Chapter 18

The alarm on my nightstand buzzed with a dull vibration at five-thirty in the morning.

I reached out from beneath the duvet, tapped the screen silent, and lay still for a minute to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. 

Outside the bedroom window, the neighborhood was wrapped in the quiet stillness of dawn. 

I sat up, feeling the chill of early March bite at my bare neck. 

I dressed quickly in layers, picking clothes that wouldn't draw any attention in a crowd. 

First came a black thermal undershirt, followed by a dark fleece hoodie and my usual windbreaker. 

From the top shelf of the closet, I pulled down a navy Yankees baseball cap. It was an old hand-me-down from my father's trial days, with a curved brim that sat low over my brow. 

I walked down the hallway in my socks, keeping my steps light so I wouldn't wake my parents. 

In the kitchen, I filled a stainless thermos with hot barley tea from the kettle. 

Beside the sink sat a small plastic bento box containing two rice balls wrapped in nori, which I had packed the night before. I slid the lunch box, the thermos, and a compact umbrella into my canvas shoulder bag.

Before leaving, I took my smartphone from the counter. 

I opened the boys group chat and typed a short message:

*Yama: Taking a complete rest day today. Not hitting the park.*

I expected them to be asleep, but Shizuo’s reply came through within thirty seconds.

*Shizuo: Understood. Rest your legs properly.*

A moment later, Yuuki jumped into the thread with a cartoon sticker of a sleeping puppy.

*Yuuki: Finally! Enjoy you sleep until noon!*

I let out a quiet breath, slipping the device into my pocket. 

They had no idea where I was going, and that was for the best.

More importantly, though, I hadn't said a single word to Top Road either. 

Today was the thirty-sixth running of the Yayoi Sho. 

It was the most prestigious trial race of the spring season, carrying guaranteed priority tickets to the Satsuki Sho for the top three finishers. She was lining up against the very best runners of her generation, including a junior champion with a nasty closing kick. 

The last thing she needed today was another distraction cluttering her mind. 

Knowing her, adding needless things to think about by saying I was coming would be a bad move. She just needed to lock her eyes onto the grass and run her race.

I slipped into my sneakers, eased the front door shut, and stepped out into the freezing mist.

The street lamps were still glowing pale amber against the pavement. 

I pulled my cap down, shoved both hands into my pockets, and walked at an easy pace toward Fuchu-Honmachi Station. 

The station concourse was mostly empty at six in the morning, save for a few cleaning staff rolling gray mop buckets across the tiles. 

I stopped at the ticket machines near the turnstiles, pulling my wallet from my bag. 

I fed the crisp five-thousand-yen note into the slot, watching the screen update as it charged my commuter pass with enough credit for the round trip. 

With the card tapped against the sensor, I descended the concrete stairs to track three.

A minute later, the orange-and-brown train of the JR Musashino Line glided to a halt along the platform. 

The carriage was warm and half-empty when I stepped inside. 

I took a corner seat near the doors, resting my canvas bag on my lap while the train rattled eastward through the suburbs of Tokyo. 

The morning sun began to creep over the horizon, casting long orange shadows across rows of tiled roofs and concrete apartment blocks. 

With every stop along the line, the atmosphere inside the carriage began to shift.

At Musashi-Urawa, a dozen men boarded carrying rolled-up sports tabloids tucked under their arms. 

By the time the train crossed the river into western Chiba, the car was packed to the doors with racegoers. 

The air smelled faintly of hot canned coffee, tobacco, and damp wool. 

All around me, middle-aged men with reading glasses were hunched over past performance charts, clicking red ballpoint pens as they argued over track conditions and morning odds. 

"Next stop," the automated chime chimed above the doors. "Funabashi-Hoten. Funabashi-Hoten."

A collective rustle ran through the carriage as hundreds of passengers stood up in unison. 

I stood with them, slinging my bag over one shoulder as the train ground to a halt. 

The doors slid open, and a wall of cool air spilled into the car.

I followed the massive flow of spectators down the platform stairs, moving directly toward the underground corridor. 

This was the famous dedicated passage connecting the station directly to Nakayama Racecourse. 

Long moving walkways stretched out beneath fluorescent tubes, carrying thousands of silent fans beneath the neighborhood streets. 

Posters of historic champions lined the tiled walls on both sides, their framed portraits glowing beneath soft spotlights. 

At the end of the long tunnel, the crowd passed through the underground security gates. 

Having turned fifteen, I was no longer eligible for the free entry reserved for children. 

I pulled two hundred-yen coins from my pocket, dropped them into the coin slot of the automated turnstile, and pushed through the metal barrier.

I emerged from the tunnel and stepped out onto the grand plaza of Nakayama Racecourse.

The sheer scale of the facility made me stop in my tracks.

The grandstand rose above the pavement like a concrete mountain, six stories of steel and glass stretching hundreds of yards along the home straight. 

Enormous screens were mounted high on the exterior towers, broadcasting morning paddock replays to the growing crowds below. 

The air was alive with energy, carrying the aroma of frying batter, simmering pork broth, and the fresh scent of cut grass. 

I had been amazed by the Japan National Stadium during the Senshuken semifinals, but this place carried a completely different presence. It felt like an ancient colosseum that had been upgraded with modern technology, vibrating with the collective anticipation of thousands of people.

As I walked across the brick plaza toward the lower concourse, a burst of purple caught my eye.

Scattered throughout the sea of dark winter jackets were clusters of Tracen Academy students. 

They wore their signature purple-and-white winter uniforms, thick scarves tucked neatly around their necks, chatting in lively groups as they navigated the plaza. Some carried small team pennants, while others held binoculars, having clearly taken the early trains to support their classmates and friends in the today's races.

I kept my head down, keeping a wide berth around them as I moved toward the food court. 

I was looking for a quiet corner to consult the track map when a loud voice cut through the background hum of the plaza.

"Extra pickled ginger! And don't skimp on the pork slices, mister! I'm paying full price here!"

I froze on the concrete.

Ten meters ahead, standing directly in front of a smoking yakisoba stall, was a girl with very familiar messy brown hair. 

She was aggressively waving a ten-thousand-yen note in the air, practically leaning over the counter while two of her classmates stood behind her, covering their faces in sheer second-hand embarrassment.

It was non-other than Yuri.

My heart leaped straight into my throat. 

What on earth is she doing here already?! I thought, my mind racing in total shock. The feature race isn't for another six hours!

If my twin sister spotted me lurking around Nakayama, the game would be over before it even began. 

Yuri took a large paper tray from the vendor, turning her head toward the walkway.

I scrambled on pure muscle memory. 

I yanked the brim of my cap low over my eyes, hunched my shoulders inward to ruin my usual posture, and pivoted sharply on my heel. 

I tucked myself directly behind the broad back of a tall man wearing a heavy down coat, using him as a moving shield as I melted into the crowd heading toward the trackside apron. 

I didn't dare look back until I had cleared two flights of concrete stairs and emerged onto the open terrace by the grass track.

I leaned against a square pillar, letting out a long, shaky breath.

"That was way too close," I muttered, wiping a bead of cold sweat from my temple. 

I took a moment to steady my pulse, adjusting the strap of my bag before turning my gaze toward the track.

The sight took my breath away.

The turf stretched out in an expansive oval beneath the pale blue sky, immaculate and glowing in the morning light. 

Directly in front of the grandstand sat the home straight, framed by the pristine white rails that kept the spectators back from the grass. 

It was still early. The first undercard race of the morning wouldn't begin for another forty minutes, and the concrete apron along the rails was virtually empty. 

I walked down the steps toward the barrier, tracking the distance with my eyes.

Past the four-hundred-meter pole, past the three-hundred-meter mark, until I reached a white post planted firmly in the grass:

200m.

The final furlong pole.

I stopped beside the metal railing, looking down the track toward the finish line. 

Right at my feet, the ground began a sudden, steep incline. 

This was Nakayama's notorious steep hill, a punishing slope rising two vertical meters over a short stretch of turf right before the wire. 

I had read about it in sports columns, but seeing the gradient with my own eyes was a different beast entirely. To sprint up that incline after battling through eighteen hundred meters of crowded turf made me shudder.

I placed both of my gloved hands on the cold white railing.

This was the spot. 

When the field turned into the straight this afternoon, this was where the race would be decided. 

I unzipped my shoulder bag, pulled out my thermos, and took a measured sip of warm barley tea. 

The wind sweeping off the hills carried a sharp chill, but I wrapped my scarf tight around my throat and settled in. I was going to hold this spot with my own two feet until the gates opened.

A sudden buzz rattled against my ribs.

I jumped slightly, reaching inside my windbreaker to pull out my smartphone.

The screen lit up with a single unread notification from LINE.

My thumb froze over the glass. 

I unlocked the phone, tapping into the chat thread with a quiet anticipation.

*Top Road: We are on our way to the racecourse right now... I am so nervous, I feel like I might throw up in the car.*

A faint smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. 

I rested my elbows against the metal railing, looking down at the screen as I typed my reply.

*Yama: I hope you aren't saying that just to pick on my pre-game habits.*

The status switched to read instantly. 

A second later, a cartoon sticker landed in the chat: a cat hiding beneath a blanket.

*Top Road: Hahaha, sorry!*

I sent back a sticker of a grumpy tiger crossing its arms, before typing out a little wisdom of mine:

*Yama: If it actually happens, don't waste ten minutes suffering. Press the back of your throat with your finger. It stimulates the reflex and gets it over with much faster.*

The typing indicator flickered for a few seconds before disappearing. 

*Top Road: As expected of a veteran...*

She followed it with a cartoon panda prostrating flat against the floor, adding another line right after:

*Top Road: I might actually try that later.*

I chuckled softly, adjusting my grip on the phone.

*Yama: I hope it doesn't come to that. You need every bit of energy you have today.*

Her unexpected response arrived seconds later:

*Top Road: Yes! Especially since I don't have anyone to sub in for me when I'm tired...*

She attached a sticker of a panda giving a mischievous side-glance.

I couldn't help the dry laugh that slipped past my lips. 

*Yama: Aren't you getting cheekier lately?*

*Top Road: I don't understand what you mean.*

I shook my head with an amused smirk, feeling the morning cold fade into the background.

*Yama: Putting that aside. Be careful, and good luck on your race today. As always.*

The typing bubble vanished for a few long seconds. 

*Top Road: Of course! And thank you, Shimazu-kun! I need all the luck in the world for today!*

I lowered the phone slightly, looking out across the empty green turf, thinking on how to reply.

I brought the phone back up and typed my message:

*Yama: Sure. You can have mine.*

I attached a simple four-leaf clover sticker and hit send.

The message marked as read almost instantly. 

I locked the screen, letting the dark glass rest against my palm for a quiet second before slipping the phone back into my inner jacket pocket. 

Beneath the nylon fabric, my fingers brushed against the silk victory amulet resting securely against my ribs. 

I leaned both arms over the cold railing, watching the darkening morning clouds drift across the pale sky.