The first thing Daisuke Mori noticed when he woke up was the sunlight. It streamed gently through the blinds, scattering across his small but cozy apartment in soft gold. The faint hum of the city outside mingled with the sound of the morning wind slipping through the half-open window. He blinked, disoriented for a moment—no echoes of explosions, no screams, no ripple of Stand energy trembling through reality.
Just quiet.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his messy hair. His body felt strangely light, as though he'd been freed from a weight he never realized he was carrying. On the bedside table sat a digital alarm clock blinking 7:42 AM, a half-empty mug of coffee gone cold, and a familiar object—a silver stopwatch. It was old, scratched, worn by time, yet his fingers always found it first thing every morning. He didn't know why.
It just… mattered.
He rose, stretching, the morning light glinting off a faint scar running along his cheekbone. He caught his reflection in the mirror—tired eyes but not haunted. Not anymore. Maybe he'd gotten it in some street race gone wrong, maybe from falling off his bike years ago. He couldn't remember, but somehow, that scar felt like proof of something—proof that he'd lived through something important.
He stepped out into the small kitchen. The calendar on the wall was marked in bold letters:
"RACE DAY – KANAGAWA CIRCUIT QUALIFIERS."
He smirked. "Guess it's that day again."
Daisuke had always lived for the road. Even before he could drive legally, he'd spent hours around cars—fixing, tuning, understanding them like living creatures. His father had owned a repair shop before he passed away, leaving Daisuke with nothing but old tools, oil-stained hands, and an addiction to speed.
By the time he finished his breakfast, the morning had turned vibrant. The city pulsed with life. Engines, laughter, street vendors shouting about coffee and buns—it was the sound of a peaceful world. He got into his car, a sleek white RX-7, its paint glinting like polished bone. The steering wheel felt natural beneath his palms, as though it was an extension of him.
When he started the engine, it roared awake like a heartbeat. And for a fleeting second, Daisuke thought he heard something in that sound—something faint, almost like a whisper carried by the wind.
"Let's go, partner."
He blinked. The voice vanished. Just the engine's purr remained.
"Must be hearing things," he muttered with a smirk. But deep down, a strange warmth flickered in his chest.
---
The Kanagawa Circuit stretched before him like a winding serpent of asphalt and rubber. The air smelled of gasoline and adrenaline. Racers lined up beside their machines, the crowd's energy vibrating through the stands.
"Yo, Mori!"
Daisuke turned. Renji Arata was waving from the pit area, holding two iced coffees. His grin was as cocky as ever, his sleeves rolled up, a pair of dice keychains swinging from his pocket.
"You're late again, man. One of these days, they're gonna start without you."
"Then I'll just overtake everyone anyway," Daisuke shot back, taking the coffee. "You still betting against me?"
Renji laughed, clapping his shoulder. "I'd be stupid to bet against the Wind Demon of Kanagawa."
Daisuke rolled his eyes. "Don't call me that. Makes me sound like a villain."
"Whatever, dude. Just make sure you don't crash like last time. The medics were terrified."
Daisuke hesitated for half a second, eyes darkening. "Yeah… I'll be careful."
He didn't remember that crash. Not really. Just flashes—screaming wind, twisting metal, and a strange green light. Every time he tried to recall it, his chest tightened, as if something inside him didn't want him to remember.
---
When the signal lights turned red, his mind emptied. The world narrowed to the hum of the engine, the smell of burning fuel, the feel of the wheel.
3… 2… 1…
The light hit green.
He launched forward, tires shrieking, body pinned to the seat as the wind howled past. The car became an extension of his soul, gliding through the turns like a ghost. Every motion was precise, instinctive. The other racers blurred in his mirrors.
And then—he felt it.
The air around the car began to move differently. The wind wasn't just resisting him—it was following him, wrapping around the chassis, propelling him through the corners with impossible grace.
"What the hell…?" he breathed.
The sensation grew stronger. The more he focused, the more he felt the currents responding, shaping themselves around his will. It was exhilarating and terrifying.
He drifted through the sharpest curve of the circuit, the car slicing through the air with perfect control. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw something in the reflection of his rearview mirror—a translucent figure racing beside him, humanoid, swirling with ribbons of air. Its eyes glowed faintly.
And just like that, it was gone.
The crowd roared as Daisuke crossed the finish line a full five seconds ahead of the record. The sound was thunderous, but all he could hear was the wind.
---
Hours later, the sun was dipping below the mountains, dyeing the sky in fiery hues of orange and violet. Daisuke sat on the guardrail, legs dangling, watching the breeze dance across the grass. The stopwatch sat in his hand, its silver surface reflecting the sunset. He didn't know why, but he couldn't let go of it.
Renji approached, holding a bottle of soda. "Champion of the day, huh? Not bad."
Daisuke smiled faintly. "Guess I still got it."
"Still? You sound like an old man," Renji teased.
Daisuke chuckled, eyes still on the horizon. "Sometimes I feel like one. Like I've lived a hundred lives."
Renji frowned. "You good, man?"
"Yeah," Daisuke said softly. "Just… sometimes, when the wind blows a certain way, I feel like it's calling me. Like someone's out there, waiting."
Renji tilted his head. "You've been spending too much time in the garage."
"Maybe." Daisuke smiled. "But I like to think the wind remembers us, even when we forget ourselves."
Renji laughed and wandered off toward the parking lot, leaving Daisuke alone under the wide, open sky.
The air grew still for a moment. Then, as if in response, a gentle gust brushed against his cheek. It swirled around him, playful, familiar—like an old friend greeting him after years apart.
He whispered into the fading light, "Akira… Kenji… Hiroshi… can you feel this too?"
No answer came. But somewhere in the breeze, a faint echo of laughter—warm and distant—drifted by.
He smiled. "Yeah… thought so."
As he stood, the stopwatch slipped from his hand and hit the ground. The second hand moved once—click—and stopped completely.
But Daisuke didn't notice. He was already walking toward his car, the wind following him like a loyal shadow.
And for a heartbeat, under the glow of the dying sun, the air shimmered—revealing Gale Phantom, wings spread wide, its translucent form gliding above him before dissolving into the horizon.
Daisuke Mori, the racer, the dreamer, the man once called The Phantom Martial Artist, lived his life freely in this new world—his battles forgotten, his powers sealed. Yet somewhere deep within, the spirit of the wind still ran beside him, silent and eternal.
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