For the few seconds Sakuraba Ryo remained locked in a life-or-death struggle with himself, cold sweat nearly breaking at his temples, the atmosphere at Churchill Downs surged like a powder keg catching a spark and exploded to an entirely new boiling point.
A high, impassioned voice blasted through the speakers spread across the venue, like the spark that finally lit the fuse:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE KENTUCKY DERBY—!!"
"THE ANNUAL FEAST OF SPEED, THE GLORIOUS OPENING LEG OF THE TRIPLE CROWN, IS ABOUT TO BEGIN HERE AT CHURCHILL DOWNS—!!"
"AND NOW, LET ALL EYES TURN TO THE ENTRANCE TUNNEL—!!"
With the announcer's feverish voice whipping the crowd on, the already thunderous noise in the stands was driven instantly to its peak.
Deafening cheers, whistles, and shouts swept through the racetrack like a tidal wave. The stands were practically boiling over, arms waving everywhere, bright flags fluttering wildly, the unique frenzy of Derby Day erupting in full at that very instant. Even the air seemed to shake with it, the immense roar nearly drowning out everything else.
That sudden, mountain-crushing wave of sound made the already rattled Sakuraba Ryo shrink a little on instinct.
And yet, amid that overwhelming uproar that seemed capable of drowning reason itself, he could still clearly see out of the corner of his eye that Secretariat, beside him, maintained the same graceful, composed posture.
She had not turned excitedly toward the entrance tunnel like the rest of the spectators. Instead, with her head tilted slightly, those clear amber eyes of hers remained strikingly calm against the noisy backdrop, fixed on him with an unmistakable smile.
There was not the slightest trace of crowd fever in that gaze.
Only patient waiting.
See? Everyone's cheering. It's so lively.
But you still haven't answered my question.
She had absolutely no intention of giving him an escape route.
Even with the race about to begin, her attention was fixed entirely on Sakuraba Ryo.
She wanted him to make his choice right here, at the very height of all this celebration and spectacle.
Sakuraba Ryo felt his heartbeat grow bizarrely clear amid the deafening cheers, thudding hard against his chest.
Heaven... or hell?
He looked into Secretariat's smiling eyes, then glanced down at the blazing track below, where the runners were beginning to emerge one after another from the tunnel, each new silhouette setting off another round of shrieks.
Then a reckless burst of desperation surged up from the bottom of his heart.
Damn it, it's just a massage!
And during the race, at that!
How long could a race even last? At the absolute most, a minute or two!
He, Sakuraba Ryo, had seen worse than this, hadn't he? Was he really going to be defeated by a little scene like this?
As long as he kept his cool, didn't let his thoughts run wild, didn't let his hands shake, and just used the most ordinary, most perfunctory, least risky technique for a few quick presses, couldn't he muddle through it?
It wasn't like Secretariat would start critiquing his massage technique in the middle of the most intense part of the race.
Right!
That was the plan! Get in, get out, survive it!
"All... all right!"
The words were squeezed out through clenched teeth, low and quiet, but carrying the resolve of a man throwing himself off a cliff.
Avoiding Secretariat's gaze, which seemed capable of seeing straight through him, he shot to his feet, his movements stiff and a little too forceful.
"If Miss Secretariat insists... th-then I'll... do my best."
He spoke dryly as he made his way back around behind her seat.
Looking at that upright, elegant back before him, as though she existed in a world entirely apart from the earthshaking roar around them, Sakuraba Ryo drew a deep breath and tried to brainwash himself.
This is just a task. An ordinary social task. Press her shoulders a couple of times and it's over. Don't overthink it, don't be nervous, the race will be over soon...
But just as his fingers, carrying all the reluctance and martyr-like resignation of a condemned man, were about to touch the fabric at Secretariat's shoulder, the massive electronic screen by the track flared to life in a blaze of light.
At the same time, the announcer's passionate, piercing voice cut cleanly through the crowd's roar like a scalpel, seizing every ounce of attention and dragging it straight to the starting line.
"FIRST—! LET US OFFER OUR WARMEST APPLAUSE AND LOUDEST CHEERS TO THE BRILLIANT RISING STAR OF AMERICAN ACADEMY, THE GREAT HOPE OF TOMORROW—!!"
The announcer's voice climbed even higher, swelling with pride and excitement.
"HER VERY NAME SPEAKS OF LEGACY—AND OF SURPASSING IT! HER FOOTSTEPS SWEEP ASIDE THE DUST OF HISTORY ITSELF!"
"SHE IS—EASY GOER—!!!"
The instant that name rang out across the venue, the already boiling crowd flared as if someone had poured oil straight onto the fire. Explosive cheers and screams shot toward the sky.
Countless flags representing the american academy whipped wildly through the air as people shouted the new star's name with everything they had.
At the same time, the giant screen rolled a carefully edited montage.
Blue-green hair streamed in the wind. The girl flew across the track like an arrow loosed from a bow, her posture fluid and powerful, every stride precise and rhythmic, her blue-green eyes carrying a calm so focused it had turned razor-sharp.
The footage froze on the instant she crossed the finish line of the Gotham Stakes. Behind her lay the distant rest of the field, a full thirteen lengths back, and on the timer glowed a number dazzling enough to leave people stunned.
"JUST LAST MONTH IN THE GOTHAM STAKES—! EASY GOER SWEPT THE FIELD WITH A PERFORMANCE OF ABSOLUTE DOMINANCE! NOT ONLY DID SHE CLAIM VICTORY BY A CRUSHING THIRTEEN LENGTHS, SHE ALSO SHATTERED THE RACE RECORD PREVIOUSLY HELD BY HER OLDER SISTER—OUR LEGENDARY STUDENT COUNCIL PRESIDENT, SECRETARIAT HERSELF—BY A FULL SECOND! A BREATHTAKING FEAT OF INHERITANCE AND SURPASSING!"
The announcer's voice brimmed with awe and praise.
"ASTONISHING TALENT! UNMATCHED SPEED! A MENTALITY AS STEADY AS BEDROCK! SHE IS AMERICA'S UNDENIABLE NEW STAR, THE NEXT BIG RED! AND TODAY, ON THE STAGE OF THE KENTUCKY DERBY, SHE CHARGES TOWARD STILL GREATER GLORY! LET US ALL LOOK FORWARD TO HER PERFORMANCE—!!!"
The applause, cheers, and whistles surged up all over again.
Secretariat's status in America was the kind that only came around once in a generation—pure GOAT territory.
And now there was actually a newcomer who had run faster than Secretariat's own record, and by a full second at that.
Of course a performance like that was enough to win a huge following from the American crowd.
Many spectators shot to their feet, arms waving wildly as they shouted their support for the local prodigy.
Even in the VIP section, quite a few people turned their eyes toward where Secretariat was seated, their expressions full of respect and curiosity.
This genius girl who had broken her elder sister's record had come from that illustrious family.
And yet Secretariat herself remained seated in the same graceful posture, as though the sea-shaking praise for her own younger sister meant nothing at all to her.
She even adjusted her posture slightly, angling her shoulders to make them easier for the hands behind her to reach. The smile at her lips remained perfect, but something faint and unreadable seemed to flicker deep in her eyes.
Sakuraba Ryo's fingers were still stiff and hesitant, resting so lightly on Secretariat's shoulders that they were almost just hovering there.
The deafening cheers were all for Easy Goer, but all his attention was fixed on the woman in front of him.
He caught that tiny ripple beneath the curve of Secretariat's smile.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't jealousy, either.
It was something more complicated—a mixture of understanding, helplessness, and something harder to name.
Why would someone react like that to their younger sister doing well?
Curiosity getting the better of him, Sakuraba Ryo lowered his voice so that only the two of them could hear.
"Miss Secretariat... between you and Miss Easy Goer... is your relationship... maybe..."
He chose his words carefully.
"...Not very close?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them a little. It was too personal a question, and in a setting like this, it bordered on rude.
But Secretariat did not seem surprised. Nor did she look offended.
She tilted her head slightly, cast him a glance from the corner of her eye, then turned her gaze back toward the boiling racetrack below. Her voice was calm and steady, but it reached him clearly.
"No. There's no irreconcilable conflict between Easy and me."
"If I had to describe it... we're just ordinary sisters."
Ordinary sisters?
They didn't look like ordinary sisters at all...
Sakuraba Ryo had his doubts.
Secretariat seemed to read that from him at once, and let out a small sigh.
"Perhaps... the problem lies with me."
Or rather, she corrected herself,
"With the halo carried by the name 'Secretariat.'"
She paused, as though putting her thoughts in order—or perhaps recalling the past.
"Ever since she was little, she grew up surrounded by voices saying things like, 'Your big sister is amazing,' 'You should learn from your sister,' and 'As expected of Secretariat's little sister.'"
"No matter what kind of result she achieved, people's first reaction was often not to praise her for herself, but to say... 'See? Just what you'd expect from Secretariat's little sister,' or 'Compared to Secretariat back then...'"
"Her talent, her effort, her sweat... everything she's put in has always seemed to be covered by the shadow of 'Secretariat.'"
"Even when she ran a better time than I did and broke the record..."
Her gaze rested on the frozen image of Easy Goer crossing the line on the screen below, her tone unreadable.
"What people marveled at, perhaps, was not Easy Goer herself so much as the fact that she had surpassed her sister."
"When that goes on long enough... I imagine one grows tired of it."
A faint softness entered her voice then, something almost like understanding.
"You start wanting to break free of those invisible comparisons. You want to prove that 'Easy Goer' is 'Easy Goer,' not someone's extension, or someone's point of comparison."
She turned her head this time and looked more directly at Sakuraba Ryo, a faint bitterness touching the corner of her lips.
"She dyed her hair."
"It used to be the same orange-red as mine. But she dyed it the exact opposite—this blue-green."
Sakuraba Ryo's fingers paused ever so slightly.
Dyed her hair?
So that was her way of drawing a clear line between herself and her sister?
No wonder Secretariat looked at her like that...
If Sakuraba Ryo had a younger sister and she treated him this way, his own expression probably would not look much better.
"She rarely seeks me out. During training, she avoids the grounds I usually use. Whenever the topic turns to me, her reaction is flat... I suppose those are all her ways of 'rebelling.'"
Secretariat withdrew her gaze and looked toward the track again. Her voice returned to its usual calm, but something deeper lay hidden beneath that calm.
"I understand the way she feels. It's just that sometimes... I can't help finding it a little regrettable."
Regrettable in what way?
Did she regret that they could not be like normal sisters?
Secretariat, too, must have wanted to get along with Easy Goer properly...
After the last word left her lips, it was as though Secretariat herself had only then pulled back from some far-off memory.
She paused slightly, lowered her lashes, and the faint bitter curve at her mouth quietly faded, replaced by the slightest trace of blankness—and mild discomfort.
She had said too much.
That distance, that regret... they were feelings she rarely spoke of to anyone, feelings she hardly even allowed herself to examine too closely.
They were like fine sand settled deep at the bottom of her heart, usually buried beneath the press of daily duties—and yet here, in the middle of all this deafening commotion, they had simply spilled out in front of this investor standing behind her, someone she had not even known for very long.
For some reason, this man seemed to carry something about him that drew words out of people.
It was strangely odd.
She adjusted her breathing, moved her shoulder lightly, and when she spoke again, her voice had returned to its usual gentle, measured distance—only a touch softer than before.
"Forgive me, Mr. Sakuraba. I ended up talking about a few trivial personal matters. At a moment like this, that's rather a mood-killer."
She meant to cover over the unexpected detour with an appropriate smile and a change of subject.
But Sakuraba Ryo moved first.
"No, it's all right, Miss Secretariat."
There was no deliberate consolation in his tone, no excessive warmth—just plain understanding.
"Sometimes... maybe it's easier to say certain things to someone like me. A stranger."
He hesitated, as if considering how best to phrase it, then settled on something simple.
"It's a good thing you said it out loud."
Secretariat froze for just a moment.
A stranger makes it easier...
Yes. With a stranger, there was no need to worry about being judged through the lens of old assumptions. No need to worry things would become awkward afterward. No need to fear those words might become one more subtle topic of discussion within the family.
Just one particular moment, one particular and ultimately irrelevant listener, and the fine sediment settled in one's heart could be tipped out a little before each returned to their own track.
Even so, Secretariat was not the type to bare her heart so casually to just anyone.
But Sakuraba Ryo seemed... a little different.
This man was perhaps sharper—and more tactful—than she had first thought.
And there was still that subtle pull about him, something that made her want to speak.
How strange.
She did not continue the topic. But the line of her back, which had been held just a little too stiffly, eased by the slightest degree.
"I suppose I should be thanking you instead."
In the end, that was all she said, her voice once more completely calm.
But some of the tension in the air had already quietly dissolved.
And just as the wave of cheers stirred up by Easy Goer had yet to fully settle, the announcer's soaring voice cut in seamlessly above the track, now carrying something even more solemn, more overwhelming in its reverence, igniting a fresh surge of near-boiling anticipation.
"——AND NEXT! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HOLD YOUR BREATH!"
"NOW LET US TURN OUR MOST REVERENT EYES, OUR FIERCEST ANTICIPATION, TOWARD THE FAR END OF THE TUNNEL—!"
The announcer's voice stretched taut like a drawn bow, every syllable packed with power, every word striking directly against the heartbeat of the crowd.
"SHE IS THE STORM IN THE SHADOWS, THE THUNDERCLAP BURSTING FROM SILENCE! HER VERY EXISTENCE IS THE EMBODIMENT OF STRENGTH!"
"THE INTERNATIONAL STUDENT WHO RETURNED FROM JAPAN! SHE CROSSED THE OCEAN FOR ONE REASON ONLY—TO CONQUER THIS LEGENDARY TRACK—!"
"HER NAME IS—"
The entire venue seemed to fall silent, as if someone had slammed a hand over the world itself. Even the wind felt as though it had stopped.
Countless eyes locked onto the mouth of the runner tunnel, hearts hanging high in suspense.
Then that figure appeared.
Sunday Silence.
She stepped out from the shadows of the tunnel and into the fierce afternoon sunlight of Churchill Downs.
Her black racing outfit seemed to swallow all the light around it, giving off a depth as boundless as night itself.
Its sharp, efficient cut clung tightly to her long, powerful frame like a second skin—or a suit of armor woven from darkness. The hem shifted faintly with her measured steps, slicing through the air and stirring invisible currents behind her.
She did not deliberately release any overbearing aura. She merely walked calmly toward the starting point.
And yet the oppressive pressure born of absolute strength, something that had sunk clear into the marrow, spread outward with her appearance like a tangible wave of cold.
The stands, silent as death for the briefest instant, exploded the next moment into a roar even wilder and more awestruck than before.
This was no longer simple cheering. It was the cry that rose when people saw a true powerhouse descend before them—shock, reverence, almost worship.
"SUNDAY SILENCE——!!!"
Her name thundered through the sky. Deafening applause and cries of disbelief tangled together, loud enough to lift the roof off the racetrack.
The giant screen faithfully captured every detail of her.
Her black hair hung loose behind her neck, a few stray strands brushing her cold profile. Her eyes were lowered, fixed on the track ahead, her gaze as still as deep water yet seeming to hold a sharpness capable of tearing through any obstacle.
The sunlight fell across her, only to seem swallowed by her black attire, leaving behind nothing but a cold edge of light tracing her form.
She walked on like that, unmoved by the sea-shaking spectacle around her, indifferent to the countless eyes fixed upon her.
The noise of the world had nothing to do with her.
In her world, there seemed to be only the track beneath her feet—the one she was about to run.
Even in the VIP section, many figures accustomed to great spectacles found themselves sitting up straighter, their expressions grave.
This black meteor had already burned her name into the eyes of the world with a single overwhelming victory.
Sakuraba Ryo, too, found his gaze drawn helplessly to her.
Even at this distance, even amid the center of all that noise, he could still clearly feel that overwhelming concentration and strength rolling off her in waves.
It was the kind of presence that stripped away every distracting thought—an existence born solely to run.
Good lord.
No wonder, I mean she spent a whole month training like an absolute maniac.
She's terrifying.
But...
If Easy Goer really was as strong as the American announcer kept hyping her up to be—this next Big Red who had even surpassed Secretariat...
Then maybe, just maybe, she really could stop Sunday Silence here, on the stage of the Kentucky Derby?
The moment that thought came to him, Sakuraba Ryo's mood brightened at once.
Right. Sunday Silence was absurdly strong, and the results of her training were downright horrifying, but Easy Goer was no pushover either.
A thirteen-length blowout. A record-breaking performance. Home-field advantage. The aura of a rising star burdened with expectations...
No matter how he looked at it, she was a tough opponent.
What if?
What if this next Big Red really did unleash all of her potential today—went even beyond that, had the race of her life, and flat-out shut Sunday Silence down?
Holy crap... that actually doesn't sound impossible at all.
At that thought, Sakuraba Ryo almost wanted to praise himself for his own brilliance.
Easy Goer winning the Kentucky Derby might actually... not be a bad thing at all!
First of all, it would satisfy the expectations of the American crowd and the local Tracen side. Everybody wins.
Second—and more importantly—he, Sakuraba Ryo, would not have to earn that massive first-place purse!
Yes!
That was the real point!
He had invested in Sunday Silence because he wanted to lose money!
Sure, things had gone just a little off the rails, to the point where Sunday Silence's training results had become terrifyingly good—but if she failed to take first in the end, then wouldn't that mean the money he had put in... would come back a little lighter?
God, even thinking it sounded pathetic.
But this was a good thing!
A good thing! A fantastic thing!
Sakuraba Ryo nearly failed to suppress the upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
Easy Goer, let's go!
Show me the same spirit you used to break your sister's record!
Stop Sunday Silence for me!
He even found himself silently cheering for the blue-green-haired girl in his heart.
Second or third would be fine too...
Of course, that was only something he dared think in silence.
Beside him, Secretariat looked as calm as ever, but who knew how well she really understood her sister's true strength and state of mind?
He had no desire to say too much and accidentally invite new trouble.
Still, that secret little hope of his, and the lightness that came with his private calculation, changed the way he looked at the track—there was now a hint of gleeful anticipation in it.
Sunday Silence was strong. Her training had been insane. Her current condition was frightening.
But on the track, everything could change in an instant.
Who was to say that the hometown star could not give the outsider a little surprise?
Sakuraba Ryo adjusted his breathing and fixed his eyes once more on the runners taking their places at the starting line—especially those two figures, one black and one blue-green.
Thanks to the selfish little hope in his heart, the suspense of the race suddenly seemed a lot more interesting.
Inside the starting gates, the air had tightened so much it felt as though one could wring water from it.
The restless noise of the outside world was shut away from each runner's private space, leaving only the steady beat of the heart and the faint rush of blood through the veins.
One after another, the Umamusume settled themselves, adjusting their breathing, their eyes bright with tension they could not fully hide as they focused on the long, gleaming track ahead.
And in that silent atmosphere, bristling with tension like drawn blades, two pairs of eyes met across the air for a single instant.
Sunday Silence tilted her head slightly, her black eyes locking with precise focus onto the blue-green figure not far away.
Easy Goer seemed to sense that gaze. She turned her face as well, her blue-green eyes meeting it head-on.
There was no avoidance in them. Only icy battle intent beneath a perfect, glasslike calm.
The distance between sisters.
The outside world's comparisons.
All of it had been stripped away in that moment, leaving only the pure relationship of opponents on the track.
Sunday Silence's gaze remained on Easy Goer for one brief instant.
From her posture, her presence, and the sharpness hidden beneath those calm eyes, she made her judgment in a flash.
Easy Goer was strong.
Very strong.
At the very least, among everyone standing at this starting line, she was the only one who gave Sunday Silence even the faintest sense of danger.
But that was all.
No matter who you are. No matter what title you carry. No matter whose record you broke, or how many expectations rest on your shoulders.
To me, it makes no difference.
There was only ever one thing she needed to do.
Sunday Silence slowly turned her eyes forward again, toward the track ahead.
Her lashes lowered slightly, casting a small patch of shadow beneath them—and concealing the flame that had ignited deep inside her gaze.
In her mind, one figure rose with perfect clarity.
The one...
The one she wanted to bring victory back to.
Bring him the win.
Bring this Kentucky Derby, the first jewel of the Triple Crown, and place it into his hands herself.
That thought flowed into every bone and every strand of muscle like the strongest fuel imaginable.
A faint numbness ran through her fingertips—the sign of power surging through her body, desperate to be unleashed.
And as for her reward...
The corner of Sunday Silence's mouth lifted just slightly, so faintly that almost no one would have noticed.
What kind of expression would he make?
Surprise?
Helplessness?
Or maybe...
Just maybe...
A little pride in her?
Last time, after she won the Santa Anita Derby and threw herself into Sakuraba Ryo's arms, he had barely resisted at all...
If she won the Kentucky Derby this time, could she ask for something a little more outrageous?
Hehe~
I want to try.
Just the thought of that possibility sent a fiercer, hotter rush through her than any threat posed by any opponent, rising from the deepest part of her heart and sweeping through her whole body.
Her world shrank completely in that instant, until only the track ahead remained—and beyond the finish line, the pair of eyes that might be looking at her.
Sunday Silence was in absolutely perfect form.
The starting gates were about to open.
And she was already drawn taut as a fully bent bowstring.
...
CLACK!
The crisp, ringing snap of the gates flying open was like fuel dumped on a fire, instantly igniting the fever at Churchill Downs to its absolute peak.
More than ten figures shot from the stalls almost simultaneously, like arrows loosed from a bow!
A perfect start!
There was no false breaks, no collisions. In a single flash, every runner turned stillness into explosive forward motion and rocketed down the broad track!
And within that sudden flood of color and speed, one blue-green figure, like a fierce wind cutting through the chaos, tore free with even greater decisiveness and ferocity.
Easy Goer!
Her reaction off the start was astonishingly quick, as though every nerve and muscle in her body had been honed into a precision launch mechanism.
Even through the broadcast screen, the explosive force of her push-off was palpable. Her long legs carved powerful arcs through the air, and in only two strides she tore free of the clustered pack like a cheetah shrugging off every restraint.
"SHE'S OUT IN FRONT! EASY GOER SURGES AHEAD! A PERFECT START! NO HESITATION—SHE'S CHOSEN A FRONT-RUNNING STRATEGY AND GOES STRAIGHT FOR THE LEAD—!!"
The announcer's voice soared again, unable to contain its excitement.
The flags of American Academy whipped madly through the stands as her supporters erupted into thunderous cheers.
Yes—that was exactly how it should be!
Seize control of the race from the very start!
Declare her presence in the brightest, most unquestionable way possible!
On the track, the wind slammed into her head-on, whipping her racing outfit sharply against her body.
Easy Goer's blue-green hair streamed straight behind her like a cold flame.
Her eyes were locked on the open track ahead, the depths of her pupils layered with ice-cold calm—and beneath that ice, a fierce heat surging hard enough to burst through any barrier.
To prove herself.
That thought was branded into the deepest part of her soul, clearer and hotter than any tactical instruction could ever be.
She was Front-running.
At the very front. The most visible place. The place that took the full force of the wind and drew every eye.
That was exactly where she wanted to be.
She did not want to run behind anyone else. She did not want to be compared. She did not want to live beneath anyone's shadow.
She wanted every gaze nailed to her back from the very start!
She wanted that deafening roar of cheers to ring out for the name "Easy Goer" and for nothing else!
On this legendary track, she would tell the whole world in the most domineering, least disputable way possible—
She was Easy Goer!
Not "Secretariat's little sister," not anyone's substitute, not some shadow born from comparison!
She was Easy Goer—independent, powerful, strong enough to tear through every fixed impression and every chain of expectation!
Her lungs dragged in burning air. Her heart beat like a war drum, driving hot blood through every limb. Each footfall landed solid and powerful, turning the track's rebound into even greater forward thrust.
She could feel the field chasing hard behind her. She could hear, beneath the wind, the rapid breaths and pounding footsteps of the others.
But her eyes held only the stretch ahead.
This straight path leading to the finish—and to proof of who she was.
Accelerate.
And accelerate again!
Leave all those noisy comparisons, those invisible eyes, those crushing expectations behind!
Right now, she was the center of attention on the course.
The one true focal point!
Easy Goer ran in front, a blue-green meteor ripping open the track itself as she charged toward the first bend with unstoppable force.
And just as that blue-green meteor tore magnificently ahead of the field, a black figure appeared behind her—like her truest shadow, or a dark storm locking onto its prey. Silent, but immovably steady, it attached itself to her wake.
Sunday Silence.
Her start had been flawless as well, almost cold in its precision.
There had been no flashy explosion of power, no deliberate rush to seize the lead. The instant the gates opened, she simply launched herself forward in the cleanest, most efficient way possible, slipping at once into the ideal position: directly behind Easy Goer, right at the head of the pack.
There was a unique rhythm to her running form. Her long black hair streamed behind her, nearly blending into her black racing outfit.
Every stride was steady and powerful, every beat of her pace distinct, as though she were some perfectly calibrated machine executing the most efficient pursuit possible at the lowest necessary cost.
Unlike Easy Goer ahead, whose burning momentum made it seem as though she meant to throw everything she had into proving herself, Sunday Silence carried a quieter bearing—one of cold, almost cruel elegance.
Her eyes were fixed on the flicker of blue-green ahead.
There was no fever in the depths of her pupils, no impatience. Only an abyssal concentration—and beneath that, the slow accumulation of something terrible, waiting to erupt.
She clung to Easy Goer's rear like a shadow attached to bone, maintaining exactly the right distance. Not so close as to invite unnecessary risk or waste, but never so far that the leader could open a truly reassuring gap.
Pressure, silent and unseen, flowed through the air and through the space between them, bearing down on the blue-green back ahead.
Sakuraba Ryo's attention was completely captured by the chase unfolding on the track, its lines clear yet its undercurrent vicious.
Easy Goer, charging forward without hesitation.
Sunday Silence, pursuing like a shadow that refused to let go.
And the rest of the field behind them, trying to catch up, yet visibly struggling to close the gap...
The race seemed to be developing in a direction full of tension and suspense.
Easy Goer... can she hold her position?
Can she keep this lead all the way to the finish?
He stared at that blue-green figure so hard he nearly stopped breathing.
And because of that, the fingers he had been resting perfunctorily on Secretariat's shoulders—already little more than symbolic—completely forgot to move, freezing there in place.
Then, just as all his concentration was on the race, a warm, soft hand lightly came down over the back of his own hand, which still rested on Secretariat's shoulder.
Sakuraba Ryo jolted, his thoughts yanked back in an instant.
Secretariat did not turn around. She remained seated in her elegant posture, still looking down at the track.
Her palm lightly patted the back of his hand twice, not hard at all.
Then her voice reached his ears, quiet but clear enough to cut through the surrounding roar.
"Mr. Sakuraba, if you're going to massage me, then please do it properly."
"If you're only going to go through the motions and lose focus halfway through... I really will get a little upset."
Her tone was as gentle as ever, even laced with what sounded like teasing, but it was like a fine needle pricking him back to full awareness. A subtle chill slid down his spine.
This student council president had never once been someone easy to fool.
Her earlier confession might have come from a brief emotional sway, but that did not mean she had lowered her standards for him as her temporary masseur.
"And there's no need to use that feather-light strength from earlier either, okay? I'm not going to be satisfied with just that much~~"
"I know, you know. Mr. Sakuraba, back in Japan you're the owner of a foot-massage parlor~ Surely this isn't all you've got, is it~"
"...You really want me to use my full strength?"
The corner of Sakuraba Ryo's mouth twitched as he asked uncertainly.
"Of course."
Secretariat's answer was crisp and decisive.
"Well... you said it..."
Sakuraba Ryo let out a silent sigh.
He truly had not wanted to use his full power.
"Miss Secretariat, this might get a little ticklish, so just bear with it."
With that warning, Sakuraba Ryo planted both hands firmly on Secretariat's shoulders—and pressed down hard.
The instant that intense pressure shot through her shoulders, Secretariat's whole body jolted.
"...!"
A strange sound slipped from her lips.
Wait...
This felt very, very bad.
Secretariat was in serious danger!
---
T/N: sorry if the translation is a bit off, i just couldnt seem to focus on this chapter :I