Becoming Mr. C.B.
Morning sunlight filtered through the stable windows, casting long golden beams across the wooden floor. Dust drifted lazily through the air, carried by a gentle breeze that smelled faintly of fresh hay and dew-soaked grass.
I stared into the polished metal bucket hanging beside my stall.
A different girl stared back.
Long chestnut hair.
Strong, athletic legs built for explosive acceleration.
A confident posture that somehow looked carefree despite the strength hidden beneath it.
Mr. C.B.
"...So this is my next run."
The words came out quieter than I expected.
Even after everything that had happened...
Marzensky.
Every successful career felt like another life.
Every finish line became another beginning.
I flexed my fingers experimentally before slowly rolling my shoulders.
Different muscles.
Different balance.
Different instincts.
Marzensky had always felt like a machine built to dominate from the front.
Mr. C.B. felt...
Lighter.
Looser.
Like every part of this body wanted freedom more than control.
Someone knocked lightly against the stall.
"Mr. C.B., still staring at yourself?"
One of the stable assistants laughed.
"You've been spacing out since breakfast."
I blinked before smiling awkwardly.
"...Yeah."
"You nervous about training?"
"Not exactly."
I glanced back toward my reflection.
"I'm just getting used to being... me."
The assistant laughed again, assuming I was joking.
Only I understood how literal that sentence really was.
This was my first real three-year career in Japan.
Not a simulation.
Not a training route.
Not a replay.
Real.
Marzensky had never experienced this.
She couldn't.
Japan had rejected her before her story could truly begin.
Foreign Uma Musume weren't allowed to challenge Japan's major G1 races during that era.
After the ban...
America became our battlefield.
Canada became our salvation.
Japan had become little more than history books and route planners.
I'd memorized the races.
I'd optimized training.
I'd watched countless career clears.
But actually living here...
It felt completely different.
The game had taught me schedules.
Reality taught me life.
Morning greetings echoed through the dormitory before sunrise.
Stable hands smiled as they prepared feed.
Trainers quietly reviewed notebooks while sipping coffee.
Horse girls stretched together before practice, chatting about school, food, and yesterday's races.
Nobody seemed rushed.
Nobody seemed desperate.
It felt...
Peaceful.
America had been loud.
Everything there carried pressure.
Every race felt like stepping onto a battlefield.
Every opponent looked like a monster waiting to destroy your career.
Japan wasn't like that.
Competition still existed.
The desire to win burned just as brightly.
But underneath it all...
There was harmony.
Respect.
Almost everyone believed today's rival could become tomorrow's training partner.
For the first time since arriving in this world...
I wasn't surviving.
I was living.
Training itself surprised me even more.
Japan's racing philosophy was almost beautiful.
Junior year revolved around mile races.
Not because they were easy.
Because they taught rhythm.
Pacing.
Discipline.
Young Uma Musume learned how to carry speed before learning how to abuse it.
Then came the Classic year.
Medium distance.
Longer corners.
Longer straights.
Mistakes became harder to recover from.
Speed alone stopped deciding races.
Judgment began separating winners from everyone else.
Senior year changed everything again.
Long-distance races became common.
Stamina.
Patience.
Mental endurance.
You weren't simply racing anymore.
You were solving problems while exhausted.
Sprint races still existed throughout every season.
Dirt racing never disappeared.
But Japan clearly valued complete racers.
Specialists earned respect.
Complete racers earned legends.
No wonder Japan produced so many monsters.
I had completed this career...
Hundreds of times.
The simulator had become routine.
Wake up.
Train.
Race.
Repeat.
Happy ending.
Roll credits.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Enough that I could predict dialogue before characters finished speaking.
Enough that I knew exactly which training events produced better stat gains.
Enough that I could practically sleepwalk through the route.
Or...
That's what I thought.
Reality had destroyed that illusion within days.
The simulator never showed mornings.
It never showed friendships forming over breakfast.
It never showed late-night conversations inside the dorms.
It never showed quiet walks beneath cherry blossoms after training.
It never showed laughter.
Or loneliness.
Or homesickness.
The simulation had recreated races.
Reality recreated lives.
Then there was Mr. C.B. herself.
She fascinated me.
Because this body wanted to race differently.
Marzensky had always wanted control.
The moment the gates opened...
She wanted first place.
She wanted everyone chasing her.
Front running wasn't complicated.
It was terrifyingly honest.
You declared war immediately.
Catch me.
If you can.
Everything depended on maintaining that lead.
Speed.
Stamina.
Courage.
If even one failed...
You died.
Mr. C.B. rejected that philosophy completely.
She wanted...
Information.
Every stride from another runner told a story.
Every corner revealed confidence.
Every acceleration exposed panic.
Running from behind wasn't passive.
It was observation.
Watching.
Waiting.
Learning.
Then...
Choosing.
The difficult part wasn't overtaking people.
It was knowing exactly when the race belonged to you.
Too early...
And everyone chased you.
Too late...
And history left without you.
Front runners measured distance.
End closers measured decisions.
I finally understood why people underestimated this running style.
From the grandstands...
It looked lazy.
Like someone sleeping through half the race.
But inside the body...
Every second demanded concentration.
Who was burning stamina?
Who still looked relaxed?
Who drifted slightly wider entering corners?
Who accelerated because they wanted to...
Instead of because they needed to?
The race never stopped.
Not even while waiting.
Especially while waiting.
"Mr. C.B.!"
My trainer waved toward the track.
"Training starts in five minutes!"
"I'm coming."
I jogged over, naturally falling into an easy rhythm.
Even warming up felt different.
Marzensky's body always wanted to increase pace.
Mr. C.B.'s body wanted efficiency.
Smooth steps.
Relaxed breathing.
Save everything.
Spend nothing.
Not yet.
The morning workout focused on positioning.
No sprinting.
No finishing kicks.
Just...
Reading.
Groups formed naturally around the course.
Every lap presented different situations.
Traffic.
Open lanes.
Blocked lanes.
Changing pace.
The instructors weren't asking us to win.
They wanted us to understand.
Only after several laps did they finally blow the whistle.
"Last lap!"
The pace exploded instantly.
Every runner accelerated.
Some moved outside.
Some fought for the rail.
My instincts screamed to wait.
Wait...
Wait...
Now.
Without consciously thinking, my body surged forward.
Not because I wanted to attack.
Because everyone else had already committed.
Their decisions created my opportunity.
Three runners.
Passed.
Two more.
Passed.
One final acceleration.
The finish arrived almost naturally.
Not forced.
Earned.
I slowed to a stop, breathing steadily.
The trainer smiled.
"See?"
"You waited."
"...Yeah."
"And because you waited..."
"You saw everything."
I nodded slowly.
"...I think I'm starting to understand."
That afternoon, I walked back toward the dormitories beneath a clear blue sky.
Cherry blossoms drifted gently through the air.
Students laughed somewhere nearby.
Someone practiced singing inside the music hall.
Peace.
Simple peace.
I smiled.
Marzensky never got this.
She never experienced Japanese school life.
Never attended these classes.
Never walked these paths.
Never lived among the girls who would one day become legends.
She was forced overseas before her story here could even begin.
Somehow...
That made this place feel even more precious.
Like I was experiencing something both of us had been denied.
I stopped beside the training field, watching younger horse girls practicing starts.
Some stumbled.
Some laughed.
One looked ready to cry after another poor attempt.
A trainer quietly encouraged her before resetting the drill.
Nobody mocked her.
Nobody called her weak.
They simply tried again.
I found myself smiling.
"...Beautiful."
Not because everything was perfect.
Because everyone kept trying.
I looked toward the distant track stretching across the horizon.
The simulator had shown me this ending hundreds of times.
I'd earned the happy ending over...
And over...
And over again.
But fail in the real Race.