was pressure.
A crushing wall of energy from tens of thousands of throats, hammering against the track, into their lungs, their veins.
McQueen's boots slammed against the turf.
Her strides were long, perfect in form—drilled through months of training, sharpened by nights replaying that Tennosho loss in her mind. Every muscle burned like fire under her skin, but she refused to slow.
Beside her—
Tokai Teio.
Her steps were shorter, quicker, a rapid-fire rhythm like the ticking of a clock counting down the final seconds. Her chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, but her eyes—sharp, unblinking—were locked not on the finish line, but on McQueen.
They could feel each other's breath.
Could hear it—ragged gasps cutting through the rush of wind.
I will not lose to you.
They didn't speak it.
They didn't have to.
150 meters.
The wind whipped their hair back, stinging their eyes. Their legs screamed for relief, but the command from their hearts drowned everything out—Run.
McQueen pushed harder, her entire frame coiling and snapping forward with each step. She was not running for herself. She was running to repay Akuma's trust, to wipe away the phantom weight of that smile from her defeat.
Teio's arms pumped like pistons, her face twisted with effort, teeth grit so hard her jaw ached. She wasn't here just to match McQueen—she was here to prove herself, to Lucien, to herself, to every Uma who had ever doubted she could outshine a legend.
100 meters.
They were perfect mirrors now.
Every stride matched. Every flick of the hair, every swing of the arms—synchronized chaos in motion.
The finish line loomed ahead, white and final.
80 meters.
McQueen surged.
Teio answered instantly.
60 meters.
They pulled even—shoulder to shoulder.
The crowd's roar fractured into individual cries. Names screamed, prayers thrown into the air like desperate offerings.
40 meters.
They locked eyes.
For a fraction of a second, the track disappeared. The noise vanished. The world shrank to just the two of them—two umas, two dreams, and one unyielding promise neither would ever let go.
I will win.
I will win.
20 meters.
The line was there—close enough to touch, close enough to taste. Their bodies screamed in unison, lungs clawing for air that no longer seemed to exist. Their legs felt like they were breaking apart with every step, yet they ran faster.
10 meters.
Neck and neck.
5 meters.
The wind tore between them—an invisible blade slicing through the frozen air, carrying the sheer force of their rivalry forward.
1 meter