The gates clanged open.
And the world erupted.
Nakayama's spring crowd was no audience—it was a storm, rolling thunder given voice. Tens of thousands of cheers crashed together, a wave that shook the turf, the rails, the very bones of the track.
And on that track—twelve Uma scattered like arrows loosed from a single bowstring.
Special Week and McQueen did not surge.
They did not tear forward like Suzuka or launch like Teio sometimes did.
No—today, they ran as shadows.
They held their ground a few lengths back, sharp eyes locked on the early pace, their strides steady, measured, deadly in their patience.
Teio was not far behind them. Her steps were lighter, quicker, her grin fierce, that bubbling joy of hers refusing to be buried even in a battlefield like this. She clung to their rhythm like a second skin, waiting for her moment.
And behind her—Machan.
She broke well, her stride still powerful, her form still strong. But there was a weight to her motion, a heaviness in her breathing that didn't belong to the Machan Akuma remembered. Still, she forced herself forward, her shoulders squared, her gaze locked on the front three. She positioned herself not to catch them—no, not yet—but to block the rest of the pack from daring to slip past.
A wall.
A shield.
A dying sun refusing to dim.
From the VIP stands, Akuma's eyes tracked every stride, his body tense as a drawn bowstring. Beside him, Lucien was lounging like a man watching opera rather than war.
"Mm, see, mon ami?" Lucien's tone was light, playful, but his eyes gleamed with sharp precision. "Your McQueen and that bright little Special Week—they are clever. They do not waste their breath at the start. They wait. Always, they wait. But Machan—ah, poor Machan."
Akuma's jaw clenched.
"She burns too much too early," Lucien continued, fingers twirling idly around the edge of his scarf. "Her strides are heavy. Her form is less fluid, hm? And compared to Teio…" He gestured lazily toward the golden-haired girl keeping close behind the two leaders. "Compared to her, who floats, who adapts, who has that fire to chase and chase until the last breath… Machan is already falling behind."
Akuma's knuckles whitened against the railing. His pulse hammered in his ears, his breath sharp. He could see it—of course he could. Machan was straining, already. Every ounce of her was screaming just to keep her place.
Lucien's smile widened as he leaned closer. "Mon pauvre démon. You can see it too. You can see she is fading, non?"
Akuma turned, eyes blazing, ready to snap—
—and paused.
Oguri Cap was there, silent as always, holding out a skewer of dango toward him without a word. Her expression never shifted, but her gaze was calm, grounding.
Tachyon was on his other side, her long fingers slipping suddenly into his hair, massaging his scalp with almost clinical precision. "You're wound like a spring," she murmured. "Loosen. Or you'll miss what really matters."
The fury in him cracked, just slightly. His lips twitched. He exhaled. Slowly, he took the snack from Oguri, biting into it more forcefully than necessary, but the taste was warm, grounding. Tachyon's fingers pressed at his temples, easing some of the fire.
Lucien chuckled at the sight, reclining back. "Toujours entouré, hm? Even the ghost and the mad doctor must babysit you."
Akuma ignored him this time, eyes fixed back on the turf.
The first turn came.
The field thundered into it, dirt exploding beneath their boots, the air vibrating with the force of their strides. Special Week and McQueen held steady—silent hunters, letting others burn themselves alive in the early blaze. Teio slipped just inside, cutting a tighter line than most dared, her grin sharp as she claimed ground without wasting effort.
Machan—Machan forced herself wider. Her breath came harder now, but she refused to yield her place. The pack pressed, desperate to break past, but she tilted her shoulders, shifted her weight, forcing them to funnel behind her. Every step was defiance. Every step screamed, you will not pass.
The announcer's voice cracked over the chaos:
"And they've settled into formation—Mejiro McQueen and Special Week just behind the pace, Tokai Teio close on their heels! And behind them—still holding, still pressing forward—Aston Machan, carving herself into the wall of the lead group!"
The crowd roared, a wave of disbelief. Machan wasn't leading. She wasn't dominating. But she was fighting, and that fight lit the stands on fire.
Half a lap in—
McQueen's breathing was calm, sharp. Her body coiled, her every muscle honed to keep steady. She could feel Special Week beside her, matching her pace, and the shared rhythm steadied her. They were not rivals now. They were allies, both hunting the same prey.
Teio's footsteps drummed closer. Every so often, McQueen caught the flash of her smile from the corner of her eye—so bright, so infuriatingly unbroken. It was a smile that promised she wasn't here to follow forever.
And Machan—McQueen risked a glance. She was further back now. Not much. A length, maybe two. But her shoulders were stiff, her strides forced. Yet her face… her face was still smiling, even through the strain. A smile McQueen didn't believe for a second.
They barreled into the backstretch.
The pace shifted. Faster.
Special Week felt it first, her heart kicking, her legs begging her to open stride, to fly. But she held. She listened to Akuma's voice in her memory, sharp but kind: Patience. The race is longer than you think. The end is where you kill.
McQueen matched her, every step calculated. Her body screamed to surge—but she refused. She would not burn too soon. Not today.
Teio was right there, relentless. Her breathing was faster, harsher, but her spirit was unbroken, her body demanding more.
Machan…
She faltered. Just for a second. A stumble in her rhythm, a ragged exhale too loud. The pack behind her surged, teeth bared for a chance to pass—
—and she threw herself forward, head snapping, arms swinging harder, slamming her boots against the turf with brutal force. She forced them back, refused to let the dam break.
The crowd roared for her. For her defiance.
Lucien's laugh rang in Akuma's ears. "Do you see, mon ami? She is a wall, yes—but a wall that cracks. Every extra stride she forces, every wasted breath, it eats her alive. And Teio…" His voice softened, reverent. "Teio does not waste. Teio adapts. Teio is joy in motion."
Akuma's teeth ground together. He gripped the railing, nails digging grooves into the metal. He wanted to scream, to deny it, to tear the words from Lucien's throat. But beside him, Tachyon pressed at his temples again, murmuring quietly, and Oguri slipped another skewer into his free hand without even looking at him.
He ate.
He breathed.
And he watched.
The pack thundered into the far turn.
Half the race gone.
The crowd was a storm, the announcer's voice breaking under the roar, the air vibrating with the sheer force of wills clashing on the turf.
McQueen, Special Week, and Teio surged together, three blades drawn and waiting.
And behind them, Machan still fought, still forced herself to stand as the wall between them and everyone else, her body screaming, her fire flickering—but not yet gone.
The halfway mark loomed.
And the true battle was about to begin.