Chapter 15 – “The Anniversary Announcement”

  Scene 1: Letter from Ren’s Parents

  —-: Ren

  The envelope had the same precise handwriting as always, slanted just enough to feel like a mother’s sigh baked into ink.

  Ren sat cross-legged on his dorm cot, still in his undershirt and grease-streaked pants, the morning sun pouring in through the brass-framed window. The light turned the paper gold around the edges, like it was glowing from memory.

  He cracked the seal. A tiny bit of flower-scented wax flaked off.

  “Your mother and I are amazed. Your aunt forwarded us a blog post from a racing fan site. Your name came up in the Hinode Academy scrimmage results. We verified. Twice.”

  There was a smudge next to “amazed,” like his dad had coughed laughing while writing it.

  “Be careful, Ren. Fame is fun until the wind shifts. We’re proud of you, no matter what altitude you hit. Just don’t lose yourself in the clouds.”

  Then, in smaller, loopier script:

  “Also, your father is now betting on you with his coworkers. Try to win. For grocery money.”

  – Love, Mom.

  Ren laughed — a little too hard — then ran his thumb over the waxy edge of the page.

  The racing fan blog. The aunt. The betting.

  Even half a world away, his family found a way to turn his insane, duct-tape-and-solder teenage gamble into a kitchen-table discussion.

  He folded the letter carefully, slid it into the drawer under his bunk, and took a breath.

  Steam whistled in the background — the heater groaning its morning song through the pipes.

  Everything felt… pressurized. But in a good way.

  Like the moment right before the takeoff spark.

  Scene 2: Ren’s Response

  —-: Ren

  The wind up here always smelled like warm brass and smoke—like ambition had a scent. Ren sat on the edge of the school’s old rooftop garden, legs swinging over a rain gutter that clanged softly with each gust. Below him, the hangars pulsed with steam and shouts. Gears ground. Tools clanked. Life moved on.

  But up here? Time bent a little.

  He cracked open his notebook. The page curled with heat and humidity, but the pen moved clean.

  “Dear Mom and Dad,”

  He paused, tapping the end of the pen against his lip.

  “I flew with her today.”

  He let the sentence hang. The ink bled slightly, like it knew something he didn’t.

  “And I think, for a second, she wasn’t angry.”

  His handwriting turned more confident, flowing like a jet of condensed steam.

  “I think I found the sky I’ve been chasing.”

  “It wasn’t perfect. I didn’t feel like some sky prince out of a racing manga. My hands slipped on the throttle. I misjudged a ring angle. We almost clipped a tower vent. But we synced. Not like machines. Like music. And when we landed…”

  He hesitated. Scratched it out. Wrote again:

  “…she smiled. Not just at the sky. At me. Maybe both.”

  The wind pulled at his jacket collar.

  He flipped to the back of the page and added a postscript.

  “Also — tell Dad I’ll try to win him that grocery money.”

  He grinned, folded the page, and tucked it into the outbound mail tube behind the chimney stack.

  The pressure hissed as it sealed.

  Then silence, and the soft drift of dusk falling over the school.

  Down below, someone fired up a test engine.

  And Ren leaned back against the tiles, eyes toward the clouds that hadn't quite turned violet yet.

  Scene 3: Homeroom Final Briefing

  —-: Ren

  “Alright, you sky-gremlins, settle down.”

  Ms. Shiraishi's chalk clacked across the board like a steam hammer on a tight schedule.

  Ren was halfway through tightening the loose bolt on his satchel when the room snapped to attention.

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  Well, mostly.

  Taiga was still chewing something suspiciously crunchy in the back. Saki was sketching spirals in the margin of her notebook with the intensity of a gossip gremlin preparing her next attack. Rin, as usual, sat arms crossed by the window like she owned the clouds outside.

  Ms. Shiraishi underlined a new heading on the board:

  ? 120th Anniversary Exhibition ?

  “Race of Legacy: This Saturday — Points Don’t Matter. Eyes Do.”

  A ripple ran through the room like a misfired pressure valve.

  “Oh,” Taiga mumbled. “We’re gonna die spectacularly.”

  Ms. Shiraishi pivoted, skirt swishing like a cut from a silent film reel. “As you’ve probably heard, this year’s Anniversary Exhibition will feature a full-field race. All four teams. No ranking points. No eliminations. Just… public humiliation.”

  “That’s better,” Jiro whispered to Ren. “We’re not dying. We’re dying on display.”

  Ren sat straighter. The words rang sharper than they should’ve.

  Points didn’t matter?

  But that meant reputation did.

  Eyes. Investors. Scout captains. Parents.

  And the whole town would be watching.

  “We expect full participation,” Shiraishi went on. “Because nothing screams ‘Hinode excellence’ like students barely old enough to vote hurtling around metal rings at 80 knots.”

  She turned back to the board. “Questions?”

  A beat of silence.

  Then Taiga raised his hand. “Are we allowed to paint flames on our hulls for crowd appeal?”

  “No,” Ms. Shiraishi said. “But thank you for confirming the quality of this year's applicants.”

  Saki’s hand darted up next. “Can we sell photo prints of the team to fund fuel tanks?”

  “No.”

  “Even if they’re tasteful steam-core centerfolds?”

  “Definitely no.”

  Ren… didn’t move. He was watching Rin. She was watching the clouds.

  Neither of them said a word. But Ren could feel the same pressure building inside her chest that was ticking in his.

  It wasn’t a ranked race. But it was the kind that could make — or break — their names.

  And the Silver Dart… still had dents in its wings.

  Scene 4: Crimson Gale Captain’s Warning

  —-: Rin

  The steam lines always hissed louder after lunch. Like they were gossiping.

  Rin stood beneath the shade of the main hangar's east exhaust, arms folded, watching as the crews from all four teams prepped their ships for the upcoming exhibition. Crimson Gale’s ship, The Ember Talon, gleamed like polished blood. Its stabilizer vanes snapped sharp in the breeze, more dragon than dirigible.

  That’s when she heard the voice.

  “You’ve been out of formation too long, Rin.”

  Rin didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t have to. That dry, clipped tone could only belong to Tsubaki, Crimson Gale’s captain and reigning queen of calculated menace.

  Tsubaki approached, boots clicking with all the warmth of a descending guillotine. Her long red coat matched the ship behind her — sleek, precise, intimidating.

  “I heard about your little duet with the transfer boy,” Tsubaki said, lips barely curving into a smile. “Romantic. Sloppy. Predictable.”

  Rin's eyes narrowed. “And yet… effective.”

  Tsubaki stopped an arm’s length away. Her gaze was sharp enough to weld.

  “I don’t care what side project you're entertaining, Rin. But don’t forget where you came from. Crimson Gale made you. And if you tarnish Hinode’s name in front of donors, press, and national scouts, it’s not just you who takes the fall. It's all of us.”

  Rin’s mouth twitched. She leaned in just slightly.

  “And what, exactly, do you think we’ll tarnish? The ring? The sky? Or your perfect little flight pattern?”

  Tsubaki didn’t blink.

  “Don’t embarrass us.”

  Then, after a beat:

  “And don’t fall in love mid-race. You fly worse when you’re distracted.”

  Rin’s cheeks flushed. Just barely.

  She turned away without another word.

  But the words burrowed in, like loose bolts in a pressure line.

  Scene 5: Ren’s Last Test Run

  —-: Ren

  The world was quieter at night.

  Not silent. Never silent. The academy’s pipes still hissed. Crystal converters thrummed somewhere in the walls. Far above, the beacon towers clicked as their lenses rotated, casting sweeping beams like patient eyes.

  But down here, with the Dart lit only by a single overhead lantern and a headlamp strapped to Ren’s temple, the hangar was his alone.

  “Last run before showtime,” he muttered, tugging the worn strap on his gloves. The leather creaked. His palms were sweating anyway.

  He walked a slow circle around the Silver Dart. Not checking. Not really. More like… saying goodnight.

  The patched stabilizer panel glinted faintly where Rin had reinforced it. Hana’s modified throttle system still showed the black soot marks from their failed loop three days ago. Jiro’s patched-in altimeter stuck out like a sore thumb — and somehow still beeped when it wanted.

  It was a mess of borrowed parts and last chances.

  But it was his.

  He climbed into the cockpit with practiced awkwardness, boots thudding against the ladder and then into the pilot’s brace. He strapped in, twisted the primer valve, tapped the crystal chamber once.

  Whirrrr-hiss.

  The engine didn't roar. Not yet. Just a low hum, like it was thinking about it.

  He pressed the ignition.

  FWOOM.

  The balloon hissed. Gears snapped into place. The Dart rose from its platform with a tremble, then steadied.

  Ren's breath caught.

  He nudged the yoke forward. The Dart obeyed.

  Not perfectly. But obediently.

  They rose into the night, skimming the outer towers, carving a gentle arc across the school’s central court.

  The stars were just beginning to peek through the haze. One, two, three.

  His hand hovered over the gearshift.

  “Let’s see if you’ve got one last loop in you.”

  He nudged the lever.

  The Dart kicked forward, gained speed, nose tilting.

  Then—twist. A clean, quiet rotation.

  They rolled once. Just once. A full spiral, catching moonlight and wind.

  And then landed.

  The hiss of the release valves was louder than applause.

  Ren sat in silence for a moment, steam curling around the windscreen.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

  The Dart hummed beneath him. A quiet agreement.

  Scene 6: Rin’s Last Thought

  —-: Rin

  The sky wasn’t empty.

  Even at this hour — past curfew, long after the last kettle hissed and the school’s steam veins cooled to slumber — the wind still carried echoes. Echoes of wings, of whirring gearboxes, of sparks that refused to go out.

  Rin sat on the edge of the dormitory’s upper balcony, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders. Her knees were drawn up, bare feet resting on the cold tile railing. Beside her, a half-finished mug of barley tea steamed gently, untouched.

  And above her, fading in the moonlight, a loop of vapor twisted across the stars like a signature.

  She watched it.

  The curve had been too tight for a standard trainer ship. Too clean. Too sharp. Not reckless — not quite — but definitely emotional.

  Ren.

  Of course it was him.

  She hadn't needed to check the registry. She’d known the moment the Dart broke the lower cloudline and pirouetted into its little sky dance like it belonged there.

  “He’s still an idiot,” she murmured, voice low and hoarse from too many days yelling in the hangar.

  “Still can’t check his altitude ceiling, still doesn’t know how to level out before a cross-draft.”

  The loop shimmered one last time in the lamplight.

  “…But he’s my idiot now.”

  She didn’t smile. Not quite.

  But she didn’t frown either.

  The blanket slid a little lower as she leaned back and stared up.

  A quiet click sounded behind her — Mei, closing the dorm balcony door without a word, respecting the silence.

  Alone again.

  Rin exhaled slowly, the vapor from her breath rising to meet the fading steam trail.

  And for a moment, she let herself just feel the sky.