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From the stands, Kuroha sat steady as bedrock, gaze calm on the turf below.
That brief exchange between the dark-haired girl and McQueen hadn't escaped him. A barely noticeable glint flashed in his eyes—Body and Breath Perception came online. In an instant, every Uma's physical metrics, posture shifts, even hidden niggles, flowed as crisp data into his mind.
As expected: in this field, the strongest after McQueen's off-the-charts stats was that dark-haired girl. Even so, her numbers hovered around the 300-point range—worlds apart from McQueen.
As a veteran Central trainer, Kuroha already knew this year's True-Bloomed profiles by heart.
Wakaba.
She'd undergone True Blooming not long after New Year's—about seven, nearly eight months ago. She'd trained almost twice as long as McQueen, so those values weren't surprising. If Kuroha had to peg her, she was the kind of "natural talent" you'd get without his interference—on the level of a little prodigy like Sakura Shumai King.
He didn't know why she needled McQueen at the gate—maybe a tactic, maybe just youthful bravado. Either way, the outcome today wasn't in question.
—
"Ka-click!"
The stalls sprang open.
Fifteen rookie Uma shot out like arrows loosed from the string.
"We're off!"
The commentator's tone stayed restrained. "Leaping to the front is Number 4, Dragon Century—huge pop from the bell puts her in the lead! The much-watched Number 7, McQueen, slides in behind her—unhurried, rhythm perfectly steady!"
Cameras cut to McQueen. No rush, no fuss—her break was smooth, slotting easily onto Dragon Century's flank in a textbook P1 position.
Under Kuroha's program—and with guidance from her team senior who also thrives up front, Fujimasa March—McQueen had honed top-tier front-group fundamentals. But unlike Fujimasa March, who loves a pure Front Runner style, McQueen preferred running as a Pace Chaser.
Chaos brewed behind them. All Central-class Uma here, yes—but rookies all the same. Thrown from practice drills into real race tempo, more than a few looked unsure of their footing.
"Hmph…"
Near the head of the second pack, Wakaba grunted, eyeing the three-length gap to McQueen with a private sigh of relief. "Good thing I clocked those girls acting weird early. If I'd stuck to the plan to Late Surge, I'd be boxed and buried…"
She breathed with metronomic control, nursing her tank. "Just keep this—then blow by at the end."
Rookies don't have much in the bag: no deep racecraft, barely a lick of out-of-race tactics, and even the basics—pacing and speed sense—are works in progress. Expecting mid-high-level tricks in a first start is fantasy.
Run. Save. Kick.
Those are the three tools of a newbie.
Into mid-race, the shape held. Dragon Century still cut the fractions, but her breathing roughened, her stride visibly dulled. The early blast had burned too hot; stamina was leaking away.
McQueen remained composed—an elegant huntress shadowing her prey, waiting for the perfect strike. She even had room to spare to scan with her eyes' edge, checking the herd behind.
"So light… my body doesn't feel the least bit tired."
White radiance brimmed in her gaze—the power of the "True Self" state bound within by the refined technique of her Domain. It was only a rookie race, but she intended to use it to drill the skill to perfection.
Thump—thump—thump—
Steel shoes kissed the Hanshin turf; everything she'd learned about cornering and course lines felt etched into bone as the violet-haired girl flew.
Wakaba, for her part, stayed latched onto third, glaring at McQueen's back and charging the battery.
"We're past halfway," the commentator's voice finally lifted. "The pacesetter, Number 4 Dragon Century, is slowing—can she last?"
Heads shook in the stands.
"She's cooked—went too hard early. Pacing's a mess."
"Number 7 McQueen's the real deal—so steady it's hard to believe she's a debutante."
As the chatter rose, the shape of the race snapped.
"Oh—McQueen makes her move! She slips inside Dragon Century without a speck of mud—clean as you like! McQueen to the lead!"
Into the third turn, McQueen stopped drafting. She only nudged the throttle, lengthened those powerful legs, and flowed past the spent leader on the rail—no brute surge, no bumping—just seamless, natural grace.
As if she'd been born to be there.
"Damn!"
Behind, Wakaba saw it and bit down hard, kicking, because if she didn't go now, she'd never get there.
"Wakaba goes too! She's by Dragon Century and clamps onto McQueen—gap not growing! We might be leaving this for the home straight!"
The booth finally heated up, and bodies in the stands leaned forward, eyes fixed on the pair.
In a corner of the crowd, though, Kuroha only shook his head. He could see it clearly: McQueen hadn't even started trying. She'd just bumped her cruise up one notch. The race ended the moment she passed Dragon Century.
Da-da-da—!
They hit the final straight.
"Into the stretch! McQueen in front! Three lengths back—Wakaba in pursuit! Can she catch?"
Wakaba's world narrowed to a violet figure and the finish line. Her lungs burned; her legs screamed. She didn't care.
"It's now—GO—!"
She roared, dumping everything she'd banked into one last blaze.
At that exact moment, McQueen moved.
No look back. No extra motion. She just sank a fraction, turned her cadence over—and an invisible pressure boomed from her, a sovereign's presence that brooked no doubt.
"!?"
Wakaba's pupils knifed down. The scene unfurled into absurdity. The back she'd been so close to touch—pushed away by an unseen hand—vanished up the lane at a speed she couldn't comprehend.
Three lengths. Four. Five…
The gap blew open in a way that made despair feel slow.
"W-what—!? It's gone! The gap's exploding! McQueen just showed a finishing kick from another dimension!"
"Too fast! This isn't a duel at all!"
Even the booth lost its calm, tinged with shock. Sure, they'd seen monstrous closes—but from classic-season terrors. And McQueen? A rookie, barely four months post–True Blooming.
The audience shot up to their feet, jaws slack, staring at a one-mare coronation.
Not a sprint—
A crowning.
Wakaba—and everyone else—could only watch as McQueen cruised under the post, victory beyond dispute. The board flashed a margin north of seven lengths.
She coasted down, breath hardly ruffled, and stood quiet, accepting the weight of the stadium's gaze.
"That's the race—your winner: McQueen! An overwhelming victory!"
Kuroha rose with a satisfied smile. This was the future sovereign of the long distances he'd forged with his own hands. Her first cry had already split the sky.
On the track, McQueen looked up at the big screen and its bold "7-length" gulf. A gentle smile touched her lips.
"Let this be the beginning. Bear witness—
I will offer glory and honor to the illustrious Mejiro."
She glanced toward the stands—Kuroha was there, applauding. Her smile brightened.
Of course, there was her trainer too…
She was still half lost in that flutter when the last runner trickled home. Turning back, she found the dark-skinned gremlin who'd run her mouth before the race, hands on knees and heaving.
"Hah… hah…"
Wakaba panted, catching in her periphery that the Mejiro lady was looking her way.
"I'm dead—that's so embarrassing."
She squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks and neck blooming red—whether from effort or shame, who could say?
Tap.
Pale legs stopped in front of her.
Here it comes.
She braced for the guillotine—
But McQueen's voice was only warm.
"Nice run, Wakaba."
"Mm? Ah!"
By the time Wakaba blinked herself back, McQueen had already turned away.
"…What's that supposed to mean? A winner's jab? Doesn't feel like it…"
She frowned, thinking it over—then jolted.
"Wait, I lost—so I still have to keep running my debut program!"
"Shiraishi is going to roast me for this!"
(End of Chapter)
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