Before I knew it, I was using the second mic Gold Ship had provided, fully immersed in the role.
"Sold Out burnt out too early! She's fading fast! Taking her place are Tomoenage and Spring Happy! They're fighting tooth and nail for the lead, but can they hold it? The turn is still ahead!"
"The curves on the Tracen track are gentle," I noted. "You have to be careful not to drift wide, but it's a fast course. This is where their daily training pays off—it's all about how efficiently they can navigate the bend."
As I spoke, my eyes drifted to Rice. The front-runners were desperate to maintain their lead, but behind them, Happy Meek had begun to accelerate—and Rice was shadowed to her like a ghost.
And then, I understood what Gold Ship's "cold-blooded" comment meant.
(Happy Meek must be under incredible pressure... Rice, your speed is one thing, but the way you're stalking her is terrifying.)
The Rice Shower on the track was a different creature from the timid girl I knew. There wasn't a trace of hesitation. Her eyes were sharp, predatory—shining with a hunger to seize the opening the moment it appeared. She looked like a predator closing in on its prey.
She deliberately made her hoofbeats echo, a constant reminder to Meek: I am right behind you. If Meek tried to slow down, Rice adjusted instantly. If Meek tried to pull away, Rice mirrored her speed without breaking a sweat.
But looking at Rice's form, I felt a small smile touch my lips. She wasn't at full power. She was focused—strictly focused—on the form I'd been coaching her on. She was being careful not to overstrain either side of her body, yet she still possessed enough speed to drive Happy Meek into a corner.
Finally, crumbling under the sheer weight of Rice's presence, Happy Meek made her move.
"Whoa! Happy Meek makes a break for it! Rice Shower is right on her heels! They're blowing past three, four, five runners in an instant! They've overtaken Tomoenage before I could even say it! Happy Meek takes the lead! She's heading into the final stretch!"
"Beautiful acceleration," I admitted. "A testament to Trainer Kiryuuin's work. Her cornering was tight, no wasted motion."
But even as I praised Meek, my heart was with Rice. Meek's run was magnificent, but she was the one who knew better than anyone that it wasn't working. She was drenched in sweat, gasping for air, trying to shake the shadow behind her—but that rhythmic thudding of hooves was relentless.
"Final 200 meters! Can Happy Meek hold on?! The Kikkasho winner, Rice Shower, is breathing down her neck!"
"Meek's closing speed is incredible... look at that tenacity. I'm jealous... Oh, Urara is... ah, she's fighting for the 'not-last' spot... wait?"
Something felt off. And then, Rice moved.
"Here comes Rice Shower! With 100 meters to go, she pulls level with Happy Meek! They're neck and neck—and Rice surges ahead! What a kick! She's widening the gap! One length, two lengths! It's over!"
(Yes! Go, Rice! All the way... and... FINISH!)
I couldn't scream into the mic, but I was cheering at the top of my lungs internally. The mile wasn't her distance, but the ease with which she'd overtaken a Junior-grade prodigy showed the sheer gap between a Junior and a Classic-grade champion.
From where I stood, Rice hadn't even hit her top gear. She'd used psychological pressure to force Meek into a mistake, then used eighty percent of her strength to finish the job, exactly as I'd asked.
But the intent behind her run had been 100% real. She had so much more in the tank. If she could do this on a mile course she didn't even like, how fast was she when she truly let go?
Thinking back to the Kikkasho—the stage where Rice had fought with everything she had to seize victory—the sheer weight of a G1 race finally hit me. A cold shiver ran down my spine.
"First place: Number 8, Rice Shower! Second place: Number 7, Happy Meek, three lengths behind! Third place: Albedo Belladonna, another five lengths back!"
A five-length lead over third place proved that Happy Meek was indeed in a league of her own among her peers. But she couldn't touch Rice. Was it unsportsmanlike to be this happy about a Classic winner beating a Junior? Maybe. But she was my Umamusume, and I was going to celebrate her win.
(Wait, Urara... huh?)
I reigned in my excitement and searched for Urara. She had the stamina for 1,600 meters, but between the turf and the bad start, I expected her to be bringing up the rear.
But she wasn't at the very back.
"And the rest of the field is charging for the line! Look at that burst of speed from number 11, Haru Urara! She's picking them off one by one from the back! It's a dead heat for the middle of the pack!"
Urara was flying down the final straight, right in the thick of a horizontal line of runners.
"It's a dogfight! Boom! They're across! Let's see... from 10th place down, it's 3, 2, 11, 10, 17, 18, 16, 1, 13! It's a nose, a nose, a nose, a nose, a neck! What a finish!"
"You could see all that, Gold Ship?!"
I'd been focused on Urara, but Gold Ship's ability to track that chaotic finish was inhuman. Wait—Urara got 12th? On turf? After a late start? If she'd actually nailed the beginning, she might have cracked the top eight.
Maybe she could hold her own on the turf at shorter distances. Or maybe it was just the level of this specific mock race. Either way, my legs were already moving before I could finish the thought.
I ran to Rice first.