Chapter 18: Tactical Planning

Chapter 18: Tactical Planning

The hum of the air conditioning filled the quiet prep room as Makoto crouched beside the motorcycle seat where Kitasan Black was perched. He had just helped her take off her racing shoes, but instead of handing them back, he turned one over in his hands and inspected it with an inquisitive look.

The faint glint of metal shone from the crescent-shaped plates embedded in the sole—racing horseshoes, finely forged and perfectly aligned.

As expected from a dedicated Umamusume.

“Hmph. Still aligned perfectly,” he muttered to himself with a nod of satisfaction. “But remember to double-check them again before the race. No room for error today.”

He raised his gaze, alternating between Kitasan Black and the girl standing just beside her.

“Did you do the adjustment yourself, Kitasan? Or was it you, Diamond—?”

His words stalled in his throat.

Both girls were staring at him with faces flushed a deep red, their eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of embarrassment and something harder to define—anticipation? Tension?

Especially Satono Diamond. Her expression seemed caught somewhere between awkwardness and giddy amusement, her gaze flicking rapidly between Makoto and Kitasan as if trying to make sense of something unspeakable.

“…Why are you two looking at me like that?”

Kitasan squeaked. “N-No reason—!”

With an awkward lean forward, she snatched the shoe from his hand, her fingers fumbling slightly from nervous energy.

“I-I can put them on myself, thank you!”

As she bent to hurriedly slip her foot in, Satono Diamond hesitated for a beat before speaking in a soft voice that still carried awkwardness.

“She adjusted them herself… She spent a long time last night, working on the fit and the pressure distribution.”

“Oh? That’s impressive.” Makoto gave a short nod of approval, genuinely impressed.

But even as he praised her, he raised a brow and gave them both a puzzled look.

“So what’s with the weird atmosphere here—?”

“N-Nothing at all!” Diamond suddenly blurted, waving her hands as if trying to sweep the entire scene off the stage.

“Actually—! Since you came all the way to pick her up, Trainer Yasui, you should take Kitasan to the venue directly!”

She stepped backward as she spoke, already inching away.

“You don’t have to worry about me! My sister’s coming to watch today too, so I’ll head over with her! Okay? Good luck, Kitasan!”

With that, she spun on her heel and darted down the corridor like a startled rabbit.

“W-Wait, Diamond-chan!” Kitasan called after her, half-risen from her seat.

But the girl was already gone.

The silence that followed was somehow heavier than before. Kitasan stood frozen, hand still outstretched toward the now-empty hallway, then slowly turned back toward Makoto.

“Trainer… um… so, we…?”

Makoto blinked. “We what?”

She flinched. “N-Nothing! I mean—right! Trainer, how should I run today?”

Makoto didn’t press the issue. There were more pressing matters to deal with.

Tactics.

“Don’t worry about that just yet. I’ll go over everything once we get to the venue,” he said calmly.

“O-Okay…”

Her voice turned quiet, and she meekly followed him out of the prep area and toward the waiting academy bus.

The interior of the bus was markedly different from the energy outside. It was still, heavy. No one talked. Every Umamusume had their own space—either reviewing race footage on tablets or simply resting with their eyes closed, mentally walking the course they’d soon be running.

Kitasan slipped into a seat and quietly pulled out her own device, beginning to review races with serious eyes. The determined girl from earlier returned in full force.

Makoto, meanwhile, sat beside her and opened his tablet, reviewing the tactical breakdowns he’d meticulously prepared. Diagrams, race data, environmental conditions—it was all there, compiled through hours of quiet effort.

Eventually, the bus pulled up to the grand structure of Tokyo Racecourse.

Even though it wasn’t one of the major race days, the scale of the facility was overwhelming. The corridors were wide, the ceilings high, and everything gleamed under professional lighting. A special route had been prepared for participants and their trainers—leading to private lounges and preparation rooms where they could warm up or rest before the race.

Their room was still quiet when they entered. The muffled sounds of early announcements echoed from the loudspeakers outside, but otherwise it was almost eerily silent.

Kitasan wandered over to the window and pressed her face lightly against the glass, peeking through with curiosity.

“Trainer… this is weird,” she muttered. “Whenever I see races on TV, it’s always packed. But right now it feels like we’re the only ones here.”

Makoto was already at the whiteboard, scribbling out positioning maps and final adjustments to the plan. He answered without looking up.

“You’ve only ever watched G1 or G2 races before, right? Maybe a G3 here and there?”

Kitasan nodded absently.

“Well, today’s card is mostly Pre-OP races. The big draws today are this afternoon—Risshun Sho, Shirafuji Stakes, and the Saffron Sho. Those are OP-class races.”

He paused, then turned to face her.

“Compared to G1, this kind of turnout is tame. But even then, this is Tokyo Racecourse. A quiet day here still means a crowd of sixty to seventy thousand. If we’re lucky, maybe close to a hundred thousand.”

Kitasan’s jaw dropped. “That many?!”

Makoto chuckled. “A moment ago you said it felt empty. Now you’re worried there’ll be too many people?”

He stepped back from the whiteboard, now fully covered in notes and diagrams.

“Anyway, a quiet time like this is perfect. Let’s finalize our strategy.”

“Yes, sir!”

With renewed energy, Kitasan spun away from the window and marched up beside him.

Makoto nodded with approval. “Good. Let’s go over the race details first.”

He gestured toward the whiteboard now filled with colorful notes and intricate diagrams.

For Kitasan’s debut race, he had done his homework—going over every scrap of information available about the other competitors.

Since it was a debut match, all the participants were rookies, just like Kitasan. None of them had racing experience, so only their training data was available.

That data was public—accessible to fans and analysts alike. Many people offered predictions and opinions based on it.

In terms of fan support, Kitasan was actually doing quite well—ranking third among over a dozen entrants.

Of course, some of the support was emotional—things like “I like her vibes” or “She’s cute”—but even the more rational comments often circled the same concern:

Her top speed in training was not exactly impressive.

And that, in horse racing, was a serious disadvantage when it came to the final sprint to the finish.

A lot of people assumed she’d struggle in that critical moment. That she wouldn’t have what it takes to win.

Makoto didn’t disagree outright. But he knew her better than anyone else.

“…Your stamina, strength, and explosive power are excellent,” he said. “A turf course of 1800 meters is well within your limits.”

He glanced at her.

“There’s still room for growth when it comes to managing that stamina, controlling your strength, and sustaining your bursts… but racing isn’t just about raw data.”

He tapped the whiteboard meaningfully.

“Besides, I didn’t just study your numbers—I looked into your opponents too.”

Makoto leaned back and summarized his strategy.

“So here’s the plan. Once the race starts, pick someone whose rhythm you like and stick behind them. You don’t need to lead early. Conserve energy, shadow your target.”

He pointed at a spot on the diagram—a key curve near the 1400-meter mark.

“Then, right here, start pushing. Shift gears and build up. From that point onward, it’s your race.”

Kitasan’s brow furrowed. “That early? But there’s still over 300 meters left…”

“I know,” Makoto said calmly, cutting off her concern. “For most Umamusume, accelerating that far from the end would be reckless—too demanding on the body.”

He paused, then met her eyes.

“But tell me, Kitasan… do you feel like just ‘most Umamusume’?”

“—!”

“Do you think a ‘normal’ Umamusume could pull off a miracle like Tokai Teio once did?”

Kitasan’s breath caught in her throat. Something stirred in her chest—warm and electric.

Makoto gave her a small, confident smile.

“This isn’t just about winning. It’s about becoming someone unforgettable.”

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