The crowd was a living storm.
Every seat shook with the pounding of countless feet—not on the turf, but in the stands. Cheers, gasps, and the relentless whip of the wind fused into one unbroken roar.
"Five hundred meters left—McQueen leads by three lengths!" the announcer's voice cracked with excitement, his words tumbling over one another in a rush to keep up with the action. "Tokai Teio holding strong in second! Just one length behind her, it's Rice Shower—right on her heels is Ten Point, and the lovable bundle of sunshine being Haru Urara pushing hard for the inside!"
Farther back, a familiar chaos unfolded. "Gold Ship in sixth—what is she doing?—followed by Winning Ticket and Mayano Top Gun trying to push through the pack!"
The sun hit McQueen's silver hair like it was drawn with molten light, her long strides slicing clean through the grass. Teio was closing—but not enough. Rice Shower's rhythm was sharp and relentless, but she couldn't break free. The finish line's white rail glimmered like a blade ahead of them.
"Two hundred meters—McQueen still ahead! Teio making her move—Rice Shower holding—Ten Point dropping back under pressure from Haru Urara!"
The final stretch blurred into a streak of motion. Every heartbeat felt like a drum against the rails.
"And—Mejiro McQueen takes the win! Tokai Teio a close second, Rice Shower in third, followed by Haru Urara and Ten Point!"
The wave of noise that followed was deafening.
McQueen slowed her pace, her breath heavy but measured. She turned to wave, her smile soft but radiant—polished, almost regal. Even in the heat of victory, she bowed her head slightly toward the stands, mouthing a quiet thank you to the people who cheered her name.
She hadn't even stepped off the track before the crowd around her shifted. Trainers—half a dozen at least—closed in like tides converging on a single point.
"McQueen, incredible debut—have you considered—"
"Our academy's track program would be honored—"
"We've been looking for talent like yours—"
She tried to answer them, but their voices tangled into one rushing wave of offers, promises, and boasts. Her polite nods and gentle "Ah, I'm flattered" only seemed to encourage them further.
And then—
The air shifted.
The chatter cut short when a single, deliberate set of footsteps entered the circle. Trainers instinctively stepped back as a tall figure approached, his presence carrying the weight of a crown even before he spoke.
Lucien.
The head trainer of École Royale de Cheval, a man whose reputation was carved into the turf of every major track in the country. The faintest smile tugged at his lips—not warm, but not cold either. Behind him, Tokai Teio stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her bright eyes scanning McQueen with unhidden interest. Beside her, towering in quiet composure, was Symboli Rudolf—the living legend herself.
Lucien's gaze swept over McQueen like a jeweler appraising a rare gem.
"A debut like that," he said, his voice low but carrying over the silence, "is not just talent. It's command. Control. Poise. You have something very few possess, McQueen."
The words hung in the air, heavy with intent.
"I would like you to join us," he continued, tone certain—like the offer was already a foregone conclusion. "Under Rigel's banner, your potential will not just be met. It will be realized."
The other trainers dared not interrupt. Teio's curious glance lingered, and Rudolf's unreadable eyes seemed to weigh McQueen's every twitch.
McQueen met Lucien's gaze, her smile perfectly composed, the same one she had worn for the cameras moments earlier. "I'm honored by your praise," she said softly, almost apologetically. "But… I'm afraid I must decline."
A ripple of disbelief passed through the onlookers.
Lucien's brows lifted—not in anger, but mild intrigue. "May I ask why?"
"Because," McQueen said, her voice still polite but now carrying a firmness beneath the silk, "I already have someone in mind."
She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.
Her eyes shifted—past Lucien, past Teio and Rudolf, past the throng of trainers. Toward the edge of the field, where a dark-haired young man lingered in the corner of her vision. He was leaning against a rail, arms crossed, watching quietly.
Without another word, McQueen gave Lucien the kind of perfect, dignified bow only a Mejiro could deliver—then excused herself and walked away, her pace unhurried but certain.
Lucien watched her go, the faintest hint of a smile still curling his lips. Teio followed McQueen with her eyes until she vanished into the crowd, a spark of rivalry flickering there already.
Akuma exhaled through his nose, a long, weary sigh that felt heavier than the air around him.
Another one.
Another Uma who'd flinched at his presence, murmured some excuse, and backed away before he could even get through the first sentence.
He leaned his weight on the track railing, watching the dispersing crowd. "What am I doing wrong…?" he muttered under his breath.
He didn't know his own face was the problem. The sharp brow, the narrow eyes, the naturally grim mouth—it all added up to an expression that looked more like he was about to interrogate someone than recruit them.
With another sigh, he pushed himself off the rail, brushing the dust from his jacket. Time to rejoin Adal and Mischa before the two found trouble—again.
But he only made it a single step before he froze.
She was standing directly in front of him.
Silver hair gleaming in the sun. Eyes sparkling as though victory itself was still reflected in them.
"Good afternoon," Mejiro McQueen said, her voice carrying that airy elegance unique to her family.
Akuma blinked once. Then twice. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she wasn't addressing someone behind him. "Uh… hello?"
It wasn't every day the Mejiro McQueen approached him. In fact, it wasn't… any day.
There was a beat of awkward silence before Akuma's instincts kicked in. "If you're looking for the trainers' tent, it's over there." He pointed toward Lucien, who was still standing at the center of the dispersing crowd. "You should probably—"
"I'm not lost," McQueen said, pouting faintly at the interruption.
Akuma tilted his head. "…Then what do you need from me?"
Her smile returned—warm, steady. "I came for you."
That derailed his thoughts completely. "Me?"
"Yes." She clasped her hands in front of her. "I was wondering if it might be possible to enroll in your academy."
He actually laughed—a quick, disbelieving sound. "My academy?"
"Yes," she repeated, with the serene patience of someone explaining something obvious.
"…You're aware of what it is, right?" Akuma asked. "No prestige.. Half our facilities are still being rebuilt. And the… cafeteria is questionable."
McQueen nodded happily. "Yes."
"And you could join literally any school in the country."
"Yes."
"You'd have better teammates. Better trainers. Better—"
"I've made my choice," she interrupted gently, tilting her head with an almost playful air. "I don't see the point in wasting time looking elsewhere."
Akuma stared at her, trying to find the hidden motive here, but all he found was sincerity.
Then McQueen's expression shifted, just slightly. Her shoulders dipped alongside her ears, her voice softening. "…Am I not allowed to join you?"
The question landed like a checkmate.
Because there was only one answer.
Akuma rubbed the back of his neck, sighing again—though this time, there was the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "…Alright. You're in."