Chapter 29: “Shifting Winds”

  Scene 1: Shiraishi’s Update

  —-: Ren

  Ren wasn’t ready for the silence.

  Not the kind that settled before disaster—but the heavy, almost reverent quiet of fifty teenagers trying not to react too strongly.

  In the training dome, morning light filtered through the steam-slicked skylights, catching on crystal dust in the air. Sweat still clung to Ren’s collar from warm-ups. The echo of drills had only just faded when Shiraishi tapped her crystal tablet twice—sharp, deliberate—and cast the screen projection above the hangar floor.

  REGIONAL LEAGUE STANDINGS: SPRING RELEASE

  —Hinode Air Academy: Ranked #3

  —Kyokuto Military Prep: Ranked #1

  —Kazan Technical: Ranked #2

  —Crimson Gale Team (Hinode): Ranked #6

  Silence.

  Then the murmurs started.

  “Wait… third?”

  “No way—”

  “Crimson dropped?”

  “Silver Dart got top billing?”

  Ren blinked at the list. There it was in crystal-blue typeface:

  Silver Dart – A-Class Primary.

  Not Crimson Gale. Not Rin’s team.

  His stomach flipped. Not with excitement. With static.

  Shiraishi didn’t smile. She rarely did. But her voice held steel beneath velvet.

  “Hinode is now third in the regional bracket,” she said, hands behind her back. “Your victory at the Kyokuto exhibition was not just symbolic—it recalibrated the committee’s perception of our program.”

  Taiga whispered, “Recalibrated? Is that fancy for we scared them?”

  Jiro leaned over. “Fancy for we’re targets now.”

  Ren didn’t respond.

  He was looking at Rin.

  She stood near the edge of the formation, arms crossed. Unmoving. Perfect posture. Her face gave away nothing—but that in itself said everything.

  Her old team—three upperclass pilots in Crimson Gale jackets—had turned their backs slightly. Not obviously. Not cruelly. But enough.

  Shiraishi clicked forward again. More rankings. Practice assignments. A new bracket structure.

  But Ren barely registered it.

  His eyes stayed on Rin.

  She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  But her knuckles—half-hidden in her sleeves—were white around the edge of her flight gloves.

  Scene 2: Crimson Gale Fallout

  —-: Rin

  Rin always walked fast.

  It was tactical—controlled pace, forward momentum, no room for hesitation.

  But today, every step felt like it echoed.

  She passed the east hangar—where Crimson Gale’s ship was docked for cooling cycle checks. The craft’s hull shimmered with that familiar deep red, polished to a mirror sheen. The nameplate glinted under the maintenance lights.

  She didn’t stop.

  Didn’t need to.

  They were already pretending she didn’t exist.

  Mako and Sora were leaning against the tool rack, mid-conversation. Kaito was fitting new stabilization clamps under the keel. All of them—her old team. Her first team. The ones who used to call her “captain” between drills and “mosquito brain” when she overthought the flight path.

  None of them looked at her.

  Not once.

  She’d expected whispers. Maybe a jab. “Sky-stealer”, or “traitor.”

  But silence?

  That was worse.

  Rin didn’t slow her stride. Didn’t clench her fists. Didn’t so much as blink too hard.

  She just kept walking.

  Until she heard it—soft, but real.

  From behind the strut, Kaito’s voice: “Figures they’d promote the Dart. Guess branding wins over loyalty.”

  Another voice—Mako’s—low and cutting: “Yeah. Rin’s always been good at bailing when it benefits her.”

  Rin kept moving. Down the corridor. Past the old locker room. Past the wall where they used to tape up flight logs and scrawl in-jokes like “wingbeats and heartbreaks.”

  She didn’t flinch.

  But her jaw ached from how tight it was.

  By the time she reached the auxiliary crystal dock, her breath was coming faster. Not panicked. Just hot. Sharp.

  She kicked the corner of the tool crate. Hard.

  It rattled but didn’t fall.

  “Cowards,” she whispered. “Say it to my face.”

  But deep down, a colder voice answered:

  You didn’t give them the chance. You left first.

  She hated that voice.

  So she smothered it. Wrapped it in silence and steel and the rhythm of motion.

  There was still work to do. Still drills. Still practice.

  And if the only way forward now was to fly so hard no one could ignore her?

  Fine.

  Let the sky bear witness. Even if no one else would.

  Scene 3: New Training Format

  —-: Mei

  Mei had seen broken machines before.

  Boilers that looked fine until the pressure needle quivered.

  Stabilizers that hummed smoothly until they shattered under a turn.

  She knew what to look for.

  And Rin was humming wrong.

  The drill yard had been restructured into four concentric ring grids, each held in place by buoyant crystal anchors and guided through shifting wind tunnels. The new format: Mixed Combat Aerodance—a fancy way to say, “Make the rookies feel useful while the seniors silently panic.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Rin stood at the center command pillar, tablet under one arm, headset tilted just off her ear.

  Her voice, when it came through comms, was flawless.

  “Alpha Ring—Sakamoto, you’re drifting. Adjust pitch or you’ll drift into the Dart’s draft zone.”

  “Mid-rank Formation Two—Yuka, you’re too slow on the re-engage. By the time you fire a flare, you’ll be scrap.”

  “Underclass Flight Four—do I need to explain why ramming into a sensor buoy is a bad tactical decision, or can I trust your higher brain function to extrapolate?”

  Every word was precise. Brutal. Controlled.

  Too controlled.

  From Mei’s vantage point on the upper walkway, she watched the younger pilots flinch, shift, correct themselves. Nobody challenged Rin. They respected her—how could they not?

  But they were afraid too.

  And fear didn’t build wings. It cracked them.

  Hana leaned beside her, muttering through her comm mic, “She’s not just flying to win. She’s flying like someone’s behind her with a blade.”

  “Maybe they are,” Mei replied.

  “Yeah,” Hana said quietly. “Her.”

  On the grid, one of the junior pilots—Natsu, barely fifteen—messed up an inverted loop reentry. He panicked, flared too hard, and spiraled through the boundary ring like a coin dropped into a gutter.

  No damage. No injury.

  But Rin’s voice sliced in instantly:

  “If that had been a real course, you’d be vapor. Reset. Try again. Or ask for a different department—mechanics might suit you better.”

  Silence on the channel.

  Then: “Yes, senpai. Sorry.”

  Mei watched Rin’s reflection in the control glass. Back straight. Hands loose. Eyes bright and hard like crystal under a forge.

  Not cruel.

  Just... cracking.

  And the worst part?

  Rin probably didn’t even know.

  Scene 4: Ren Confronts Her

  —-: Ren

  Rin was alone in the hangar.

  Or, at least, she thought she was.

  The ship bay lights buzzed overhead—low, sodium orange. Tools hung on the wall like silent witnesses. The stabilizer mount on the Silver Dart’s starboard wing glowed faintly from its recharge cycle. She was checking it for the third time.

  Unnecessary.

  But necessary.

  She muttered a correction into her tablet, fingers tense on the stylus. There was a hairline variance in the left-side pitch coil. Maybe. Probably not. But maybe.

  “You know,” Ren said behind her, “we both know that coil doesn’t need checking.”

  Rin didn’t turn. “Didn’t realize I needed your approval for maintenance.”

  “You don’t.”

  He stepped closer. Boots echoing lightly on the grated floor.

  “You just don’t need to do it like your life depends on it.”

  “It kind of does.”

  “Rin.”

  She turned then—slowly. Carefully. Like uncoiling a wire that’s just short of snapping.

  “What?” she asked, voice flat.

  Ren didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched hers—not looking for a fight. Just... her.

  And maybe that was worse.

  “You’ve been tearing into everyone all day,” he said finally. “The underclassmen, the drills, the team. Yourself.”

  “Someone has to push them.”

  “No. Someone has to lead them. That’s not the same.”

  She scoffed. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is. We’re targets now. Ranked. Visible. Kyokuto’s watching us. And Crimson Gale? They’ve already drawn their line in the clouds.”

  “You’re not flying to beat them.”

  She froze.

  “You’re flying to punish yourself.”

  The words landed like a dropped wrench. Heavy. Loud. Echoing.

  Rin didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

  “I watched you today,” Ren said. “The way you flew. The way you talked to Natsu. That wasn’t strategy. That was self-sabotage, broadcast in high-altitude.”

  She turned back to the wing.

  “Go away.”

  “No.”

  “Ren—”

  “No,” he said again. Quiet. But firm. “You don’t get to isolate and implode. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not now.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then Rin exhaled. Sharp. Frustrated.

  “He was supposed to be mine, you know?” she said suddenly. “Crimson Gale. I trained harder. Pushed farther. Covered for every sloppy pilot who couldn’t hold a lateral through a crosswind. I earned that ship. And now I’m just…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “…a guest in someone else’s cockpit,” Ren finished softly.

  She didn’t deny it.

  For a moment, they just stood there. No drills. No pressure. Just two people caught between turbulence and pride.

  Ren stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough to be real.

  “You’re not a guest, Rin.”

  She didn’t answer.

  But she didn’t pull away either.

  Scene 5: Grandpa’s Riddle

  —-: Ren

  Ren found him elbow-deep in a broken gyroscope, humming something old and out of tune.

  The observatory wasn’t much—a flat rooftop tucked above the east wing with a rusted copper dome and a telescope that hadn’t moved properly since Ren was ten. But it had good light, good wind, and better company.

  “Still refusing to retire that thing?” Ren asked.

  Grandpa grunted. “She’s got more to say. Just needs someone to listen.”

  Ren sat on the steps, stretching his legs out across the deck. The evening breeze tugged at the sleeves of his academy jacket. Somewhere below, festival cleanup was still underway. Laughter, far off. A metal clank. Steam.

  They sat in silence for a while, just watching the sky shift colors—blues melting to gold, streaks of orange across the cloudbank like someone had smeared paint with a trembling hand.

  Ren didn’t have to say anything.

  Grandpa always knew.

  “So,” he said at last, brushing metal shavings from his hands, “the wind’s changing, huh?”

  Ren nodded. “Feels like everyone’s flying different all of a sudden.”

  “Hm. Funny thing about wind.” Grandpa stood, moving to check a hanging wind vane shaped like a kestrel. It squeaked once, spinning.

  He tapped it gently. “Can’t see it. But you sure as hell feel it.”

  Ren didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  Grandpa crouched again beside the old gyroscope, turning the inner ring slowly between his fingers. “You know what I told your mom when she tried to choose between the Merchant Fleet and marrying your father?”

  Ren blinked. “Uh... no?”

  Grandpa grinned. “Told her this: ‘Two wings. One heart. But whose heartbeat matters most?’”

  Ren frowned. “That’s... not helpful.”

  “Didn’t say it was. But it’s true.”

  He tapped the gyroscope again. It hummed faintly, then went still.

  “One wing flaps faster. One wing flaps stronger. Try to match ’em perfect, you’ll break the damn bird.”

  Ren let that sink in.

  “You saying I should pick someone?”

  “I’m saying you’re not flying alone anymore. Doesn’t matter who’s in your sky—Hana, Rin, or whoever’s got their tail fin too close to your heart. Just don’t forget whose rhythm you’re listening to.”

  Ren looked out over the rooftops. The last bit of sun slipped behind the steam towers. The sky turned violet.

  “Two wings,” he said, quietly.

  “One heart,” Grandpa echoed.

  Ren nodded once, then stood. “Thanks.”

  “For the riddle?”

  “For reminding me I hate riddles.”

  Grandpa cackled, already elbow-deep in another broken part.

  Scene 6: Hana’s Innovation

  —-: Hana

  The workshop smelled like hot iron and citrus solvent.

  Exactly how she liked it.

  Hana wiped a sleeve across her cheek, smearing oil but clearing sweat. She stood over the Silver Dart’s open lateral core, half inside the port-side panel. The inner ducts gleamed under lamplight—barely any residue buildup left. Just polished copper veins and the slow, steady breath of the engine’s crystal.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” she whispered to the ship. “Let’s give them something they haven’t seen yet.”

  In front of her was the new design: a spiraled lateral exhaust loop, three rings of heat-reactive alloy lined with cut-channel stabilizer crystals. If it worked, it would bend the directional output on sharp turns, keeping their rear thrust steady even under high lateral pressure.

  In short?

  It could keep the Dart from losing speed in tight banks.

  In long?

  It could win them the whole damn season.

  She grinned, just a little.

  She hadn’t told anyone yet. Not Ren. Not Mei. Not even Rin.

  Not because she didn’t trust them—but because the idea had come to her in a moment she couldn’t explain. Not from math. Not from calculation. From feel. From instinct. From flying behind them and realizing—

  They keep pushing so hard forward, they forget how much we lose sideways.

  She adjusted the alignment of the crystal loop, fingers working quickly. The new alloy was still hot from forge-pressing. Steam hissed around the seal as she locked it into place with a click and a glow. The pulse readings spiked once—red, then yellow—then settled into a stable green.

  “Ha,” she whispered. “Yes.”

  She sat back on her heels, breath slow. Her chest felt tight—not from exhaustion. From hope.

  It wasn’t about being the screwdriver anymore.

  This?

  This was hers.

  Not just the ship. Not just the system. The solution.

  And when she flew next?

  They’d feel it.

  Whether they knew it or not.

  Scene 7: Headmistress Aoi’s Private Message

  —-: Headmistress Aoi

  The clock ticked with surgical precision.

  Headmistress Aoi stood at the far window of her office, hands clasped behind her back, gazing out at the academy. From here, the campus looked serene—glider towers rising into the mist, dorm lights like constellations strung low to the ground. Beyond them, the distant outline of the northern ridge.

  Wind curled across the panes. Quiet. Cold.

  Then—chime.

  The message crystal on her desk pulsed once. Blue.

  She turned.

  Walked back. Picked it up. Let it unfold its data string across the air.

  Sender: League Command, Regional Division

  Encryption Level: Black Sigil

  Subject: Next Match Coordination – Hinode Academy

  Authorization Confirmed

  Venue Assigned: KYOKUTO MILITARY PREPARATORY

  Neutrality Waiver: APPROVED

  Recommendation: Prepare team accordingly.

  She stared at the final line for a long moment.

  Then tapped the crystal once, locking it back into rest mode.

  Outside, the wind shifted again—tugging at the corner of a banner on the courtyard pole. The school’s crest fluttered once. Then went still.

  Aoi didn’t frown.

  Didn’t sigh.

  She simply reached for a pen, opened a side drawer, and began drafting a new training schedule.

  Three names were written in careful ink at the top of the page:

  Ichiro Ren.

  Takara Hana.

  Fujita Rin.

  Below them, she underlined one word twice.

  Pressure.