"Stunned by Kitasan Black's explosive great escape, Musee Alien has finally reacted—she's accelerating, desperately chasing after Kitasan Black on the back straight!"
"A chase!"
"It's a chase now!"
"This race... isn't just about Kitasan Black's great escape; it's a fierce, full-powered chase—and the first to launch the pursuit is..."
"Musee Alien, who's already advanced to second place!"
The announcer's rapid-fire commentary whipped the stadium into a renewed frenzy.
Originally enthralled by Kitasan Black's overwhelming lead, every spectator's eyes now turned completely toward Musee Alien.
The once-unified chant of "Kitasan Black!" paused momentarily, replaced by waves of murmurs rising and falling like tides.
"Musee Alien… is she really going for it?"
"That distance... can she even catch up?"
"They're not even at the third corner yet—she's got a chance… Chase her down, Musee Alien!"
"Things just got interesting! Go for it, Musee Alien!"
"Don't lose, Kitasan Black!"
Soon, these murmurs erupted into another thunderous wave of cheers. Excitement and anticipation filled the stands.
Eyes flickered back and forth between Kitasan Black and Musee Alien. The entire grandstand became like a giant furnace, its heat steadily rising as the figures on the track approached the third corner.
The commentator seized this momentum, fanning the flames further:
"Musee Alien has raced Kitasan Black several times already. This chase definitely isn't reckless!"
"She's incredibly fast—every stride is like a direct challenge to Kitasan Black. And the distance between them is shrinking rapidly!"
"Satono Rasen makes her move as well! And right behind her is Amakaze Hayate!"
"Two stalker-type runners simultaneously decide to move just before the third corner—the entire group is coming alive!"
"Kitasan Black's lead remains significant—still nine lengths ahead and a wide gap to Satono Rasen behind Musee Alien!"
"But the group behind is fully activated now. The final straight at Nakayama is wide enough for plenty of battles between competitors, so…"
"Will this unexpected great escape succeed?!"
"Or will it be tragically overtaken?!"
"How exactly will this race unfold?!"
On the track, Musee Alien's gaze was fixed firmly on the black silhouette ahead.
Her breathing became increasingly heavy and ragged. Each inhalation seemed to draw in every scrap of air around her, fueling her frenzied pursuit.
Her legs moved like wound-up machines, alternating with incredible speed, each stride covering immense ground.
The track beneath her groaned with each powerful step. Her hair whipped uncontrollably in the wind, sweat streamed across her cheeks, and her thoroughly soaked racing uniform clung tightly against her overheated back.
But none of this registered in her mind.
Only one thought filled her now:
Catch up to Kitasan Black.
This was both the pre-race plan and her current determination.
Her trainer wasn't some inexperienced newcomer. Before the race, they had already considered even the smallest possibility—"Could Kitasan Black attempt a great escape?"
If a great escape actually happened, she wasn't supposed to forcefully chase immediately.
Among all competitors, Kitasan Black undoubtedly had the best stamina. Yet, even she wouldn't be able to sustain a genuine great escape due to her limited speed. Her pace in the mid-race "breather" stage would surely slow dramatically.
That was the time to chase, and chase with everything she had.
Otherwise, not only would she give Kitasan Black breathing room, but she'd fail to distance herself from rivals like Satono Rasen.
But this strategy was one Musee Alien had never actually attempted, and thus it carried significant risk. She was advised not to worry overly—it was likely she'd still use her usual running style: a conservative front-runner or stalker position.
Those were her instructions.
Right now, though, Musee Alien was grateful—grateful that Kitasan Black hadn't followed her trainer's cautious prediction, instead choosing an almost impossible great escape.
It allowed Musee Alien this moment—to chase after that familiar figure, one she'd chased before, one she found herself admiring without realizing when it began.
Maybe it started from that chance meeting in the cafeteria, when that familiar girl had casually handed her a bottle of lemon drink. Musee Alien still vividly remembered the slight roughness of the calluses she felt when their fingertips touched.
Or maybe it was during training on the field, when her attention was caught by those exaggerated shouts and a silly yet earnest running form.
Of course, the deepest impression had come from the racetrack—after curiously hearing about Kitasan's tough road before debuting, Musee Alien found herself again and again chasing after that unreachable silhouette.
How can she be so fearless, so dazzling every time she runs…?
Why couldn't I, as Hayate said, just bravely ask her directly, become her friend, become strong and bright like her…?
Does our only chance to truly connect have to be through racing, like now…?
So—
The dry, harsh autumn wind tore into her throat, filling her burning chest, as if it wanted to shred all her cowardice and swallow it whole. Musee Alien heard her molars grinding clearly and felt a fierce, uncontrollable shout burst from her lungs.
"KITA——SAN——BLACK——!"
"At least… at least…"
"Let me… REACH YOUUUU!"
She screamed with everything she had—and in the next instant, her eyes widened in surprise and joy.
As if in response to her desperate plea—perhaps by coincidence, or perhaps due to the Three Goddesses' intervention—the silhouette ahead suddenly seemed to slow down, almost as if waiting for her.
This was no illusion.
From the stands, the runners had passed through the third corner, moving into the fourth.
The right-hand curve at Nakayama Racecourse, drawn like a fully stretched bow, cast the Uma Musume into stark silhouettes beneath the autumn sun.
Kitasan Black's black hair still snapped fiercely in the wind, her steps retaining a fierce rhythm, but fine droplets of sweat already trickled from her neck downwards, soaking the collar of her white racing shirt with dark patches.
The chasing group led by Musee Alien sliced away at Kitasan's former nine-length advantage like a sharp pair of scissors.
Eight lengths, seven lengths, six lengths…
The announcer grew frantic:
"Kitasan Black's speed… seems to be dropping!"
"Musee Alien has closed it to five lengths! Satono Rasen and Amakaze Hayate are right behind her, steadily shrinking the gap further!"
The roaring cheers began to carry a faint trace of anxiety. Some fans clenched their cheering flags, others leaned far over the rails. Each shout now seemed tense and breathless, without the joyful abandon of earlier.
Yasui Makoto stared fiercely through his binoculars. Kitasan Black's back was soaked through, her shirt clinging to her skin, outlining her rapidly rising and falling shoulder blades.
Yet he stayed quiet, expression calm.
Next to him, similarly fixated on the runners surging from the right side of the stands, Manhattan Cafe nodded softly, murmuring thoughtfully:
"So that's it. Quite daring…but if this is her rehearsal for the Kikuka Sho, the risk is acceptable."
"Still…the final battleground is harsh. I hope she can hold on."
"The final straight! The final straight!"
The commentator was clearly pounding the desk, causing sharp microphone feedback and muffled thuds.
"In front: Kitasan Black, Musee Alien, and Satono Rasen—gaps now four-and-a-half and one length respectively!"
"Amakaze Hayate catching up—Amakaze Hayate now shoulder-to-shoulder with Satono Rasen!"
"Musee Alien still gaining! The distance between her and Kitasan Black…"
"Now only three-and-a-half lengths!"
Three lengths.
Kitasan Black's ears twitched, silently correcting the announcer's distance calculation.
She clearly heard the pounding footsteps behind her, closer and louder—like merciless drumbeats.
Her lungs burned, legs leaden, arms felt too heavy to swing.
But I can still run!
The finish line of this St. Lite Kinen isn't my real goal!
The Kikuka Sho was 3000 meters—fully 800 meters longer than this race. If she couldn't capitalize on all her training here, how could she even think of winning next month?
Two lengths.
She heard desperate breathing behind her, felt the turbulent air stirred by her pursuer flutter through her ponytail.
Vision blurred, sweat pouring—but she gritted her teeth and suddenly felt a burst of strange energy.
Because instinctively, she knew—
The runner behind her was Musee Alien.
Such a strong rival…
Such overwhelming pressure, comparable even to Rice Shower-senpai…
How could I—how could I have forgotten your name…?
One length.
"KITASAN BLACK!!"
In that moment, time stopped.
"Yes…yes… I—"
"HEARD YOU!!"
Kitasan Black's mouth curled into a wild, triumphant grin, eyes blazing with unprecedented intensity. Her exhaustion shattered, every cell reignited.
Wind rushed past, heart and footsteps perfectly matched, eyes locked only on the finish line...
...
...
...
"Crossing the line—first place: Kitasan Black!!"
Hearing the distant announcement, she stumbled, barely staying upright. She turned sharply, facing the gasping figure behind her.
Her throat raw, voice hoarse but strong, she called out:
"I heard…your voice…"
"Musee…Alien…"
---
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