The pegasus's wings fluttered down, and Rider knelt beside the girl.
"Master," she said gently, "the enemy has been defeated. What shall we do now?"
Sakura shrank inward, hugging her knees.
"I… I don't know. Papa doesn't want me anymore… and Grandpa tried to eat me… I…"
She sniffled, her voice crumbling into sobs. Tears slid down her cheeks.
Rider pressed a hand to her forehead. Things were already looking grim.
My Master's a child with no mana. She's mentally unstable. Probably traumatized. Maybe even a little… blackened.
She's got no home. No family. No means of support. Forget winning the Holy Grail War—just staying in the world will be difficult… let alone keeping her fed and alive.
And yet… Rider looked at the girl before her.
There was no question in her mind. She wouldn't abandon her. She couldn't.
That resolve firmed in her heart, Rider exhaled and sent her thoughts into the void.
Um… Mister 'Loli Protection Association'... are you still there?
She didn't really expect a reply. But to her surprise, the voice answered almost immediately.
There's a bicycle in the backyard storage shed. Should still work. Take the kid. I'll guide you. I've already arranged a guardian to receive her.
...You're not lying, are you? Rider still held her doubts.
Tch. Believe what you want. But unless you want your Master starving in an alley, I suggest you move.
Rider was quiet for a moment… and then nodded.
"Understood."
"If I find out you've deceived me, I swear—I'll burn my magical core to cinders if I must, but I'll drag you down with me."
"My, what a devout little lady. Whatever you like."
The exchange concluded with Rider pulling Sakura's hand gently in hers. She stepped into the courtyard of the Matou estate and opened the door to the old storage shed. As she expected, inside sat a weather-worn bicycle. Though rust had crept across its frame, Rider gave it a quick assessment and determined it was still rideable.
With her Riding skill rated at A+, she was confident she could make even this thing ride like a Lamborghini.
Using the tools lying beside the bike, she gave it a quick polish, scraped off the rust, and even applied a bit of oil. Then, with practiced ease, she scooped Sakura into her arms and placed her on the small cargo rack on the back of the bike.
"Hold on tight, Master."
With that, she hopped on and pedaled, taking off like a streak across the cityscape.
But unseen to them, a small insect buzzed silently in pursuit. Just as it was about to land on the small girl seated behind Rider, a rift tore open in the air, and from within emerged a delicate silver net, snaring the insect in one swift motion.
"Honestly… these noble young ladies are always so careless. One day they'll get themselves killed."
A sigh lingered in the air as the spatial rift quietly closed.
Meanwhile, Fujiwara Buta was tearing down a main road in Fuyuki City in his beloved AE86. He was at that restless, hot-blooded stage of life where every cell in his body screamed for adrenaline—and so, he fell in love with racing. With hands honed through countless hairpin turns and breakneck chases, he had yet to find a rival who could beat him—no matter the car, no matter the mods.
He wasn't just a big fish in a small pond like Fuyuki—he believed with full confidence that there were few in all of Japan who could out-race him.
Well... assuming they were human.
Today, during a routine business trip to Fuyuki, Fujiwara Buta met his match.
He was parked at a red light, casually glancing into his rearview mirror when he saw something strange hurtling toward him.
He squinted to get a better look—then froze.
"Is that… a bicycle? A women's bike?"
There it was. In the mirror: a battered, humble-looking women's bicycle. Upon it rode a bespectacled beauty clad in a black turtleneck sweater, her lavender hair fluttering behind her as she pedaled with terrifying calm. Seated on the back was a small, black-haired girl who looked utterly dazed.
No problem so far—except for the fact that the bike was barreling down the road at over 200 kilometers per hour.
Fujiwara's jaw dropped.
The cigarette slipped from his lips and singed his shirt before he snapped back to reality.
Handbrake down. Gears shifted. Pedal to the floor.
"No way in hell is the Drift King of Akina getting overtaken by a damned women's bike!"
The AE86's engine let out a beastly roar, echoing through the concrete jungle as it launched into high speed pursuit.
"Heh… good. Woman, you've got my attention now," Fujiwara sneered. "Let's see how far you can take that ridiculous machine."
Thus began a spectacle that shocked Fuyuki City to its very core.
A women's bicycle and a sports coupe raced neck and neck through the streets, both moving at illegal speeds most couldn't even fathom. Rider's flowing hair and fluttering skirt became a blur of black and lavender; her wheels danced along the asphalt with supernatural grace.
Behind her, Fujiwara Buta gritted his teeth and maintained the chase, his AE86 howling in fury.
Naturally, the police noticed.
"HQ, this is Unit 001. We're requesting backup—we've got an AE86 and a... a women's bicycle engaged in an illegal street race. We can't stop them—their speed is just... Please advise!"
"The hell are you talking about?! An AE86 is one thing, but who the hell drag-races on a women's bike?! What are you idiots smoking?"
*"No, it's real! The bike just drifted a corner! No slowdown at all—I SWEAR IT WAS A DRIFT!"
That night, the Fuyuki Police Department's entire worldview was shattered.
But Fujiwara wasn't distracted by that. No, his focus was absolute.
"She's drifting… without braking…?! That's insane! This woman's for real!"
He pushed his AE86 harder, knowing that just up ahead was a narrow alley only wide enough for one vehicle.
"There's no way she can make that turn. I don't care how good she is—physics won't let her."
Fujiwara had no idea that physics had already died and been cremated behind the last street sign.
The two vehicles roared into the narrow alley. Ahead of them loomed a sharp 90-degree corner—one that would certainly cause a crash if taken at their current speeds.
Fujiwara instinctively began braking about 100 meters early.
Then he saw it.
Rider didn't slow down at all.
Not even a little.
Just before collision seemed inevitable, Rider lifted the front wheel with perfect timing. The entire bicycle soared into the air, gliding gracefully over the building's rooftop, and disappeared beyond the horizon.
---
Three days later.
Fujiwara Buta sat on the curb in his home city, face haggard, the soul nearly drained from his body. He took a long drag on a cigarette before flicking the butt into a nearby trash can.
He stepped up to a graffiti-covered wall—a place where underground racers left challenges for worthy opponents.
He shook a can of spray paint and left behind his name and phone number.
Then, after a moment of hesitation, he taped up a blurry, black-and-white surveillance photo—a women's bicycle caught mid-drift.
Underneath it, he wrote:
"If anyone knows who the rider of this drifting bicycle is, please let her know—next Friday, 10 PM, I'll be waiting at Akina Mountain. Thank you."