"The year-end grand prix everyone's been waiting for—the Arima Kinen!"
The broadcast booth appeared on the jumbotron as the commentator and host kicked off the opening segment.
"Welcome, everyone, to today's race."
"I'm Akasaka, your commentator for this event!"
"And this is Hosoe, your host for today's live coverage."
"Now let's go to the field—first up, let's introduce the fan-favorite runners!"
The camera cut to the competitors' area, and a parade of familiar figures filled the screen.
Virtually every team had sent someone. The Arima Kinen was the year-end festival of racing—if you had a chance to run, you didn't say no.
"In third place for fan popularity, number 9—Gentildonna! She's looking fired up out there."
Hearing her name and the roar from the stands, Gentildonna lifted her chin toward the crowd with regal confidence. But from the corner of her eye, she couldn't help glancing at gate number 3.
"Second in popularity, number 11—Orfevre! And she seems... less than pleased with that ranking."
Orfevre made no effort to hide her displeasure.
But that bitterness wasn't about the ranking. It was about her own weakness.
She'd spent the past month training with everything she had, and it still wasn't enough.
She couldn't see even a glimmer of hope that she could beat Kitasan Black.
Why am I so weak?
For the first time in her life, the Tyrant knew what this feeling was.
It was different from past defeats.
Even when she'd lost to Venus Paques at the Arc de Triomphe, Orfevre had been confident she could win the rematch someday. Venus had been stronger, sure, but only by a slim margin.
Kitasan Black was nothing like that.
The gap was a chasm. An abyss.
Kitasan Black's power was so overwhelming that Orfevre couldn't find a single thread of hope.
That was what the Tyrant found most unacceptable.
Perhaps the wise thing would be to stop challenging someone she had no chance of beating.
But no.
That kind of "wisdom" was nothing more than running away from yourself.
Even knowing she'd lose, she wanted to keep fighting.
Plenty of the other runners shared that exact sentiment.
"And finally—today's star, fan-favorite number one, gate number 3—Kitasan Black! This runner has already taken the Tenno Sho Autumn and the Japan Cup in succession. She's just one race away from completing the Autumn Triple Crown—can she seal it here today?!"
The roar that erupted from the stands dwarfed everything before it.
But Kitasan Black had already entered her gate. No chance for crowd interaction.
Not that anyone expected it.
She never acknowledged the audience, even after winning. That attitude—as though victory were simply the natural state of things—was precisely why people called her the absolute champion. If Kitasan Black had suddenly waved to the crowd, the fans who actually knew her would've been more alarmed than pleased.
"All gates are set!"
The gates locked shut. The countdown lights blinked on. The noise in the stands gradually hushed. The classic pre-race fanfare played as the runners drew deep breaths and settled into racing mode.
"Under clear skies and good track conditions—the GI, 2,500-meter Arima Kinen begins now!"
Beep!
Green light.
The gates flew open.
The runners surged onto the track.
Kitasan Black drove her feet into the turf, iridescent light erupting beneath her with every stride. Same as always—she used Imperial Dance's incomparable burst power to blast through the pack and seize the lead. She wasn't a pure speed-type runner; she couldn't explode out of the gate the way McQueen-senpai had, cutting through the air like a gust of wind to claim first position.
But she had her own methods.
Being gifted at imitation didn't mean she had to copy her senpai's racing rhythms note for note. Her body and her instincts would naturally find the pace that suited her best.
"They're off!"
"No surprises—number 3, Kitasan Black, takes the lead from the start!"
The other runners watched the figure in the crimson racing outfit pull away. That scarlet coat flowed like liquid blood, its black-trimmed edges flickering like dark flames. Just looking at her, they could feel the difference—a vessel on an entirely different level. Even runners with weaker perception couldn't miss that overwhelming presence.
That was exactly why the crowd was drawn to Kitasan Black. Her strength was something even someone who knew nothing about racing could feel in their bones.
So strong.
That was the shared thought of every other runner on the track.
One of them instinctively fired an interference skill at Kitasan Black.
It was pure reflex—the body attacking before the mind could think, driven by fear.
Kitasan Black felt the mental chains coiling toward her like ethereal shackles. Her expression didn't change. Skill light flared across her body once more, and her speed didn't drop—it increased.
From the middle of the pack, Gentildonna watched with growing unease.
What's going on? She's even stronger than she was in the Japan Cup?
This rate of improvement is absurd.
What Gentildonna didn't know was that Kitasan Black's growth wasn't so much improvement as it was acclimatization—gradually adapting to racing and learning to wield her own power. Rapid progress was only natural.
Because all Kitasan Black was doing was unleashing strength she'd always possessed.
And she was a genius. Even without conscious intent, her body automatically adjusted and optimized mid-race. That monstrous talent surpassed even Tokai Teio at her absolute peak.
The gap was widening.
Through the opening 500-meter turn, Kitasan Black already led second place by five lengths—and that was with most of the field having thrown interference skills at her right out of the gate. As the middle stage began and those debuffs faded, her condition only improved, projecting an aura of total invincibility.
"Incredible!"
"The race has turned into a solo show for Kitasan Black from the very start! A staggering explosive breakaway—but the slope is coming up. Can the pack close the gap on this stretch?!"
Emerging from the opening turn, the track transitioned into an undulating straightaway.
For most uma musume, the slope was a mandatory slowdown zone.
But Kitasan Black eyed the treacherous incline with the same cold expression, showing not the slightest intention of easing up. The moment she hit the slope, skill light blazed anew—far from slowing down, she accelerated through the danger zone.
The performance sent a collective shiver through the live audience.
"Am I seeing things? This gap!"
"I know Kitasan Black is still in her growth phase, but today is something else entirely. The Tyrant and the Lady aren't just outmatched—they can't even compete!"
They'd barely passed the 1,000-meter mark, yet Kitasan Black had already opened up an outside-placing gap on second place. And the glow of her skills hadn't stopped for a single moment.
Was it really possible to chain skills nonstop from start to finish?
It seemed absurd.
But the living proof was right there in front of them.
Kitasan Black, racing like that, was more terrifying than any runner who'd entered ZONE.
Watching her threaten to vanish into the distance, Gentildonna and Orfevre could no longer hold back. ZONE's aura flared around both of them simultaneously as they burst from the pack.
And so the race settled into a surreal tableau:
Kitasan Black, racing at a terrifying pace out front.
Behind her, Orfevre and Gentildonna, both in ZONE.
Behind them, everyone else.
A single race, split into three distinct tiers.
The uma musume watching from the stands couldn't believe their eyes.
"She's that strong? Kitasan Black!"
Duramente, fresh off the previous race, clenched her fists, seething with frustration.
While she'd been desperately clawing her way toward closing the gap, her rival had been getting stronger too. The distance between them hadn't shrunk—it had grown.
On the track, Gentildonna and Orfevre shared the same bitter realization.
They'd managed to keep Kitasan Black's silhouette in sight, barely—but the gap refused to close. Eleven, twelve lengths, stubbornly unchanged. Every time they thought a skill's glow was about to fade from her, the next one ignited seamlessly.
Any single burst might not match the explosive peak she'd hit in the Japan Cup's final stretch. But this was far more terrifying—because it meant her overall ability had ascended to a higher plane entirely.
By now, Kitasan Black had slipped into Flow without even realizing it. Compared to entering the state deliberately, this natural immersion was incomparably smoother—so seamless that not even interference skills could disturb her focus.
So this is the world McQueen-senpai sees?
She gazed down the empty track ahead, her mind utterly still.
It was like becoming one with nature itself. A part of her wanted to just keep running forever.
Is this... the joy of running?
Something clicked.
Physical fatigue was suppressed to almost nothing. Skill activation required no conscious thought. Everything was effortless. Relaxed.
This was a state that couldn't be obtained through the System's shared data alone.
Now, at last, Kitasan Black could begin to understand why McQueen-senpai loved racing even without a rival to chase.
This race wasn't for anyone else. It was simply for the sake of seeing this scenery with your own eyes.
The track was right here. All she had to do was enjoy running.
Flow—completely mastered.
She couldn't stack skills the way McQueen could, but Kitasan Black had achieved something else: a flawless chain combo. Her speed climbed and climbed, as though it could accelerate forever without end.
Watching that figure soar across the track as if in flight—
Gentildonna and Orfevre felt a profound helplessness settle over them.
They couldn't catch her.
There was no way to catch her.
That girl had entered a world entirely beyond their reach.
The flames of ZONE guttered and died.
Orfevre's and Gentildonna's speed began to drop.
The broadcast cameras told the whole story: with Kitasan Black endlessly accelerating out front, the runners behind her appeared to be going backward. The gap yawned wider and wider.
All the way to the finish line, not a single runner came close.
Forget closing the gap—not one of them managed to put even a shred of pressure on Kitasan Black.
Her running style today was nothing like the domineering power of her usual races. This was dreamlike. Ethereal. High-speed grace.
The most orthodox, most classic style of front-running there was.
Even after crossing the finish line, even as that vivid world faded from her vision, Kitasan Black's mind lingered somewhere else. She didn't know what to call this feeling. Her rational mind told her it was simply a matter of having reached the level where this experience became accessible—nothing mysterious or magical about it.
But the experience itself had been extraordinary.
"She's crossed the line!"
"Maintaining an outside-placing lead from start to finish, Kitasan Black sets a brand-new course record! Congratulations—she has completed the Autumn Triple Crown!"
Kitasan Black glanced up at the time displayed on the jumbotron.
She thought about it for a moment, found no answer, and turned to leave the track.
She still couldn't say for certain.
Did she actually enjoy running?
She didn't know. Even after witnessing that scenery, she couldn't give an answer.
Because she didn't share McQueen-senpai's obsession.
McQueen-senpai had craved victory so desperately that she'd come to believe her very worth resided in that scenery.
Kitasan Black had no such burning desire.
Her competitive drive was nothing more than the conviction that she couldn't lose.
But if pressed on whether she had some driving obsession—something she absolutely had to win—no, she didn't. Otherwise she wouldn't be completely clueless about how to awaken ZONE.
Still, to say that scenery had left her unaffected would be a lie. It was the view every uma musume dreamed of seeing.
"What a headache... I never expected someone like me could see something like that. If I said this out loud, people would think I was humble-bragging. But I genuinely don't know what to make of it..."
She pressed her hand against her chest.
In the moment she'd entered that state, what she'd felt wasn't fulfillment. It was a deeper sense of something missing—an emptiness. The state itself had been pleasant, yes. But that was all it was.
It wasn't what she was looking for.
Then what was she looking for?
Why did she feel this void, this restless searching—where did it come from? She wasn't supposed to have desires like this.
Even now, Kitasan Black still hadn't found her reason for racing.
Making money? Now that she'd already earned a fortune, that excuse had expired. Why had she become an uma musume? Why did she keep winning? Was it just to clear the game? No—that wasn't it either. She was searching for the meaning of her own existence. Or maybe—did even Kitasan Black, of all people, want to shine?
She stared, startled, at the girl reflected in the dressing room mirror.
...
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