**Chapter 19: What is Responsibility?**
"I'm sorry," Ochiai murmured from atop the horse, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mejiro Pegasus was in top form today—his muscles gleaming under the afternoon sun, his strides powerful and sure on the track. The crowd's cheers still echoed faintly in Kitano's ears, a mix of excitement and that inevitable hush when things didn't quite pan out.
So, if the horse had given everything, the only one left to blame was himself. Kitano let out a slow breath, adjusting his cap against the lingering heat.
"Not at all," Kitano replied, dipping into a deep bow. The gesture felt automatic, like muscle memory from too many post-race rituals.
He'd spotted it in the paddock earlier: Pegasus's coat shining like polished silver, eyes bright and alert. The schedule had been spot-on, no rushed prep or overtraining. The trainer, the assistant, the stable hands, and even the jockey—they'd all poured their hearts into it. What was there to pick apart? A bad bounce of the turf? A split-second hesitation? Life's little cruelties, wrapped in the roar of the stands.
"Thanks for all your hard work," Kitano added softly, reaching up to pat Pegasus's neck. The horse's skin was warm and slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in heavy, contented huffs.
"You did great out there, buddy."
Pegasus let out a snort, steam curling from his nostrils like a dragon's sigh after a long flight. Droplets of sweat traced lazy paths down his flanks, pooling in the dirt below. He hung his head a bit, ears flicking back—was that disappointment in those dark eyes? Or just the quiet fatigue of a good run?
Kitano loosened his tie with a tug, the fabric suddenly too tight against his collar. He started walking, following the familiar path from the track, the one lined with chain-link fences and faded sponsor banners. The air smelled of churned earth and distant rain.
"I'm sorry," he said again, this time to the empty air, though he knew the words were for the horse. "I couldn't get you that win you deserved."
As he skirted the edge of the stands, a cluster of fans peeked out from behind a fluttering banner, their faces a mix of young and eager, clutching programs and phone cases emblazoned with Pegasus's silhouette.
"Not at all, Kitano-san!"
"Yeah, it stings a little, but Pegasus? He flew out there!"
"Right? That form—pure poetry. Like he was dancing with the wind!"
"And the fan meet before the race? Adorable. The way he nuzzled that carrot..."
"Glad he crossed the line safe and sound. That's what counts."
Their voices tumbled over each other, a warm, messy chorus that caught Kitano off guard. He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the ache in his chest.
How about that? These kids, probably new to the tracks, wide-eyed at their first live race. And here they were, rooting for a gray streak they'd only just discovered, like old friends sharing inside jokes. It was the kind of thing that made the losses feel a little less sharp.
"Anyway, thanks for cheering him on today. Means the world."
He pulled out a marker and leaned in, scribbling signatures on programs, hats, and the occasional outstretched hand. Laughter bubbled up as one girl shyly asked for a heart next to her name.
"Kitano-san, that's plenty for now," a staffer called gently, waving from the gate. Kitano glanced up, cheeks warming, and capped the pen with a sheepish nod.
"Trainer, you killed it out there—seriously, top-notch stuff!" A burly fan clapped Ogawa Masaru on the shoulder, his grin wide and oblivious.
Ogawa blinked, face turning a shade pinker than the sunset. "Uh, I'm not the trainer," he stammered, waving his hands like he was shooing flies.
"Stable hand, then? You guys are the real MVPs."
"Nope, not that either."
He scurried after Kitano, shoulders hunched in that endearing mix of embarrassment and relief, like a kid dodging a spotlight.
"Kitano!"
The call came from behind as they slipped away from the track's bustle, into the quieter paths where the air cooled and the crowds thinned. Kitano turned to see a middle-aged man jogging up—hair thinning at the temples, suit a touch rumpled, but with the kind of easy smile that said he'd done this a hundred times.
"You are...?" Kitano trailed off, squinting politely. The face rang no bells.
"Kimura Keisei, from Newborn Ranch. Just Kimura's fine." The man thrust out a hand, then flipped open a wallet to reveal a crisp business card. "Watched the whole thing—man, so close! A nose, maybe? What a heartbreaker."
He chattered on like they'd been pals for years, slapping the card into Kitano's palm with a wink.
**Newborn Ranch Co., Ltd.**
**Representative: Kimura Keisei**
"Nice to meet you, Kimura-san." Kitano fished out his own card in return, a simple exchange that felt oddly grounding amid the post-race haze.
"Looking forward to chatting more!"
[Befriend 100 industry insiders: 100/100 (Completed)]
[Reward: Silver Amulet x 1]
The familiar glow of text faded from his vision, and Kitano tucked the card away, a quiet satisfaction settling in.
"Anyway, won't keep you. Catch you around." Kimura shot a quick glance at Ogawa's downcast expression, his smile softening just a fraction, then turned on his heel.
"Newborn Ranch..." Kitano mused once the man was out of earshot, glancing sideways at his companion. "They as big a deal as he makes 'em sound?"
Ogawa shrugged, kicking at a loose pebble on the path. "Eh, they've got the numbers—fancy gear, big staff. But training? My old man's got 'em beat hands down. No contest."
He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, that stubborn spark flickering back. "That said... their foals? Bloodlines are top-shelf. Can't argue that. Ours hold their own, but theirs? Elite stock."
The words trailed off into a grumble, laced with that boyish edge of "not fair, but okay."
Kitano nodded, letting the silence stretch as they walked. His mind wandered to those exclusive auctions Kimura probably ran—glitzy affairs with yearlings paraded like runway models, whispers of pedigrees worth fortunes. Tempting, sure. But...
"Bigger outfits like that host private sales every year, just for the inner circle," Ogawa piped up, unprompted. He sounded a little peeved—maybe at the poaching vibe—but his advice came steady, like a big brother sharing secrets. "If you're curious, Kitano-san, worth swinging by one. Public auctions? Private deals? Meh, not much edge over what small ranches peddle. Save your yen."
Kitano chuckled, clapping the younger man's shoulder. "Appreciate it, Masaru-kun"
Ogawa's head snapped up at the casual drop of the nickname, eyes widening like a deer in headlights. But then he scratched his messy hair, grinning sheepishly. "Heh, no biggie. You've pulled our weight more than once anyway."
"Nah, you've shown me the ropes from day one. And Pegasus? He's never looked better—your touch, all the way."
Kitano meant it. The kid was what, half his age? But the way he talked horses—fur, feed, moods—like poetry wrapped in practicality. It wasn't just knowledge; it was care, the kind that stuck.
"If it's cool with you, drop the 'Mr.' from now on. Kitano's fine."
Ogawa's face lit up, then crumpled into exaggerated horror. "Whoa, hold up! My old man catches wind of that, and I'm toast—'Disrespectful pup!' he'd yell, all night long." He flailed his arms for emphasis, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Kitano laughed, the sound easing the knot in his chest. "Alright, fair. How about just the family name, then? Kitano."
"Still dicey! But... Brother Kitano? Yeah, that works." Ogawa beamed, puffing up a bit. "Any horse questions down the line? Hit me up. Worst case, I'll drag the old man in for backup. Deal?"
"Deal."
Their laughter echoed softly as they stepped out from under the track's shadow, into the open air where the breeze carried hints of salt from the nearby sea. The racecourse felt a little less stuffy now, the day's weight lifting like fog in the sun—just two guys, side by side, trading stories about stubborn horses and stubborn lives.