Lia Fail could not keep the turmoil from rising in her heart. Without meaning to, she found herself comparing them, sighing inwardly.
She was struggling against tension and panic, while Kitasan Black was displaying the steady bearing of a great commander.
They were both Umamusume in their Classic year, and yet Kitasan Black... had already become this formidable?
Feeling that extraordinary calm from the peer running beside her—her rival—Lia Fail was filled with shock and admiration, and before she knew it, respect as well.
She realized that no matter what others said, no matter how the race had been analyzed beforehand, no matter what she herself had originally thought—the truth was that there really was a considerable gap between herself and Kitasan Black.
And yet, the moment she realized that, a spark of fighting spirit appeared in her previously flustered eyes.
So I really can't compare to Kita-chan.
But this Arima Kinen... isn't over yet!
I have to keep up with her. I... haven't reached the point of giving up yet!
Naturally, the shifting storm on the track did not escape anyone's notice.
In the stands, the already boiling atmosphere only grew more feverish with the sudden change.
Everyone was on their feet now, eyes wide and locked on the course, afraid of missing even a single thrilling instant.
The commentator's voice had already gone hoarse from excitement, but he still shouted the live call at the top of his lungs:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! GOLD SHIP IS COMING UP!"
"LIKE A BOLT OF GOLDEN LIGHTNING, GOLD SHIP IS CHARGING FORWARD AT A FURIOUS PACE!"
"EVERYWHERE SHE GOES, THE RUNNERS ARE THROWN INTO DISARRAY—THE ENTIRE FIELD IS IN CHAOS!"
"SHE'S ALREADY SURGED INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE PACK... AND IS CLOSING ON THE LEADERS!"
"BUT!"
The commentary turned sharply.
"KITASAN BLACK IS STILL IN FRONT!"
"SHE MAY BE RUNNING SIDE BY SIDE WITH LIA FAIL, BUT KITASAN BLACK IS STILL IN FRONT!"
"INCREDIBLY STEADY! FACED WITH THE PRESSURE COMING FROM BEHIND, KITASAN BLACK IS REMAINING INCREDIBLY STEADY!"
"WITH THAT RESOLVE OF HER OWN, SHE IS SHOWING HER RESPECT TO THE SENIOR RUNNERS OF THE OLDER GENERATION, TO ALL OF HER RIVALS!"
"SHE IS RUNNING FORWARD WITH UNWAVERING CONVICTION!"
"THE TWISTS IN THIS ARIMA KINEN ARE SIMPLY TOO DRAMATIC—UNTIL THE VERY LAST MOMENT, WHO WILL EMERGE VICTORIOUS..."
"IS STILL IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY!"
At the very front of the stands, a trace of surprise showed in Gentildonna's eyes.
Her gaze moved back and forth between Gold Ship and Kitasan Black on the track. She nodded again and again, murmuring softly:
"So that one really is giving it everything in her retirement race..."
"And that little one... what a rarity. To be this steady... is she really a Classic-year kid?"
"This race... is getting more and more interesting..."
Beside her, Orfevre and Deep Impact were also staring fixedly at the track, their expressions grave, as if both were analyzing how the race would develop next.
Elsewhere, Tokai Teio and Yasui Makoto had noticed it all too.
Her hands gripping the rail so tightly that her knuckles had gone white, Tokai Teio kept her eyes on Gold Ship for a long moment before shifting them to Kitasan Black.
Golshi, this is the very end now. You... can do it.
Kita-chan... you have to hold steady too. Don't get nervous, whatever you do. Stay steady...
Yasui Makoto, meanwhile, held his binoculars in hand, his fingers trembling slightly, completely forgetting to raise them to his eyes.
He stared fixedly at Kitasan Black, his lips quivering faintly as words escaped him in a mutter he himself did not notice:
"Correct... absolutely... correct..."
"This response... is exactly right. Stay calm, don't get nervous, stay calm, don't get nervous..."
"Kita-chan... you can do this!"
And on the track—with a golden storm at her back and a crimson tide rising behind it, Kitasan Black stood firm like a solemn black monument, unmoving.
Her back kept its perfect curve throughout, and her legs drove in alternation with strides precise to the centimeter, every footfall beating out a firm drumroll on the course.
Sunlight flowed over her black-and-gold race outfit, carving her form into a sharp silhouette, as though even the wind had to give way before that unquestionable presence.
And yet only she knew what kind of raging tempest was tearing through that body.
Her heart felt as though it were gripped by an invisible giant hand. Its pounding was so fierce it made her eardrums ache, and the roar of blood rushing through her veins nearly drowned out the noise of the racecourse.
A dry spasm rose in her throat—the physiological tremor brought on by exertion and excessive tension.
Breathing had become a precise operation she had to control deliberately—inhale for two seconds, hold for one, exhale for three.
Ordinarily, that "two, one, three" rhythm was like a beautiful piece of music, supplying her body with a steady stream of strength.
But the rhythm she had practiced over and over again now felt like a chain wrapped in thorns. The slightest lapse would cut into her and leave her breathless.
Fine specks of static flickered at the edges of her vision, a sign that adrenaline was being secreted in excess.
She could clearly feel the muscles in her back twitching, sweat running down her spine and into her race outfit in winding trails.
But it was as though every one of her senses had been honed to the utmost in this moment, because she could feel even more than that.
She could sense every contraction and release of every muscle:
Her quadriceps compressing and rebounding like steel springs, her calves erupting with tearing force at the ends of the tendons, her intercostal muscles pumping like bellows in time with her breathing...
And as those muscles contracted and released, the vibration transmitted through her bones from her left foot striking the ground resonated strangely with the reactive force of her right foot driving off.
That resonance was a bodily rhythm only a Front Runner could master, and she was maintaining it perfectly with the precision she had forged through day after day of training.
The measurement of her remaining stamina was turning in her head like a precise balance scale.
She knew clearly that in this race, she had been fortunate enough to burst only once in the opening stages—and that only after three more accelerative bursts of that level would her glycogen reserves fall to the critical threshold.
The same kind of calculation applied to the lactic acid building up with each step and each arm swing. The growing ache, now impossible to ignore, was warning her that she had to complete a tactical shift within the next 300 meters.
The silver-white marker at the third turn—that was the planned speed-change point they had worked out from the sand-table simulations.
In her ears, the sound patterns she caught were reconstructing the entire racecourse:
Lia Fail's ragged breathing when she drew level was like a mistuned string; she would not last to the final straight, so the final rival would not be her.
The scrape of Gold Actor's shoes against the ground when she tried to cut inward had let out a harsh, discordant shriek; she was going to move early to avoid Lia Fail, who was certain to lose speed.
Sounds of Earth was adjusting her step frequency behind them. In it was the distinctive triple-beat rhythm she only used when preparing to accelerate through a turn; she wasn't necessarily aiming to go one-on-one with Kitasan Black in particular—she was prepared to go one-on-one with whoever held first.
And there were more sounds still, more scenes of the race reconstructed from them.
But the one she needed to pay the most attention to was that sound chasing up from the very back.
Senpai... so it really is you.
An indescribable emotion instantly filled Kitasan Black's chest.
Excitement, exhilaration, tension, wistfulness, sadness, reluctance...
But there was no time at all to sort through what those feelings were.
In the center of her vision, the marker for the third turn was only 100 meters away.
And on the silver-white surface of that marker, a streak of crimson was visibly swelling at terrifying speed.