The cheers rolled like thunder across the snowy courtyard as the four trainers stepped up to the starting line. The dusky sky above glowed with the last light of day, streaks of red and gold fading into indigo. Lanterns flickered along the edges of the makeshift 1200-meter track, illuminating the packed snow. The Umas crowded against the rails, clapping, shouting, and chanting, their voices harmonizing into a wild carnival of noise.
Akuma stood at the far end of the line, shoulders slumped, expression flat. He didn't bother stretching or loosening up like the others—he simply shoved his hands into his coat pockets and exhaled through his nose.
"…Why am I here again?" he muttered, still confused on why is he going along with all of it.
Beside him, Lucien bent forward with perfect posture, as though he were already visualizing the race. His breath came in steady puffs of frost, and he shook his arms lightly, stretching like a trained runner about to dash onto the stage of glory. "We must not embarrass our students, mon ami," he murmured in French, then cast Akuma a quick, tight smile. "Though I'd still rather be at the dinner table."
On the opposite side, Adalbert adjusted his gloves with deliberate grace. His every movement looked theatrical, like an actor preparing for the spotlight. He gave Rice Shower a wink, drawing a flustered squeak from her as she pumped her fists to cheer him on.
And then there was Mischa. The man cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and stomped one heavy boot into the ground, making the snow crunch like an intimidation display. His smirk was pure confidence. "Don't bother trying to keep up, headmaster," he growled. "I don't want you to dislocate a disc."
Akuma sighed again. "…Idiots."
The mic squealed back to life. Gold Ship was standing in the infield like an announcer, bouncing on her toes with manic glee. "ALRIGHT, FOLKS! You've met the trainers! You've placed your bets! Now get ready to watch these four relics hurl themselves around a track like their lives depend on it!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
A whistle blew. The trainers crouched down, boots digging into the packed snow. The air went silent for a beat—just the sound of wind across the venue, the faint creak of lanterns, and the collective breath of anticipation.
"READY…" Gold Ship's voice boomed.
The Umas leaned forward, eyes wide.
"SET—"
The whole courtyard held its breath.
"GOOOOO!"
The four men launched off the line, snow scattering like shattered glass beneath their feet.
Mischa immediately stormed to the front, his powerful strides devouring the ground. His heavy frame moved with surprising speed, each step pounding like a war drum. "Ha!" he barked, teeth flashing as he pushed harder. "Come on, keep up if you dare!"
Lucien slid neatly into second place, his form refined, movements efficient and smooth. Every swing of his arms was sharp and measured, conserving energy while maximizing speed. He breathed evenly, his long hair trailing like a banner. "Patience," he muttered in French. "This is not a sprint—it is rhythm."
Adalbert was just behind, but instead of looking like a competitor, he looked like a performer. His strides were theatrical, his posture straight, as though each step was part of a choreographed dance. He waved dramatically toward Rice and the cheering Umas on the sidelines, even bowing mid-stride. "Do not despair, meine Damen! The Maestro shall not fall behind!"
The Umas screamed encouragement, laughing and clapping at the ridiculous sight.
And then there was Akuma.
He was walking. Not even jogging. Just walking, his long coat swaying lazily as he trailed several meters behind the others. His hands stayed in his pockets, his eyes half-lidded, as though the whole thing was an inconvenience he'd rather sleep through.
Special Week gawked from the fence. "Eh!? Why isn't Akuma-sensei running!?"
Teio leaned so far forward she nearly toppled over. "He's not even trying! What's he doing!?"
McQueen's voice carried over the others, full of indignation. "Honestly! At least make an effort, Akuma!"
But Akuma only yawned and kept plodding forward.
By the halfway point, Mischa and Lucien were neck and neck, their contrasting styles making it look like a true race. Mischa's raw power carried him with brutal momentum, snow spraying in his wake, while Lucien's steady grace kept him at his side, conserving energy for the last push.
Adalbert, though slightly behind, wasn't far out of the competition. He twirled his arms in an exaggerated flourish, pretending he was holding an invisible baton as if conducting an orchestra with each stride. "Ah! Do you hear it? The rhythm of the snow! The song of our hearts!"
Vodka groaned from the sidelines. "Why does he always have to be so dramatic?"
Scarlet laughed, arms crossed. "At least he makes it entertaining."
Meanwhile, Akuma still trudged along at the rear. He had finally pulled his hands out of his pockets, but only to shove them into his sleeves instead. His pace was steady, but nowhere near competitive. He looked like a man strolling to the corner shop rather than racing.
"Guinea pig!" a familiar voice suddenly rang out. Tachyon had climbed onto the railing, waving her arms wildly. "If you win—!"
Akuma didn't react.
Tachyon cupped her hands around her mouth, her grin widening into mischief. "IF YOU WIN, WE'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT!"
The words cut through the noise like a blade.
Akuma froze for half a heartbeat. His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing, as if making sure he'd heard correctly. "…Anything?"
"Anything!" Tachyon confirmed, her smile shining like the devil's deal.
Something changed.
The air shifted.
The Demon King's eyes sharpened. His shoulders rolled back. For the first time all night, Akuma bent his knees, his weight coiling like a predator about to pounce.
The Umas blinked.
"…Wait," Special Week whispered.
"Oh no," McQueen muttered.
Without warning, Akuma exploded off the ground like a cannon shot.
The snow beneath him cracked and sprayed outward in a violent burst as his body lunged forward with terrifying acceleration. In an instant, the lazy plodding man at the back became something else entirely—a storm.
"WHA—!?" Mischa bellowed as Akuma blurred past him on the inside.
Lucien's eyes widened, his calm composure fracturing. "Im—impossible!"
Even Adalbert faltered mid-step, breaking character to stare. "Mein Gott—!"
The crowd erupted in chaos.
"He's FLYING!" Teio screamed.
"He wasn't even TRYING before!" Special Week shrieked.
"ARE WE SURE HE'S HUMAN?" Vodka yelled, gripping the rail.
In less than 200 meters, Akuma had closed the gap entirely. His strides were monstrous, eating the track like a ravenous beast, each step timed with perfect brutality. His coat whipped around him like a cape, his hair streaming in the wind as if the night itself propelled him forward.
The final corner came. Mischa and Lucien were still battling shoulder to shoulder for the lead, Adalbert close behind—
And then Akuma blasted past all three, surging ahead with inhuman momentum.
"GUINEA PIG POWER!!!" Tachyon screamed from the sidelines, leaping up and down.
The trainers could only gape as Akuma tore through the straight, every muscle in his frame firing like pistons.
600 meters vanished in an eyeblink.
Akuma crossed the finish line first. By a landslide.
The crowd went silent for a fraction of a second, the sheer absurdity of what they'd just seen sinking in.
Then—
"YEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!" Akuma roared, throwing his arms into the air, voice booming across the venue like a war cry. His breath steamed like dragon's fire against the twilight sky.
The courtyard erupted.
The Umas doubled over, screaming with laughter, pounding the rails, clutching their stomachs. Special Week fell to her knees, tears in her eyes. Teio slapped the rail so hard she nearly broke it. Even McQueen, usually so composed, was laughing behind her hand.
Lucien staggered to a stop, bent double with exhaustion and disbelief. "…Mon dieu… what was that?"
Mischa stomped a foot into the snow, pointing an accusing finger. "That's not even fair! He was sandbagging us!"
Adalbert, panting, could only laugh and clap his hands. "Bravo! Magnificent! A finale worthy of the king himself!"
Akuma stood tall at the finish line, arms still raised in victory, expression as flat as ever despite the triumphant roar he'd let loose. "…I win."