Co-ed Swedish Relay (3)
[On your marks, get set—]
Bang!
As the first runners from every class crouched into position and the starting pistol cracked through the air, the final event of the first-years—the Co-ed Swedish Relay—leapt into motion.
“Look at that, Nitta-san. Lightning reflexes. A flawless start—couldn’t ask for better.”
Watching Nitta-san surge forward with breathtaking acceleration right out of the gate, I couldn’t hold back a spontaneous word of admiration.
“She did mention she’d been practicing… Maybe it’s thanks to her music background—could be she’s just naturally sharp when it comes to sound.”
With a spectacular rocket start, Nitta-san broke free from the crowd, putting serious distance between herself and the other classes right from the opening stretch.
(Can we really hold this lead all the way? …No, things won’t be that easy.)
After all, this was the final event of the day, where every class had sent their very best to the front lines.
Just as I’d feared, this race wasn’t going to let anyone win without a fight.
Most of the other runners were from athletic clubs, and though Nitta-san began strong, she started to lose steam midway through. Near the final hundred meters, the trailing pack caught up—and swallowed her lead whole.
Even so, Nitta-san held on beautifully, handing the baton to our second runner, Date.
The second leg—two hundred meters—was packed with top-tier talent, every runner a seasoned athlete.
And yet, even among such fierce competition, Date unleashed the full power of a basketball club regular, holding nothing back.
“Date’s running is impressive, as expected.”
Locked in a fiery battle for the front with track sprinters and soccer club stars, Date tore down the lane in a dead heat. Then, amid the jostling chaos of a tightly packed field, he passed the baton to our third runner—Hasumin.
All their practice paid off—the timing of the pass, even from a distance, looked spot on—
“—gh!”
But just as that thought flickered in my mind, the baton slipped from Hasumin’s fingers.
Hasumin came to a sudden, frantic stop, flinging out her hand in a desperate attempt to catch the baton as it twisted through the air.
But she fumbled—once, then again. The baton ricocheted off her hand and, with cruel indifference, dropped to the ground and rolled away.
A devastating mistake—right at the baton exchange.
(No… that’s not it. The baton pass had succeeded.)
Just as we’d planned, they’d gone with a safety-first approach, making sure of the handoff.
But then, a runner from the neighboring lane—who’d finished their pass a heartbeat earlier—veered outward and cut straight into Hasumin’s path.
Their body clipped Hasumin’s baton-holding hand at the worst possible moment—just as she gripped it—sending it flying.
My honed reflexes—sharpened through countless battles as a hero—caught the truth in an instant. My eyes never missed a detail.
But knowing the reason didn’t change the reality: the baton had been dropped.
[Oh no! Class 1-5 has dropped the baton!]
The commentator’s voice rang out across the field like a blow, and before our eyes, Hasumin’s face went pale.
Every other class had passed their batons cleanly. Left all alone, Hasumin fumbled to pick hers up—
“Ah—!”
But in her panic, she missed again—and worse, her foot struck the fallen baton, sending it skittering away.
Still, Hasumin dove after it once more—only to kick it away again in the exact same way.
(This is bad—she’s lost control. Hasumin’s caught in a panic spiral she can’t break out of.)
The more she floundered, the deeper she sank. Panic feeding on panic, dragging her into a vicious cycle.
I’d felt the same when I first became a hero—when fear unraveled the link between body and mind, until even simple actions became impossible.
In a moment like this, calming the heart came before everything. But I had experience forged in another world—Hasumin, an ordinary high schooler, didn’t. How could anyone stay calm in a moment like this?
The final event of the sports festival. Victory hanging in the balance. A dropped baton, in full view of every student and parent watching.
And worse—fumbling again and sending it flying with her own foot.
Hasumin’s heart must have been pounding, her mind gone blank, trapped in a loop of panic—“This is bad, this is bad,” over and over again.
Even if she did manage to grab the baton and run, there was no way she could move like she normally did.
If we were going to help Hasumin, we had to make her forget the race. Forget the pressure. All of it. She needed to calm her soul.
(If that’s what it takes, then there’s no hesitation. I know exactly what I need to do—calm Hasumin down. That’s all that matters—!)