Chapter 20: A Complete Victory

Chapter 20: A Complete Victory

From the puzzled expressions on the Satono sisters' faces, it was clear they had no idea what Makoto was talking about.

He didn’t bother explaining.

Instead, Makoto simply gave a faint smile and lifted his binoculars again, redirecting his gaze toward the track—toward the black-haired girl sprinting across the turf with effortless rhythm.

Front Runner, Pace Chaser, Late Surger, and End Closer.

These were the four mainstream racing styles among Umamusume.

A Front Runner seized the lead right out of the gate, dominating the pace from start to finish.

A Pace Chaser stuck just behind the leader, adjusting rhythm and overtaking only when the time was right.

A Late Surger hung further back, hiding in the draft created by the runners ahead, saving energy until the final curve before unleashing a final charge.

And then there was the End Closer—the riskiest of them all. A strategy for those with insane stamina, where you intentionally ran at the very back for most of the race and began your push as early as the third corner, or even earlier.

There were also more niche strategies—Long Front Runner, Free Pace Chaser, Free Late Surger, Deep End Closer—each adjusting for subtle differences in tempo and distance.

But tactics weren’t static.

Every Umamusume had her own preferences, strengths, and instincts.

What worked in one race might fail miserably in another.

That was why a trainer’s job wasn’t just about pushing a girl to her limits. It was about knowing when to let her fly—and when to hold her back.

Makoto had already made his decision. He knew which running styles best suited Kitasan Black.

Long Front Runner, and Front Runner.

Both styles emphasized control and endurance, and in Kitasan’s case, her raw strength gave her an edge that few could match.

But Makoto wasn’t satisfied with just that.

What he really wanted for her was the adaptability of a Free Pace Chaser—the ability to transition freely between pressing the lead and stalking it, based on how the race unfolded.

It wasn’t a goal he reached by luck or guesswork.

This was the result of years of studying race footage, testing strategies, reworking theories—and the countless lessons passed down by his.

And today, in this debut race, all of that accumulated knowledge was being put to the test.

Training in a controlled environment had its merits.

But the moment a girl stepped onto the actual racetrack, everything changed.

The crowd, the pressure, the fierce competition—they brought out instincts and reactions you could never simulate in practice.

Which was why, when it came to debut races, most trainers played it safe.

Makoto? He had other plans.

His father had once said that Umamusume were creatures of instinct.

Once they got a taste of real competition, they couldn’t help but chase after it.

That raw desire to run, to win, to surge forward—it defined who they were.

But the race wasn’t always about leading from the front.

Even the strongest had to fall behind sometimes.

And without experience, that moment of being overtaken—of losing control—could rattle even the boldest girls.

That was why early race experience mattered so much.

The debut match wasn’t just a formality. It was a chance to teach them how to face adversity.

Being overtaken.

Getting blocked.

Fighting back through traffic.

These were moments that forged mental toughness.

And today, Kitasan Black was learning all of that, in real time.

Of course, it came with risks.

Falling too far back meant navigating a minefield of legs, elbows, and accidental blocks.

The rear half of the pack was often chaotic, and any hesitation could trap you before you had the chance to accelerate.

But Makoto wasn’t worried.

He had chosen this race—this strategy—for a reason.

He trusted Kitasan Black. Completely.

She was a textbook late bloomer.

The flip side of not being able to control her strength was that she also didn’t dare to go all out. Her body, still developing, subconsciously held itself back, as if it knew using her full power could lead to injury.

Most trainers would’ve seen that and pulled the reins.

Makoto, though, had gone in a different direction.

Rather than suppress her power, he taught her how to extend it.

Start the push earlier.

Stretch out the sprint.

Distribute the force over a longer span of time, turning explosive power into an unstoppable momentum.

It wasn’t a tactic most trainers dared to use.

It took a girl with keen instincts—and a trainer willing to gamble.

But over the past month, he had focused her entire training regimen on one core skill:

Rhythm.

Breathing, footfalls, shifts in weight—all timed perfectly.

He didn’t want her to just run.

He wanted her to compose.

Every race, a performance.

Every step, a note.

Prelude, verse, chorus, bridge, climax, outro.

Kitasan Black wasn’t yet capable of performing a full masterpiece.

But today’s race—this short debut performance—was already showing signs of brilliance.

Makoto’s gaze never left her as she passed the third corner.

Through the binoculars, he saw it—a small shift in posture. A signal only someone who had trained her daily would notice.

Her body leaned forward. Her strides quickened.

His lips curled into a smirk.

—The interlude’s over. Time for the climax.

“Show them, Kitasan Black,” Makoto murmured.

“Show them what it means to be a truly special Umamusume.”

The stadium was alive with noise.

The announcer’s voice climbed with excitement, echoing across the grandstands.

“500 meters to go! Leading the pack now is none other than the crowd favorite—Miss Joy!”

“As expected from the number one pick of this race!”

“Cosmo Hydra is falling just a bit short in the mid-phase push!”

“But she hasn’t fallen far behind—only about half a length behind Miss Joy!”

“And right beside her is Eden! Both girls are charging hard after Miss Joy!”

“Those three are clearly ahead of the rest! The fourth-place runner is trailing behind by a full three lengths!”

“Only 400 meters left! It looks like the winner will be decided among these three!”

A length, in race terms, was equivalent to the outstretched arms of the Three Goddesses’ statue—around 2.5 meters.

Half a length was barely over a meter. That distance could be closed in seconds by a skilled runner.

But three full lengths?

That was nearly eight meters. In racing terms, it might as well be a canyon.

The stadium was electric.

Excitement surged in waves as the runners rounded the final corner.

And then, the announcer’s voice, already rapid-fire, suddenly broke with disbelief.

“Kitasan Black!”

“Kitasan Black is charging up!”

From deep in the pack, a blur of black hair cut through the air like a missile.

“There’s still 300 meters to go! But—But she’s caught up!!”

The crowd collectively gasped as a girl who had barely even registered in the top rankings suddenly surged into view.

“200 meters! She’s passed Cosmo Hydra and Eden! She’s going after Miss Joy now!”

Makoto’s hand tightened slightly on the binoculars, but his expression remained composed—only the slight upward curve of his lips betrayed his emotions.

This was no surprise.

This was the plan.

“And—She passed her! Kitasan Black is in the lead! She’s done it—she’s overtaken everyone! Kitasan Black is now in first place!”

The stadium was silent for a split second—like the world had stopped to process what just happened.

And then it erupted.

The sound of the crowd exploded into a deafening roar.

“Can Miss Joy take it back?! 100 meters left!”

Miss Joy, the crowd favorite, gritted her teeth and pushed with everything she had. Her legs pounded against the turf, her face twisted in fierce determination.

“She’s trying! Miss Joy is giving it everything!”

But—

“Kitasan Black is still in front! Even after 1700 meters—she’s still going strong!”

The black-haired girl was still accelerating.

Her rhythm never broke. Her breathing never wavered.

It was as if her body had become a living instrument, playing the crescendo of a perfectly composed race.

“50 meters!”

The final stretch.

The wind tore past her ears. The finish line was close enough to see clearly.

“Finish line!! One and a half lengths!! From the very back—She shot past them all to take the lead in one go!”

The final call thundered across the loudspeakers:

“Kitasan Black wins her debut match by a margin of 1.5 lengths!”

The stadium erupted.

“Amazing! Absolutely amazing! A truly spectacular comeback!”

The announcer’s voice, usually reserved and composed, cracked with excitement.

“Let’s give a big round of applause to Kitasan Black!”

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

The realization hit everyone at the same time.

That black blur from earlier—that wasn’t just anyone.

That was a newcomer. A rookie.

That was Kitasan Black.

And she had just blown past the race favorites like it was nothing.

The cheers faltered for just a second—not from disappointment, but from shock.

Then the wave hit.

A tidal roar of applause, cheers, whistles, and shouts of disbelief.

It wasn’t just loud. It was thunderous.

Even some of the other Trainers nearby stood in disbelief, mouths slightly agape as they stared at the screen and then at the black-haired girl.

And yet, that wasn’t the end.

Because even after crossing the finish line, even after the announcer had declared her the winner, even after the other girls had slowed to a stop, Kitasan Black kept going.

Her legs were still pumping at full force.

Her eyes wide, her mouth open just slightly, the wind still howling past her cheeks.

She didn’t slow down.

Didn’t even try.

“She’s still running...?” one of the Satono sisters muttered.

Makoto didn’t respond. He just kept watching.

Then it happened.

Like a wild animal at full sprint with no brakes, she kept charging forward and then tripped on her own momentum.

Launched forward like a rocket, Kitasan Black crashed into the dirt just past the end of the track.

Not just a stumble, either.

It was a catastrophic faceplant.

Arms sprawled. Legs twisted. A puff of dust kicked up where her face had met the ground.

And her final position?

She had landed so dramatically, the imprint of her limbs literally formed a giant kanji character in the dirt—

“木”

Like a cartoon.

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