His career started humbly.
École Royale de Cheval.
A newly rising academy, freshly built in Japan, still smelling of polished wood and plaster dust. The walls were white, the halls wide, but the air was uncertain. A school with no history, no legacy, no story of its own.
They hired him because they needed trainers. They didn't care who. They just needed bodies to fill the booths.
But Akuma stayed.
Not because he was wanted.
Not because he was welcomed.
But because, for the first time, he was needed.
His first charges were Maruzensky and Air Groove.
They were both brilliant in their own right. Strong, fast, sharp—each destined for greatness. But when the director assigned them to him, both had frowned.
He was the same age as they were. Barely older by months.
"Is this a joke?" Air Groove's words had been sharp, her voice edged with pride. "We're supposed to entrust our futures to… someone who should still be in our class?"
Maruzensky, more playful but no less skeptical, had tilted her head with that sly smile of hers. "Heh… are you sure you're not lost, Akuma-san? Trainers are supposed to be adults. Y'know, wrinkled, boring, the type to lecture you about running form until your ears fall off."
Their laughter. Their doubt. Their challenge.
It didn't matter.
Akuma never raised his voice. Never argued. Never asked for their faith.
He simply trained them.
Day and night.
At first, they resisted. Skipped drills. Complained. Asked why they should follow the lead of someone who hadn't even proven himself.
But Akuma didn't waver. He stood on the field in the morning before they even arrived. He watched their steps, corrected their breathing, adjusted their diets. He gave them regiments no one else had seen before. Weighted strides. Split stamina cycles. Interval work that balanced speed with endurance so seamlessly it felt unnatural.
And when they collapsed, when their legs shook and their pride wavered, he knelt beside them. He didn't scold. He didn't sneer.
He simply said, "You can do more."
Weeks turned into months.
Their complaints turned into silence.
Silence turned into grudging acceptance.
Acceptance turned into trust.
One night, Maruzensky found him asleep on the track, still holding his notebook of schedules in his lap. She draped her jacket over him and whispered, "…Cute."
One morning, Air Groove asked quietly if he had eaten. When he admitted he hadn't, she shoved a rice ball into his hand without meeting his eyes.
Piece by piece, they gave him their faith.
And he gave them everything.
The results came quickly.
Maruzensky's stride lengthened, her legs carrying her across the finish line like a song that refused to end.
Air Groove's posture sharpened, her balance holding even in the tightest curves, elegance matching precision with ruthless consistency.
Win after win. Trophy after trophy.
École Royale de Cheval became a rising name not because of its facilities, not because of its directors, but because of two girls and the boy who trained them.
His regiments spread across the academy. Other trainers borrowed them, studied them, copied them. Soon enough, those exercises reached beyond École Royale. Other academies adopted them. The nation followed. His fingerprints began to shape the sport itself.
But still—no one could replicate him.
Because it wasn't just the drills.
It wasn't just the science.
It was Akuma.
The boy who never broke his gaze from the track.
The trainer who remembered every stride, every breath, every weakness and strength of his girls.
The man who treated every race like war, and every victory like a promise kept.
Opponents began to whisper.
The moment he stepped into the trainer's booth, the air seemed to change. Competitors faltered. Trainers adjusted their plans desperately, as if his presence alone had rewritten the board.
Every time his eyes locked on the field, it was as if the Umas under him carried not just their own weight, but his resolve as well.
And they never lost.
Not when it mattered.
A title began to spread.
The Demon King.
Not because of cruelty. Not because of rage. But because of the sheer hopelessness he inspired.
The Demon King Akuma.
The trainer who stood at the top of the tracks. The one others could not outthink, could not outrun, could not overcome.
The man who made victories feel inevitable.
He remembered the night they told him.
Maruzensky had been laughing, twirling the latest trophy in her hands. "They're calling you a demon, Akuma-sensei. Can you believe it? Demon King Akuma!"
Her voice was teasing, but her eyes shone with pride.
Air Groove, more serious, had crossed her arms and studied him. "…It suits you. You don't act like the others. You're not just watching us race. You're controlling the whole board, aren't you?"
Akuma had said nothing, only sipping his tea in silence.
But inside…
Inside, he thought of that day long ago. The girl with purple hair. The fire in her eyes.
He had promised himself he would be a trainer for their sake. For those who wanted nothing more than to run.
If being a Demon King was the price of keeping that promise, then so be it.
Years later, others would try to explain it. The articles, the historians, the analysts.
They would write about his regiments. His strategy. His ability to read an Uma's body like a map.
But the truth was simpler.
Akuma always won because he refused to see his girls as tools. He refused to let them become shadows. He carried their hopes as if they were his own.
And they, in turn, carried him across the finish line again and again.
But ever so often he wondered… was this all that he wanted?