Chapter 138: Not Bad at All
On the track, the first turn was already behind them.
In an instant, the second curve approached.
The leader remained the same—Deep Impact.
Half a body length behind, Kitasan Black gritted her teeth, pupils trembling as she fixed her gaze on the figure just ahead.
Being overtaken by another front runner, having her pace disrupted, being boxed in on a curve—she'd faced all that before.
Ever since her debut, she'd been through her Trainer intense regimen, with drills designed to counter every possible situation.
Especially around the time of the Satsuki Sho, she had practiced the fundamentals and advanced forms of front running day after day without rest.
She was confident that if this training race had been like the last, and her opponent had been Daiwa Scarlet-senpai, then she could still have seized the lead.
But from the very start, Deep Impact-senpai's running completely shattered her expectations.
This was still the opening phase, and yet she was unleashing speed like it was the final stretch.
This was just the first turn, and yet she was accelerating as if they were on the last.
She wasn't using any of the typical front runner techniques—and yet, no matter how many times Kitasan tried, she couldn't overtake her.
No—Deep Impact wasn't just not using front runner techniques.
She wasn't using any techniques at all.
She was simply faster.
That was all there was to it—sheer, merciless speed.
And yet that simple, brute-force running was enough to keep Kitasan from closing the gap for a full third of the race.
The rhythm of her breathing up ahead was terrifyingly steady.
Each step sent wood chips flying back in perfectly even bursts, the motion so smooth it almost felt mechanical.
Her lower back rose and fell with precise rhythm, the sweat and dust soaking through the hem of her shirt forming evenly shaped ovals.
Her legs swung in constant arcs—viewed from behind, it was like twin pendulums, rotating without deviation.
Every half-second, the sharp clack of her cleat striking the track echoed, in perfect time with the rise and fall of her shoulder blades.
What truly made the skin crawl was the angle of her arm swing—so exact it might as well have been measured with a protractor.
Even through the strongest centrifugal force of the curve, her form didn't waver an inch.
'Is that why Deep Impact-senpai is faster…?'
Kitasan Black lips twitched open for a second before closing again. Sweat rolled down her temple, slipped into her mouth, and left a faint salty taste on her tongue.
At that moment, the figure ahead fused into a single, overwhelming image—a high wall racing forward, or perhaps a snowcapped mountain charging through the wind.
The wood chips she kicked up no longer looked like debris—but snowflakes scattering behind a storm.
Those arms were no longer limbs, but clockwork pendulums within an eternal tower.
Each footstep resounded like the beating of festival drums—deep, heavy, and sacred.
The swirling wake behind her was a tidal wave, pushing back any who dared to approach.
'How do you even chase after someone like this…?'
Suddenly, the ground tilted beneath her feet, the outer wind slicing past. Kitasan Black snapped back to herself—just in time to hear a shout carried by the wind.
Hey! You planning to zone out like that in the Derby too?!"
Her heart jolted.
Before she could react, a streak of gold blazed past the figure she had thought untouchable.
Trailing behind that streak came another fierce cry:
"If you've forgotten how to run—then open your damn eyes and watch closely!"
Startled again, Kitasan realized in that instant—while she'd been lost in thought, they had already reached the final two curves.
And that golden flash surging toward Deep Impact was none other than Orfevre, who until moments ago had been running in the very back of the pack.
Her left shoulder dipped low.
Her right knee twisted outward.
Calf muscles tensed and released in rapid succession as her foot sank perfectly into the hollow of the print ahead.
The sound of iron cleats striking the track erupted in a storm of clattering impacts, and a spray of wood chips burst forward like an avalanche.
With a surge so fierce it could cut the wind, her mane—golden as a lion's—flared behind her.
In the blink of an eye, Orfevre was upon Deep Impact.
For the first time since the race began, the unwavering rhythm at the front began to ripple.
Deep Impact's gaze, which had never once wavered, shifted ever so slightly to her right rear—and in the corner of her eye, she caught that streak of gold.
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
"…I knew it'd be you."
Murmuring so softly it vanished beneath the rush of wind, she turned her eyes forward again.
As though she hadn't noticed Orfevre's approach at all, she made no attempt to accelerate—simply letting the younger Uma pass on the outside.
"Hey! I don't care if you're my senpai—don't you dare underestimate—!"
Orfevre hadn't heard Deep Impact's quiet words.
In the instant she overtook her, a flicker of anger surged in her chest.
As one of the top racers herself, she could clearly see that Deep Impact hadn't reacted to her challenge—not at all.
For a heartbeat, she thought she was being looked down on.
Her voice rose in a low growl before she even realized it.
But halfway through, something stirred in her mind—a faint, uneasy suspicion.
She didn't even have time to put it into words before, almost instinctively, she turned her head back.
Her lips parted slightly.
Behind her—Deep Impact, still steady, still unshaken—was looking back as well.
And beyond her…
A small face, drenched in sweat, twisted into something almost feral.
Muscles stood out sharp beneath the skin, distorting the once-round cheeks.
Her black bangs and the white streak at her temple were whipped away by the wind, revealing veins pulsing at her brow.
The cheerful, sunny expression that everyone knew was gone.
In its place—eyes bloodshot and blazing red, so wide they looked ready to tear at the corners.
It wasn't just her gaze. Her entire being screamed with effort, every fiber straining toward the goal.
Her posture was that of a runner in full sprint—yet somehow, it was different.
Her upper body was so low it nearly brushed the ground, as if her forehead could scrape the track at any moment.
Her arms and legs moved in impossibly tight spaces due to the low stance, and yet—impossibly—maintained a blinding rhythm.
Her line wasn't straight up the curve, but tilted—following the slope and arc of the track in a diagonal surge that defied explanation.
And with that fierce, almost grotesque expression, the girl who had once been all laughter and light lifted her face just enough for her teeth to flash white in the sun.
"Senpai…! Don't think… you can shake me off!!"
For a moment, Orfevre almost flinched away from those eyes.
The impulse to look anywhere else nearly overtook her.
But she crushed that instinct and laughed instead.
"That's more like it. What was that half-hearted running before…?"
"…Not bad," came another quiet voice.
Deep Impact was smiling too.
"That's the look of someone who wants to win the Japanese Derby."
Her gaze left Kitasan Black as she murmured softly,
"Then show me… your final straight."
But before her voice had even faded, her pupils shrank to pinpoints.
Something—faint but undeniably terrifying—was surging up from behind.
Its sheer pressure made her whole body feel as though her strength were being stolen away.
There was no mistaking it.
This was… a zone.
Her mind recognized it instantly—yet her astonishment did not fade.
The problem was—who?
Whipping her head around, her gaze swept across the runners behind her until it landed—
—on the chestnut-haired figure charging from the rear.
'Grass Wonder?'
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